It's the End of the World as I Know It, and They Feel Fine

It's time for the first of many public shitshows

Previously… Katherine, Tricia, and their mom debate on whether it’s a good idea to attend the Town Hall meeting to discuss the government’s admission that climate collapse is imminent. As the family pessimist, Katherine is hesitant, but her hope that people are mostly good wins out (along with her inability to look away from a disaster). Nicole, the woman from Windsor who wants to come to the Women’s Land (still just an imagining) needs answers on when she can leave a dangerous situation.

We decide to walk to the meeting. Town Hall is under fifteen minutes away by foot, and about the same driving when you factor in the unavoidable and messy left turn, and trying to find a parking spot. As soon as we reach the main road leading to town, I can see the meeting is going to be packed. Cars line up as far as we can see, left turn blinkers unsynchronized and urgent, waiting to turn onto the small road behind the unassuming Town Hall.

There are other pedestrians walking, passing us quickly without glancing back. Cyclists also whip by, some taking their space on the road and others rolling off the sidewalk and onto the grass strip while passing us. Like most other small towns I've been to, cycling infrastructure didn't exist and cyclists had to assess the risks of the road versus the sidewalk for every stretch of their journey.

“Going to be standing room only,” Mom murmurs. We can hear the blaring of horns, and I know we are all reminded of ‘the great honkening’, the truck convoy that arrived in Ottawa to protest COVID mandates and blared horns for weeks straight. Minor honkenings occurred at US/Canadian border crossings, Pride Parades, and other events across Canada in varying turnouts over the following years. I haven’t heard a car horn yet that hasn’t brought that to front of mind, a stark reminder that we citizens have ended up sharing one world with two realities.

We zipper into the crowd entering the Town Hall, and Mom is right – we manage to find three seats in the back of the balcony, but the crowd behind us will have more trouble. We've been to plenty of events at this space, but I've never felt this pressing sensation, the crowd's murmuration frustrated and maybe even frightened. Feels like watching a huge herd of deer, ears pricking and white tails flagging, all ready to bolt and stampede any moment. All waiting for the inevitable predator.

“I can't imagine they're going to say anything that could possibly reassure us,” I say. What I'm actually trying to say is, I don't trust our government and I'm afraid whatever they offer is only going to make things worse.

“Look at the people in the front few rows on the left,” Tricia says, fully pointing.

There's a group of people, obviously attending together, who are especially rowdy and loud. I can hear them from clear across the room, though I can make out their angry faces more than their words. There's a tension in that group that ripples into the seats around them. I notice Johanna Jenks, the owner of the local health food store. She's sitting where I always see her, midway down the left side. She has her head turned to the right but her eyes are unfocused – I think she's trying to listen in to hear what they're saying. Johanna is known by all the community and makes it a point to practise civil participation. Her opinions are grounded and progressive. I hope she decides to speak up tonight.

“Katherine! Tricia!”

In unison, my sister and I zoom in on the person who called our names. It's Major. Jane to most. Tricia beckons her to our seat, and to make room, she stands and presses herself against the wall. My mom and I scoot one seat down, Tricia and I crowding each other. Major takes the newly emptied seat.

“This has got to be a fire code violation,” she says, arms over her chest, looking out at the audience. I watch her clock the group in the front left, mostly men in their 30s and 40s. Major looks at me and nods toward the group.

I nod back. I see them.

When Major comes into a room and glances around, she might have a smile on her face and carry on a conversation with you, but she's also noting the exits, taking the temperature of the groups, scanning for suspicious types, and taking everything in.

“How are you?” Major asks me. “I tried to call you.”

“I know, I haven't been able to answer my phone.” We're leaning in front of my mom to talk, and she's leaning back and chatting with Tricia.

Major, more than anyone else is my life, is the person I can tell my fears to. She joined the army at seventeen – l something you can't even do now, and for good reason – and made her way through the ranks. She's seen things I can't imagine, and even what she's alluded to is enough to keep me up at night.

“I'm so glad you're here,” I say, surprised at how close I am to crying. “What the fuck is happening?”

Major gives me a gentle smile. At times, I feel like a naive fawn around her, but I never mind. It's true that I haven't seen the world the way she has, nor had to fight my way through it. After bringing my sister to a few of her workshops, I started staying back to help Major pack up and bring things to her car. Before long, I was tagging along wherever she had public speaking events. We told each other a lot, though I understood she could never tell me everything. I think she feels protective of me, and also protective of her own experiences.

“Well,” she says, slow and thoughtful. “I hate to say it. You know I do. But this is not going to be good.”

My stomach clenches. I realize I had been counting on her to reassure me that it wasn't as bad as I feared – to put my terror into a global perspective, to look at it from a wider lens.

She continues, “Let's just remember we're here in Canada and not across the border, not in Darfur, not in South Sudan. We're a peacekeeping nation with a lot of natural resources. We're generally community-minded –”

“Not anymore,” I say.

Major closes her mouth and looks at me, and I know to wait for what she says next.

“I know what's been happening the last few years has been really scary. But a people, a populace, doesn't change overnight. Our government, for all its faults, does not want their country to dissolve into chaos. Extremists will always be louder, but most people care about each other. Most want to work together in a crisis.”

“Until they're hungry.” I hear the desperation in my petulance. What I want is for Major to say, I have insider knowledge and this is all part of a grander scheme to force us to cut back on our destructive ways and while somewhat tyrannical, it's part of a plan for the greater good. That would a terrifying conspiracy but at least it would feel like there is a plan, a purpose behind all this.

She doesn't say anything like that.

“This is the time in your life, all our lives, that we are going to have to practise everything we hoped was simple preparedness. Keeping the power on, the internet running, the cell towers active, the grocery stores open, the manufacturing plants...” Major trails off, following her own thought to the grim conclusion. She switches gears. “We can't take anything for granted. A hungry populace with an active military in a country with resources like ours is in danger from every angle.”

There's an argument a few rows in front of us. It's one we've all seen play out online a thousand times. The conspiracy theorist versus the sheep. Both loudly certain of their position. One invades the space of the other, the other not ceding ground and definitely not de-escalating. Their yelling drowns out all other conversations.

“Oh, my god, enough!” my sister shouts, drawing more eyes than even the fight. “If there was ever a bad time for this bullshit, it's now!”

“Wake the fuck up,” the conspiracist snaps, giving my sister, and broadly the rest of us, the finger, and walking up the aisle to the exit. He reappears downstairs after a few minutes; I recognize him by the hat pulled low over his eyes.

The Town Council begins to take their seats on the stage, positioned in a large crescent with Mayor Magdala McEachren in the middle, stoic and severe.

“So what should we do?” I ask Major, even though my mom is now facing the stage, a nervous look pinching her features. I know my mom and I know she's trying not to listen to us.

“I saw your post, Katherine. I think you're on to something. But you need to be more... cautious. Selective. And... there's someone I want you to meet. Let's talk after.”

I nod, grateful for her offer, that I didn't have to try to convince her to help with my plan to create a safe place for women to live out what could be short, hungry lives.

Major reaches across my mom's lap and squeezes my forearm. I realize I'm gripping the arm of the seat so tightly my neck hurts. The pressure of her hand helps me ease my fingers loose, and I smile in thanks.

The huge projector screen is lowered, and the lights in the Hall dim. Prime Minister Kline appears on the screen, and there's a sickening delay while the person operating the source video has to wake up the cursor and land it on the Play button. In that brief moment, the crowd erupts into boos, jeers, and hisses.

I've never heard anything like it. And when I look around, I can see that the sounds, as loud as they are, are coming from almost exactly half the people in the attendance.

And the other half of us are silent.