The Curated coat (similar)
In the Style sweater
Uniqlo shirt
In the Style skirt
Mango boots
Celine handbag (similar)
RayBan sunglasses
Linjer rings (c/o) (similar)
Stella & Dot earrings
Location: The Ambassador Apartments – Winnipeg, Manitoba
…and we’ve been back in Winnipeg for months, of course. But it wasn’t until last week that I officially ran out of French photos to share. I want to say that time flies when you’re having fun, but in reality, that trip feels like a lifetime ago. In the intervening months, we’ve suffered a crushing new wave of COVID infections (and renewed restrictions to match); watched in bewilderment as a group of primarily white and privileged Canadians committed acts of domestic terrorism (allegedly in the name of bodily autonomy and freedom of choice) unimpeded by law enforcement for a period of weeks; endured the declaration of a national emergency to end the so-called protest only to witness local governments release plans to remove all public health restrictions before the end of flu season…
…and, most recently, heaved a collective sigh at the triviality of all these events in the wake of the Russian invasion of Ukraine.
Time always marches on, and those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it. But those who do know history sometimes seek to rewrite it in the own image. (President Putin comes to mind.) After months of writing about how we spent less than two idyllic weeks in France, I return to the task of writing about reality, which is far more complicated and infinitely less pleasant. Frankly, it seems strange to be sharing photos of an outfit at all at this point, but in the absence of other photos, here I am. This is still my reality; I get up every day and commute from my bedroom to my home office, a trip that takes approximately forty-two seconds. I exercise, I work, I do basic chores like paying bills and running the dishwasher, I go to sleep, I wake up and I repeat.
I’m lucky to be able to do it, although most days it feels alternately exhausting, monotonous and impossibly frustrating. That exhaustion, the monotony, the moments spent complaining about time I will never get back are all a privilege.
That I am lucky is a thought that is never far from my mind. But it’s been at the forefront this past week, as I’ve joined the rest of the world in watching Vladimir Putin wage his personal war on Ukraine. My heart says, disbelieving, what a strange time this is to be alive, and how surreal it is to see one country full of educated people attack another. But my head knows better – this was predictable, it reminds me. This is history repeating itself.
My head is right, of course. I need only look back at my own family’s history to see that truth illustrated with striking poignancy. On Saturday, I shared the story of my grandpa Evans on Instagram, but I think it bears repeating here, a place that can be considered a bit more permanent. This story is one like so many others, and like so many more that are just beginning now…
Grandpa Evans, who was actually my great-grandfather, came to Canada from the Bukovina region of Ukraine. It was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire then, but the family were Ukrainian. He came with his parents, and at least one brother. The year is uncertain, but it was probably 1912. He was about four.
We don’t know much of the story behind why the family chose to emigrate, but there was a war brewing, persecution and poverty at home, and the possibility of a better life across the ocean, all of which were surely part of their considerations. Some of those hardships followed them to Canada, mind you. When World War I broke out, Canada detained and interned Ukrainians, along with other immigrants from the Austro-Hungarian empire. My great-great-grandfather died in an internment camp in Alberta, leaving his wife alone with young children to raise. She turned to ragpicking to survive.
The part of this story that leaves me with questions is right here, where I’m forced to consider the possibility that Canada really did offer a better life – that what my forebears left behind in Bukovina might have been harder, or worse, than internment, than ragpicking. Maybe they simply had no way back. It’s too late for me to ask, of course. What I do know is that life in Canada for my family, for many years after their arrival, was one of discrimination, stigma and shame, and that they were not alone in their experience. Evans is not a Ukrainian surname. My grandpa changed his name, ultimately, because he struggled to find work; no one wanted to hire Ukrainians. (This phenomenon is painfully and accurately recounted in Under the Ribs of Death, the 1957 novel by John Marlyn.)
So Yankof, already a mispelling of his real surname, became Evans, and he got a job. But he was always Ukrainian.
I don’t support or condone the colonialism that brought so many people to Canada, a land that belonged to others and was not rightfully available for the taking. But I also know this country was a sanctuary for my own family, a place that made us suffer to earn our right to be here but also afford us all, over time, the opportunity to grow and flourish and enjoy the immense privilege that I am so very aware of in my daily life.
Four generations later, I am the product of families that came from many different countries. I was raised with a hodge podge of traditions from all of them. And with the knowledge that they all formed parts of the whole of who I am. History constantly informs the present, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. The difference between an immigrant and a refugee is luck. My family might have stayed in Ukraine. If not for a single choice made by my great-great-grandparents a little over a century ago, we might have been there for the deprivation and destruction of World War II. For the repression of the Soviet Regime. We migh be there now, watching Russians march towards our homes. It is a privilege not to be, but with privilege always comes responsibility.
I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I think it’s possible to be paralysed by uncertainty while time marches on. For me, nothing feels particularly clear right now. And while time goes on, I’m trying to sort out what the responsibility of my privilege means. Maybe it’s as simple as dutifully living, embracing and enjoying the beautiful life that my great-grandparents sacrified so much to give to me. Which would mean going on with my fashion photos. And with light-hearted writing about the wonders of the travel world. But maybe it’s more than that. Only time will tell.
