I tell people that politics is a family sport. My grandfather, my mother, me. I apparently (I don’t remember this) door knocked in my first election when I was 5.
I don’t remember the first one, but I remember many after that. I remember political conventions, I remember rallies, I remember, well at least three decades of it. I’ve never been an official agent, I’ve never been a campaign manager. There’s literally nothing else I’ve not done.
I’m serious. Door knocked. Called. Stuffed envelopes, dropped leaflets, hosted coffee parties, donated.
As I work on typing this, I’m also sending texts for the NDP. Yes, that’s right, if you’ve gotten a text from Tim with the NDP, it may have been me. (Aren’t we all a bit Tim?)
I see children in the campaign office, I saw them when I voted tonight.
I wanted this. I wanted to bring him to a campaign, I wanted him to know that this mattered. That this is where he came from, that this was part of his history.
I wanted to tell him about his great great grandfather, to tell him about my mother, his grandmother. To tell him about the arguments because she dared to volunteer for Pierre Trudeau. I would tell him about the time his grandmother came for coffee and saw an NDP lawn sign. And the look. Oh, the look. I wanted the moment when politics stopped being a family business and became his business. The moment when he supported someone I abhorred, and I told both of that it was important to participate.
I wanted that.
Gabriel died 11 years ago. In some ways, he died again today.