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Published: February 24th 2010
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It’s on most people’s minds - on their lips, in beer soaked conversations in pubs down Vancouver’s streets. It’s in the commentaries of the BBC, and the dialogues of angry Aussie’s, bitter about results and judging. It’s a hot topic on a global stage, and I am right smack dab in the middle of the context. And, to be honest, I find myself taking a stance on almost every platform, supportive of every viewpoint, unable to back up a good argument with a commitment to a position. How, exactly, do I feel about the Olympics?
It’s important to acknowledge where a person comes from when considering where they are and what they stand for I think. I am not a native Vancouverite. I grew up on the snow swept prairies where issues like balmy weather in February or winter street party fiascos are not exactly an issue. Ever. I also spent four years traveling the world and learning how to see things from a million different angles - to appreciate variances in point of view. I am a firm believer in the inherent beauty of mankind, in our tendency toward goodness and camaraderie. I am also deeply supportive of anti-corporate
mentality, anti-consumerism, and basic equality among people. I believe that people should gather in celebration and not confrontation, should fight for freedom and excellence, not segregation and conquest. I believe that joy should be something accessible to all that seek to find it, and should not come down to financial exclusivity. And with all of these beliefs, I now find myself between a rock and a hard place, twisted and entangled in five colorful rings.
I should note that I came back from Australia to pursue a job with the Olympics. It was a dream, and I was determined to be a part of it. Since they announced the bid years ago for the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver I have been somewhat ablaze with excitement for such an event, and excuse for international celebration, so much so that it dictated the direction of my travels, my pursuits, and my endeavors. And then, only weeks into training for the position I had desired so deeply, I was totally turned off, and walked right out the door.
I could blame my cynicism at the time on many things: a cynical boyfriend for one, who chewed apart all of the
fanaticism and spit it out; a brother furious about the expense of the whole production and the consequence of it all (loss of funding of social programs, to name but one); the introduction of HST; the gloomy bitterness of most Vancouverites at the Games that hung in the thick, damp air. For whatever reason, my sentiments toward the whole thing began to change, and I could no longer stand up in that room full of grinning 20-something unemployed brown-nosers and enthusiastically list corporate sponsor after corporate sponsor that I was supposed to reiterate to our distinguished, fat cat clients that would be arriving at the beginning of February. Somewhere along the way I lost the plot.
But the energy built in the months to follow. Construction of temporary venues climbed higher and higher, until one could no longer walk down a street without VANOC shouting at you through its erected edifices and plastic banners. And in that swelling energy pulsed a familiar sensation - the world was almost at my fingertips once again. After spending months “standing still” in one city, and a city I was familiar with, I was beginning to get energized at the prospect of being
once again “in the thick of it” - surrounded by languages and parties and amity and diversity. It was like going traveling again without having to leave home. It was exciting.
But it made me feel icky. Something about that excitement seemed to smash head first into something else inside of me. And that something was made clear on Day 1 of the games in front of the Art Gallery, where protesters assembled to outline all the evils the Games had brought to the city. Pollution. Homelessness. Debt. Consumerism. Poverty. Lies. Waste….Debt. I stood right in the middle of the mob listening to native songs on a loudspeaker, watching people rant and rave with red faces at the injustice and deceit. I watched with open eyes, and an open heart, unconvinced that I too should have an impassioned red face, but sympathetic to their plight. After all, we live in a democracy, and every voice must be heard. And among the shouts and banter, even the singing voices of Olympic enthusiasts from the adjacent pep rally found their way into my affections.
Today is Day 13. The rain has returned, snow is falling on Cypress, and the city
seems slightly lulled from habituation. I have figured out how to sleep through the constant drone of late night drunken teenage street cheers. I have spent a few days elbow deep in the crowds with my Canon and my zoom lens. I have partied very hard. I have spent a few days indoors with the shades drawn. I have listened to fireworks nightly for over a week. I have even been lucky enough to attend a real-life Olympic hockey game, and battled the masses to escape the venue post-game. I have been hired to work for the Olympics twice, and have been paid for a full day of work without ever having to do a single bit of labor, acknowledging the pure and utter waste of it. I have been told to my face that the Olympic policy forbids vendors to reuse plastic cups for fear of complicating the inventory system. I have watched an athlete die on a Vancouver course. I have watched the snow melt into mushy brown on the Coastal Mountains above the city, and the people ditch their newly bought mittens (which I also witnessed them line up for hours at the local Hudson Bay to
purchase) for shorts and sunglasses and meander barefoot on our beaches in May-like weather. I have heard every point of view possible in regards to the success or failure of VANOC and Vancouver itself in putting on an Olympic production, and I have internalized all of those opinions. And I can say, after all of it, that I am still somewhat at a loss.
If there is anything to be gained from it all, it is to say that I was here. I lived through it. I empathized with what I could and watched the city explode into the biggest, longest party I have ever seen. I took pictures, and almost got the t-shirt. I was here, and that is what I always wanted. And the whole thing has reminded me, if nothing else, that there is always more than one legitimate side to a story, and that, at the end of the day, it is just as important to appreciate the beauty in a context than it is to go against the grain for something you believe in. These games have not all been pretty, but there has been beauty too. People are smiling, and happy, and celebrating
together. They may be buying the coca-cola and the scarves that will sit at the bottom of their closets while the pockets of Americans continue to swell, but they are also celebrating the collective human spirit. There has to be a little give and take. And today, from the confines of my downtown apartment, I will watch the soggy hoards amble toward Robson square and try to remember why they really came here - why I really came here - in the first place.
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