Valerie Hunter

“We seem to end up nervously sighing and shaking our heads without verbalizing our collective sense of dread”

I grew up across Lake Erie, in northeastern Ohio. At the time, we got Canadian TV – CBC and CHCH – which I loved. I gravitated toward Seeing Things, Hangin’ In, Airwaves (I wanted to be in radio) and King of Kensington. I once sent a fan letter to Seeing Things and got an autographed photo of Louis Del Grande, Martha Gibson and Janet-Laine Green.

I bugged my parents to drive up to Toronto when I was about 13. My mom and grandma went to Variety Bingo on Lansdowne while Dad and I did a ton of walking downtown. We ended up in the financial district at night. It was quiet and peaceful. Possibly around the TD Centre, I sat down on a black marble bench, then lay back, staring up at the stars surrounded by the black towers that were like trees. Then I closed my eyes. I’d never felt so much at peace.

In COVID times, I speak with my parents on the phone twice a week. They’ve always been Democrats, but it’s taken a bit to wrap their heads around how much starker the differences have become. The prejudices of friends and relatives have become more apparent, though they still don’t really push back against them. More phone calls now tend to veer into the news, and we seem to end up nervously sighing and shaking our heads without verbalizing our collective sense of dread.

My oldest great-niece, about to turn 13, has a father who was a policeman and fits the now common image of one, though he was never cited for racial violence. About a year or so ago, she said, “He’s a racist, and it’s so stupid.” She went on to give examples and was annoyed by what little sense it made. I praised her for being able to recognize it and for knowing it’s wrong. We haven’t discussed the future. But I wonder, if Trump gets elected, how many more people will die, and whether they will be the people I love.