When I moved to Canada in 2019, it was something of an emergency measure.
I’d been a U.S. government employee for over a decade, focused on promoting human rights and rule of law as core elements of our foreign policy. This was a life that I enjoyed, found challenging, provided purpose and mission, and supplied plenty of adventure. I believed in the work, respected my colleagues, and never planned to leave. I’d walk into the entrance of “Main State” and see the soaring glass windows, vibrant and diverse flags, reverent memorials for officers lost, and familiar faces of colleagues I’d served with in trying conditions – now patiently waiting for an elevator. While detailed to the White House, I took care to exit the Einsenhower Executive Office Building via the Navy Steps each night, so I could take a moment to feel awe for this incredible place I worked. A colleague had advised, “If you don’t feel that magic each night, no matter what has happened each day, it’s time to go.” In a somewhat unpredictable world, this felt like my home.
This was all rapidly upended by the election of former President Donald Trump.
I knew fairly early that I would not be able to serve the Trump Administration with integrity. I’ll leave the “why” for another day, but it probably doesn’t take a lot of explaining. I believed him when he told us who he was the first time.
And so, heartbroken, I resigned. The day after inauguration, I was protesting in a pink hat outside the office where I’d regularly worked 14 hour days in the months prior. Later that week, word of the refugee ban started circulating via Signal and WhatsApp messages. Like many of my friends, I got in the car and drove to the airport that I had flown in and out of countless times on trips serving my country. I made a sign that said “Welcome Friends” using a highlighter and manila folder that happened to be in my somewhat messy trunk, and bought a red, white, and blue mylar balloon in the airport gift store. With these meager supplies, I joined the throngs of protestors chanting “Refugees are welcome here” outside international arrivals. We didn’t know what to do, but we couldn’t sit still.
Thus started the search for a new path, heartsick and lost and determined all at once.
First move was to New York. This had its benefits. Who doesn’t want to live in New York once in their lifetime? The “wear sunscreen” song told me to! Came out my senior year of high school! Many of my fellow government exiles moved to New York around the same time, and it had a feeling of liberation from and resistance to the tectonic shifts happening to our understanding of government and public service. Nonetheless, those first two years were hard.
Despite a macro feeling of displacement and the disruption of frequent work travel, a few favorite local spots gave me a sense of connection to my neighborhood, especially Two Saints, Lula Bird, and the phenomenal Brooklyn Museum. (If you’re ever in Crown Heights, take a minute to check them out.) I’d moved a lot. I know how it goes. You have to put in the work. And most of all, you have to treat your home like a place to explore. It’s so easy to take your home for granted – never see the sights, never try new things, always figure there will be more time.
But, as much as I loved my local haunts, I was still struggling. Talking with other folks who left government for the same reasons, at the same time, and with the same speed, I knew I wasn’t alone. We all felt a bit lost, bereft of purpose, and we were all trying to figure it out.
I met Aaron in a corporate campus a few hours into New Jersey, just proving the point that nowhere should be overlooked as a potential critical destination. After a meeting, we shared a car back to Newark so he could to fly home to Toronto and I could catch the train back to Brooklyn. Again, Newark Airport of all places now feels nostalgic. You really can find magic wherever you are.
Less than a year later, Aaron helped me pack up my Brooklyn apartment into a U-Haul and drive towards Toronto. We’d found a cute rental house walking distance to Little India at the intersection of Coxwell and Gerrard. And I ended up spending the 2020 election cycle organizing U.S. citizens living in Canada to vote from abroad. There are over 600,000 of us in Canada, bigger than some states. Wherever we are, we have to make it count.
Again, I’ve moved before, I know what you have to do. It takes work and commitment and effort to build a community and home, a global pandemic notwithstanding. The first weekend I was chatting with a shop owner whose niece was listening to our conversation. “Oh,” she asked. “Are you new here, too?” Yes, yes, I am.
So, here we are. Coxwell and Gerrard. Let’s go exploring.
The Backyard Projects 