Shortly after November 8th, 2016, I stopped reading the newspaper entirely. Previous to the election of the 45th President I had been a regular subscriber to national and local newspapers and several political magazines. I’d been following some of the loudest voices on social media, and like many others, turning to SNL for comfort. Not even Justin Trudeau’s good looks were cheering me up. Not even a shirtless, boxing version of Justin Trudeau was cheering me up.

Cancelling my subscriptions one by one I decided I didn’t want to be depressed every day. I’d convinced myself it was important to be informed, (this article was particularly humbling) but I also understood on some level that to care about everything was to care about nothing. By that I mean my attention was divided. 24-hour news and information weren’t making me more compassionate, if anything, the deluge was slowing my central processing and dulling my empathy to the point where I felt de-sensitized and cold all the time. Knowledge can lead to enlightenment, but spin can lead to cynicism, and I needed a remedy to my rapidly calcifying heart.

I still wanted truth, but beauty, too.

I wanted to feel, but not be crushed by the weight of the world.

My former neighbour is a retired counsellor and she would often say to me when I was stressing about The State of The World: “Lena, use your influence to inspire those in the space you occupy right now.” By that, I think she meant, “Try to be less of a control freak.” Sometimes she would catch me frantically cleaning my already spotless house when I was “out of esteem.” We would take a walk and try to resolve one of the world’s tinier problems. During this period I read a lot of self-help books with titles like “Grounded” or “Strengthening Your Soul” or whatever nonsense I thought might dull the ache. Not much stuck with me, probably because although I consume self-help like an addict, in my heart I believe that altruism is more productive, and maybe somewhere along the way in helping others, I might get healed, too, or at the very least, distracted.

In early September, another friend echoed her own State of the World despair. She couldn’t see how the sins of the past could be remedied; our present political challenges and the despair especially in First Nations communities seemed overwhelming. The increased profile of the problems in the media was ironically making my friend, a caring person, feel locked in a state of inertia. Until, that is, she stumbled upon this amazing resource: 150 Acts of Reconciliation. The suggestions in this list are not about acquiring knowledge to gain power, but understanding to gain compassion, and hopefully being moved to action and solidarity. She committed to educating herself as a first step, and inspired me, too.

Almost twenty years ago, I was a student at the University of British Colombia and we were reading Tomson Highway’s “The Rez Sisters.” I grew up not far from the Saugeen First Nations territory but had never read any First Nations literature. I remember the character Zhaboonigan, a mentally challenged young woman who is brutally raped in Highway’s play, but I have no memories of actually talking about that scene in class. It was as though it was politically correct enough to include it in the curriculum, but would have gone too far to actually discuss the extreme violence in the story.

Fast forward to this month’s most trending hash tag, #metoo. Ever since Candy Palmateer argued passionately for Canadians to read “The Break” on CBC’s Canada Reads last winter, I have been avoiding picking it up. I already endured “The Rez Sisters”, I thought. I get it. There is a trigger warning for sexual violence on the title page of Vermette’s book for Pete’s sake. Why would I willingly pick up a book like this, a book not unlike Highway’s play, about indigenous women and the violence they experience?

Here’s why.

In her 1997 introduction to the Penguin Anthology of Stories by Canadian Women, Denise Chong wrote the following:

“A caveat… in all books of fiction… read[s]: “This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.” I nod in deference to fact, yet I also shake my head, because I know that what abounds in fiction is the truth of life itself. In these many fictional lives, I hope the reader will have, from time to time, as I did, a frisson of recognition: “This was my life.” ”

Why read a book knowing that women suffer? Because art imitates life and this shit actually happens. That is why #metoo resonated so powerfully across the Internet. Imagine what it would look like if instead of reading “The Rez Sisters” in university, students read more stories of #metoo much earlier. I don’t want my daughter to have a frisson of recognition reading any of these books, but I want her to read them all, and not just my daughter, but my son, too. This knowledge is hard, but it’s real and it is the bedrock of compassion. At first I thought the titles I’m recommending should be in the high school English curriculum, but actually, they should be in the Civics curriculum. It’s not important to memorize words like “jurisprudence” or debate the merits of “First Past the Post.” It’s essential to wonder about what values actually define a country, especially in light of what’s happening south of the border.

Amidst the collective malaise in a world of “grab ‘em by the pussy”, I found stories again, and some of the hardness has begun to soften.

By putting aside the newspaper, the endless noise of social media and turning off the 24-hour news, and instead, reading and telling stories, we stand a chance to truly experience the pain of the Other. The State of the World is misogynistic and brutal, but I don’t want to believe that the 45th President will get the last word, I don’t want to believe the bad guy ever gets the last word. I am inspired by the disrupters who are breaking through the dominant narratives and offering not only to expose the truth, but to remind us of what is beautiful, too. There is redemption in these stories, and celebration and hope. I have hope for my kids, indigenous kids and even, for #metoo.