Elementary school had been, for me, completely brutal.  Our family moved to the village when I was in kindergarten, and in a place where many families could trace their roots back generations, we were strangers. And from that point, until my graduation in grade 8, I was a social pariah, an easy target for bullying, a weird girl in hand-me-down clothes who loved books and knew nothing about sports.

People often speak about the idylls of childhood as though kids are innocents, and being one is an unrelenting exercise in pleasure, play, and freedom from responsibility.  I can’t identify; childhood for me was an endless round of fears, from what new taunting, theft, or physical violence was going to be inflicted upon me at school, to the ever-present money problems at home that formed the backdrop to everything else.  When I look back, I remember stress, anxiety, and depression; I retreated further into my books and was dragged resisting out of bed in the mornings to go to school.  On the walk, I would often daydream about falling and breaking a leg, the idea of avoiding school for a week so appealing that I longed for injury.  

I didn’t have anything that I’d call a ‘friend’ in elementary school, so there was no one to turn to in moments of fear or frustration. The teachers were either oblivious or complicit, with the exception of Mr. Kelsey, whose classroom was a refuge of learning in a desert of stupidity.  In one memorable incident in Grade 5, my teacher called me a liar in front of the class for insisting that there was such a thing as a sand dollar - despite the fact that I was holding a photo of one. Every interaction left me bewildered and afraid.

Look, I don’t know what kind of kid I was – maybe I was annoying, or odd, or whatever – but no one deserves the kind of treatment I got.  I often left school in tears, sometimes sneaking back home after my parents had left for work.  My attendance record was awful.

When the opportunity came up in Grade 8 to audition for the Arts Program at PCVS, I leapt at it – in my case, I was certain that the devil I didn’t know couldn’t be any worse than the devil I was already subjected to.  I knew I couldn’t continue on with these same tormentors at TASSS; I couldn’t even contemplate a future where I rode a bus and went to class every day with these horrible kids.  The very thought induced a despair I can’t articulate. Getting accepted into the program was the best news I’d received in my young life.

Going from being the lone weird kid at a rural elementary school to being one of a group of weird kids at an urban high school was a freedom that I had longed for but never imagined could be mine. Intellectual pursuits were encouraged, being cultured was admired, and my hand-me-downs suddenly were transformed from the markers of a poor kid to vintage cool.  I went from being the kid who’d been skipping school since Grade 1 to having perfect attendance in Grade 9.  A quick five-minute walk brought us to all the theatre, visual art, and culture we could ask for. I felt like Cinderella, stepping into the Prince’s ball.

Sure, there were still bullies; we got called ‘Art Fags’ more times than I could count, tripped in the hallways, taunted and pushed.  But we outnumbered them, and my new freedom gave me the confidence to stand my ground and face them down.  In 1995, when PCVS established its Anti-Bullying Committee (a group of parents, teachers and students that I’m proud to have been a part of) and surveyed the school, we were surprised to learn that the majority of students felt safe and had little to report. From what I understand, they’ve continued to nurture that kind of environment, a place where students of all types can find a place to fit, to learn safely, to grow into adults who go on to shape not just our immediate community but also the national dialogue.  While bullying has become a high-profile issue in the past few years, PCVS has been proactive in dealing with it for nearly twenty.

When I heard that they were talking about closing a local high school, I didn’t worry much about PCVS; every argument, from capacity to student performance to good city planning stood behind keeping my alma mater.  When I heard that they were leaning towards closing TASSS, I felt that they were making the right choice.  A dated building from the late 60s, with asbestos and sinking architecture in the suburbs of Peterborough, TASSS was operating at half-capacity.  It made perfect sense.

But in what seemed like a fairly sudden turn, the Trustees voted to close PCVS.

Like many in the community, I was stunned.  The arguments for closing PCVS seemed senseless – one trustee mentioned the lack of playing fields (students have used Nicholls Oval without problems for decades), another cited the absence of a robotics program.  Protests began immediately, and involved the whole community – from downtown merchants to community members, alumni, and current students.  The suggestion that the Integrated Arts Program would be moved to TASSS was met with fear as TASSS students began writing threats and insults online.  A rally to protest the decision at Queen’s Park in early December drew 500+ participants, and despite freezing rain and raspy voices, remained loud and strong for hours. A video created by PCVS alums Brown Meadow Bird and Jared Raab drew tens of thousands of hits over a few days, now standing at 126,000 and climbing, and brought national and international media attention to the proposed closure.

The Ministry of Education has appointed a facilitator to review the decision, and money brought in through a fund-raising concert is going towards a legal challenge.

I’ve heard a lot of people’s opinions about the situation, and a lot of angry reactions to the idea that Peterborough needs PCVS, and while I can answer their arguments from an urban planning, financial, and academic standpoint, today I prefer to say simply, from my own experience, that I needed PCVS.  Kids like me need PCVS still.  It saved my life and my future.  It put me in a position to become a confident and competent adult. While the arts are central to my life, and I’m grateful for the opportunities I had through the Arts Program, much more than that is the safe space PCVS gave me to dream, to attempt, to accomplish and to flourish.

As long as I have breath to use, I will protest and work against any acts or decisions that lead to the end of that safety.

In the words of the PCVS school song:

Lift up your heart and let our your voice,
Here we belong and here we rejoice,
Fighting, Singing, Marching, Swinging,
Onward to Victory! 

This is my fourth year as Artistic Director and Executive Director for the festival. I first volunteered for the festival in the late nineties, when I got stuck as a parking attendant for hours without water or any clear sense of what I was supposed to be doing.  Since then, I’ve coordinated Healing Arts and the Club Crawl, eventually taking on the positions I’m in now.

The festival is run by a small, dedicated, and hard-working group of volunteers, many of whom have been with the festival for years and work, month after month, year-round to bring together three great days in late August.  We’ve made a lot of changes to the festival in the past 4 years, changes I’m very proud of because they’ve made the festival infinitely better, and infinitely easier to run.  We’ve tightened up, planned carefully, and created a strong foundation for considered growth.  But change always angers people, especially when they see it as negatively impacting themselves.

Last year, when I proposed that we cut the Club Crawl, it was not the first time I’d argued that it was a waste of effort that reflected poorly on the festival as a whole.  Originally conceived as a fundraiser for the festival, the Club Crawl rarely worked as such, generally losing money despite our best efforts.  In my opinion, it was a clusterfuck; paying artists a pittance to play in venues unsuited for live music, running technicians ragged as they dealt with jury-rigged gear and practically no switch-over time.  Venue owners didn’t feel they were getting a good deal, either, and as a result, often dropped out or screwed us in some way at the last minute.  The final straw, for me, was when one of our funders praised the festival as a whole but suggested in strong terms that the Club Crawl didn’t live up to the standards they expected as a baseline for paid, professional artists.  I agreed, and either argued persuasively to the Board of Directors or just browbeat them (they may want to comment on which) into axing the Club Crawl for 2009.

I have to admit I was completely taken off guard by the anger from several local artists.  What I saw as a shitty gig or tokenism they (I guess) saw as inclusion. And I’m sorry they felt that way; it reflects poorly on local audiences and venues that a $50 gig with no real soundcheck is considered okay for a skilled artist who’s been playing for years.  I know it’s a lot harder to get into the festival now than it was in the past, because there are fewer slots.  But I think it’s important for any publicly-funded arts organization to treat artists with respect, and part of that respect is to create opportunities that operate at a professional standard – decent pay, decent playing conditions.  Another facet of that respect is to set the bar high and encourage the community to reach it.

My philosophy for booking has always pretty much been the same, from my very earliest days as a promoter, through my MoHo days, to now.  I book great professional artists who are good to work with, and I pay them as well as I can and ensure they work in decent conditions.  My resources are limited and I’m bound by the conditions of my funders, and this means that, if I’m going to follow my own ethical code, I book fewer artists, but better gigs, than we’ve done in the past.

In addition, we receive funding from the terrific Arts Presentation Canada program, run by the Federal government, whose purpose is to increase diversity at festivals, and who stipulate that their funding should be used to book artists from out-of-province as well as emerging and culturally diverse acts.  I see this as an opportunity to introduce Peterborough artists and audiences to the sounds and ideas that are happening across the country, but it also means that there are fewer slots for local artists than in the past.

I’m extremely lucky because I book a free festival, so I don’t have to worry about a draw – every year, 7000-9000 people come regardless of who’s playing.  Personally, I prefer to support emerging acts in any case, and I really don’t like the idea of blowing half or more of my artistic budget on the last two acts of the night.  But it also means that we miss out on those tasty admissions fees that can make up a third or more of a festival’s funding.  The idea of fencing off the festival area and charging admission has been bruited about, but none of the current Board are comfortable with the idea of changing 21 years of tradition in such a fundamental way – we like the festival free and accessible.  So we do our best with the funding we receive, and I think we do a pretty damned good job.

There are so many things I wish for the Peterborough Folk Festival - good god, how I’d love to expand and do three days in the park, to rebuild that concrete stage with a proper proscenium and offices and dry storage underneath,  and re-terrace the hill.  How I’d love for us to own our own sound gear, to build some permanent platforms in the park, and to do weekly concerts throughout the Summer and a Winter series.  I want to draw in the communities of new Canadians in Peterborough and become relevant to them, and I’d like to see more participatory workshops where our audience get to learn how to do things.  I want to see fewer and fewer cars in the parking area, and more and more people arrive on foot or via transit/canoe/bicycle. I want to see an increasingly diverse crowd of people enjoying the kind of music they can’t hear anywhere else in the City.

My dreams always outstrip my abilities, and our finances.  I am constantly disappointed by what I was not able to achieve in any given year.  But by consistently setting the bar higher for ourselves, we reach a little higher every year, and do better.  It’s hard work, but I think we can’t ask any less of ourselves than we ask of our community.  And I think that, if we don’t ask for high standards from our community, we tacitly encourage unprofessional-ism and sloppy work.

Join us, August 27 – 29, 2010, as we try to reach a little higher than we have before; there will be mistakes, absolutely, and things that don’t quite make the grade.  But there’s a spirit of sweetness, or openness, and a sense of community that you won’t find elsewhere.  Moments of beauty that you can share with friends and family, great music, delicious food, and fabulous crafts.  For all the heartache I’ve occasionally felt over the PFF, the end is always worth it.

This year I intend to step down at Executive Director of the Peterborough Folk Festival; if you’re interested in the job (it’s primarily a volunteer position, involving grant writing and administrative work, but comes with a small honourarium), you can get in touch with me and we’ll talk about it.

What I consider the greater crime, however, is the culture of wear-down that perpetuates this cycle.  How many terrific, smart, passionate people get so worn down by the demands, expectations, disappointments, losses, and low-income of a career in the community and non-profit sector that we lose them after a few years, with a net loss to the community of invaluable experience, momentum, and expertise?  As people interested in the health and vibrancy of our community, it’s poor behaviour to demand that our volunteers and employees sacrifice their own to the cause.

Whenever I hear the adjective “tireless” applied to a community worker, hear jovial references to their round-the-clock presence at the office, see their time and work undervalued, I worry about the future of the organization they work for.  It’s a process of attrition, a death by a thousand cuts.  The fall may be slow, but it’s inevitable.

A community’s greatest asset is its skilled workers; protect yourself, and the important work you do, by avoiding the pitfalls.

I’ve given this a lot of thought, having been involved in the community sector a long time, and often fallen into the traps described above.  As paid staff, volunteer, and Board member, I’ve both asked too much and been asked too much.  There’s not a mistake on this list I haven’t made myself, sometimes over and again.  So, as much to remind myself as to educate anyone else, here are seven strategies for making a positive difference in both your own life, and that of the community!

1. Know why you’re joining the organization.

Yes, it looks good on a resume to say you sat on a Board of Directors or volunteer, but are you prepared to do the work?  To pay close attention to the financial spreadsheets?  To ask questions, and challenge more established people when you have doubts or concerns? To do more than to merely show up?  Sitting there mouth closed and eyes glassy does no one any good, whether you’re a ticket-taker or a member-at-large.

2. Know you have the time to devote to the organization.

You see something you feel is important, and you want to help, and before you know it you’ve committed yourself to a major role without stopping to see if there’s room in your year for another commitment.  Too many times we spread ourselves too thin to be of any use to anyone, and achieve less because we aim for more.

3. Understand and share the goals of the organization you’re joining.

An argument about what route to take from here to Toronto is resolvable, but when they want to get to Toronto and you want to get to Mumbai, there’s no way to reconcile except by force.   There can be as many goals in any given organization as there are people and ideas; read the bylaws, vision, mandate and goals of the organization and find out when those were last reviewed and how often they’re referred to by the Board.  If the group hasn’t looked at them in a few years, or they seem unfocused or unreasonable or don’t represent the current organization or your own goals, steer clear.

4. Be honest and upfront; provide and review information.

By supporting your information and experience with confidence, and being familiar with the issues at hand, you clear the way for reasonable debate and informed decision-making.  The habits of making decisions in the heat of the moment, folding to peer pressure, charismatic persuasion, or the desire to avoid responsibility or confrontation can become endemic to an organization and pretty much always result in poor leadership and bad management.

5. Be firm in defence of your own time, health, and sanity.  Be firm in the defence of other people’s time, health, and sanity.

As an employee, be sure that your understanding of your hours and your boss’/Board’s understanding of your hours is firm – most non-profits expect their staff to work more than they’re being paid for, or demand more than is possible in the time available, which is a certain recipe for burnout.  As a volunteer, particularly a Board member, make sure that what you and other volunteers are asking of each other and your employees is reasonable and conforms to existing labour laws (you’d be surprised at how many community organizations have no clue about employee rights).  Steer your organization towards a stable working environment; try to find ways to offer benefits, decent pay, and reasonable expectations to employees.

6. Choose your battles carefully; outline your strategy to the people you work with.

Organizations, like individuals, are likely to over-extend themselves.  Is it more important to run a fund-raising event or write a grant?  Which items of your programming are most essential and important and which are continued due more to tradition or habit than demonstrable impact?  Is the org accomplishing what it exists to do? Assess the work you’re doing, and try to focus on the  strategies which best support the goals of the organization.  Withdraw from commitments or programming which take more than they give back, even if it means a loss of funding.  Consult with your team, create a strategy, and maintain a dialogue so that everyone involved in the organization and served by it can access and understand the choices that are being made.

7. Monitor your own engagement.

Sure, you started out passionate, committed, and invested, but that was then.  Have your goals changed since you’ve gotten involved with the organization?  Do you find yourself less interested in this work than you were?  Do you think your time would be better spent elsewhere? Don’t feel guilty about withdrawing if you’re no longer engaged in the work; some people can sustain 25 years of interest and passion, but they’re in the minority.  Change when you need to.