Mini-Otterbiography: I Yelled at a Bunch of Politicians!
I'm never getting into a debate with anyone ever again.
This is Ottavia Paluch, you’re reading Things You Otter Know, and you poor Otters are about to read the longest post in TYOK history.
And I think that’s terrible timing, especially because there was SO MUCH in the news this week and last that I wanted to cover for this Substack. John Fetterman. Beto O’Rourke. Ron DeSantis. Herschel Walker. Raphael Warnock. Friggin’ Obama, for Pete Buttigieg’s sake.
Oh yeah, and have you heard about what’s going on with Twitter? As someone who has had a very tight relationship with the platform for YEARS—I first made a Twitter when I was 10, which I think describes me better than most fun facts do—I am very concerned about this Elon Musk fiasco. If I have to leave because it’s been run-down that much, I have no idea what I’ll do next. Like, I’ve met 75% of you through this silly little bird app! Instagram is okay but it just isn’t the same, and I check TikTok once a week at most.
ANYWAYS. Nothing I just said is relevant to the actual reason I’m writing to you today. Which is that I just went through four of the most stressful days of my LIFE.
So do you remember this post from back in July? If not, I’ll sum it up for you.
Essentially, in June I was asked to read a poem at this climate change coffee house that this nonpartisan youth nonprofit called Future Majority was putting on, and like a total idiot I said yes. Through that I met this absolutely incredible guy—Jared, FM’s regional organizer. We hit it off right away and he seemed to like me, so I knew something was happening. And then because I had such a positive experience at the event, especially considering all the young people who were there and so passionate about pushing for real climate change action, I was like, you know what, I’m gonna join them. Best. Decision. Ever.
I’ve since met a bunch of awesome people and people-turned-friends through my work with FM. I’ve been in a bunch of fun and productive Zooms, I’ve tabled and canvassed at my school, begging kids to sign a petition that begs the city of Mississauga to take action on climate change. We’ve phonebanked and held webinars/workshops/whatevers to get other young folks passionate about climate action. We did another coffee house too! All of it has been so fun and so rewarding.
Our main thing since I’ve joined then team has been pushing the city of Mississauga, where I’m from, to implement sustainable green development and design standards. We just call it GDS for short. (Get to know that acronym. It’ll be important.)
So here’s the thing: last Wednesday, Jared and I had arranged a call to just kinda check in on things (he does that with every member of the team once in a while). And I start off all cheerful and happy to talk to him but right away I can sense that something is off. He doesn’t sound…Jaredy enough, you know? And he goes on to explain that the Ontario government has just tabled a bill called Bill 23. (How original.) It’s supposed to tackle the housing crisis in the province, which, I mean, great! But it’s doing so in ways that are going to be very, very bad for the environment. Including overriding GDS in municipalities across Ontario. Like, literally taking away the power from municipalities and saying, “we don’t care about your green houses, shut up, go build some goddamn normal ones. Now! Hurry up!”
The rest of the team met up online the next day, where Jared was like, we need all hands on deck. Like, this bill could get passed in two weeks. And he lays out his vision: two webinars in two days to explain the importance of this moment to young people, while also providing them with a system for them to leave voicemails to their Members of Provincial Parliament and ask them not to take GDS away. PLUS an in-person legislative hearing, where Jared would deliver a 7-minute testimony on the importance of GDS and offer a small amendment to the bill in front of this 12-person committee of MPPs in an attempt to convince them to fix the issue. And all of this sounds pretty sick, so I’m like, okay, sure!
The next day, Jared sends me a very unassuming text. Call me when u have a sec! So I call him.
“Ottavia! CRAZY idea. WHAT IF…you spoke at the hearing on Thursday…instead of me?”
Um. WHAT???
“Uhh…okay, I guess I can?” I say, totally without thinking. “Are you sure? Because there are so many volunteers on the team who are…so much more articulate than I am.” I haven’t been this flabbergasted by a phone call in a long time.
And he’s like, “You were so great at the coffee house. You’re so smart and you’re so passionate. You’re the perfect person to do this.”
This dude’s unwavering belief in me BLOWS MY MIND. And I start tearing up on the phone because of how much I appreciate that belief. He goes on to explain his understanding of how the hearing works, and how I’ll have 7 minutes for my speech, and then the MPPs are going to ask me a few questions. Yikes! But I’m gonna get trained on how to answer them. Which sounds incredibly hard. But I can’t back down now. If Jared thinks I can do it, then I can do it. I have no idea what he sees in me, but I trust his opinion. Little do I know that I am in for the most stressful week of my life.
I’m going to go through the whole process day-by-day, and later hour-by-hour and minute-by-minute. If you don’t want to read all of it, I understand. Because it’s a LOT. But I needed to do it for myself. Writing is how I process these big events in my life, you know? (Also, Jared encouraged me to write about it as a joke and I figured I would take him up on that.)
For as long as this post is, there are also so many juicy quotes and moments that aren’t in here because I’ve simply forgotten what people have said or what was going through my head at a certain time. Which I think is because of a combination of adrenaline and anxiety. But I tried to paint as good of a picture as I could with what I can remember. One of these days I’m going to break it down with Jared and the team and see how they felt. Because without them, none of what I did or achieved this week is possible.
Sunday afternoon Jared asks for my availability during the week so we can schedule some meetings together and also with another member of the FM team, Morag, who we’ll get to. I respond with my schedule and a very long end emotional text that includes me apologizing for crying on the phone. (The amount of stuff this poor guy is gonna have to put up from me over the next few days, you will NOT BELIEVE.) And I realize that even though I might have zero idea of what I’m in for, I know that having Jared walk me through this process is going to help tremendously. Like, he wants me to succeed! That’s why he picked me to do this. We are going to be the most dynamic duo in the entire universe, I say at the end of my text. hahahahaha this is the best text, he responds.
Monday after 6, as I’m procrastinating on my homework, Jared asks me if I’m free for a call. Yes sir! He shows me an outline he made of what he wants my speech to include. Before that I actually had zero idea of what I wanted to write, so it was a big help. The way he made it fit together seemed really logical—the focus was on my personal narrative, being a young person new to politics who cares about climate—and whatever policy gaps I was far too stupid to fill, he would fill in for me. My phone calls with him always leave me feeling hopeful, and this night was no different; as soon as I hang up, I get to work.
The whole time I’m thinking, what does Jared want me to say? And also, how can I use my personal experience to get that message across? My initial feeling was that, you know, these are politicians I’m talking to. They don’t want me to crack jokes. They probably won’t even understand them because they’re so old. But Jared wants me to be myself on the page. He says that’s what they’re going to remember. I come up with some zingers, try to show my frustration with the bill, and three hours later I’ve come out with a 650ish-word first draft that I’ve actually enjoyed writing. WOO!
Let me tell you, I really went for the jugular at first. I wanted to be aggressive and annoying and also funny. I wanted to write a speech I was comfortable saying out loud and that I was proud of. It felt like a test for me to prove myself. Jared wasn’t testing me, though—he’d NEVER do that, he’s too nice!—but I was essentially testing myself. This is a cause that I care deeply about; I knew I had the groundwork within me to create something impactful. I wanted to prove that I had the skill to write a half-decent speech in 3 hours, that I was worthy of Jared’s belief in me, and that I was worthy of his choice to put me on the hot seat in front of all these MPPs.
(I can see how these thoughts going through my head check off all the boxes for imposter syndrome, but I’m just going to ignore that and call it…ambition.)
The next morning I woke up and saw this text from Jared: so much goodness in there holy moly! you should be so proud! Dude. Let’s not kid ourselves here. I WAS. You all should’ve seen the fist I pumped in front of the mirror getting ready for class that morning after reading those texts.
Day 2 was all about cleaning up my mess of a first draft. Jared and Morag, another member of the FM team, went through it together while I was in class. Morag left a bunch of sweet comments and some even better suggestions. She knew EXACTLY what could be tweaked to make the speech better, and in which places. I found it very humbling to have a kind and smart editor like that in my corner.
What I’m especially proud of is the fact that a good chunk of what I wrote myself in that first draft…made the final draft. Like, that’s inSANE! A bunch of it got cut, which, I mean, what can you do, sometimes you gotta kill your darlings! Some stuff had to be re-worded but the core message is pretty much there. Some of it is policy-related because politicians eat that stuff up. And some of it is literally unchanged from the first draft. That’s wild to me. Whatever I’m doing—and I have zero idea what I’m doing—I should keep doing it, because it’s sort of working!
At 8 PM Jared emails me a copy of the second draft he and Morag had put together, saying he’d love to get my feedback and wondering if I felt that it was missing something or didn’t sound like me. I was hesitant to make some edits myself, but he says he wouldn’t have time to go through them with me tomorrow because our focus then was going to be on making sure I was all set for Thursday. So I’m like, okay, whatever, and I spent the next two hours just grinding, totally pouring everything I can into it, hoping it would align with both mine and Jared/Morag’s vision. And also refreshing Twitter every five seconds because of the U.S. midterms. I care too much about that for some reason.
I should mention, our first phonebank was on that day, too. It was great. I also started bringing up Thursday’s hearing to my friends that day. Getting to say “so, like, um, I’m gonna be making a speech to MPPs in Brampton on Thursday morning, do you wanna come with us” —saying that out loud was pretty sick.
And, as you’ll see, if this incredible week has taught me anything—and I’m getting emotional as I type this—it’s that I am so much smarter and more capable of doing things than I ever thought was possible.
On Day 3 it starts to hit me that this is a thing that is actually happening. During class I get a confirmation email from *deep breath* the Procedural Services Assistant for the Standing Committee on Heritage, Infrastructure and Cultural Policy of the Legislative Assembly of Ontario. I just got jumpscared by the Ontario coat of arms, I text Jared.
Jared also sends an email out to the FM email list that mentions the fact that I am a “rockstar volunteer” who will be speaking at the hearing, and argues that it “is going to be a MOMENT.” Which is not a particularly big deal, but I am very honoured by that and dig it very hard.
It’s a jam-packed day for me: two hours over the phone with Jared and Morag, an hour-long FM phonebank, and then two other very boring meetings for unrelated things that I’m not going to get into because they were very boring. But yeah, Morag essentially gives me a 2.5 hour crash course in talking to important people from her home in Vancouver. It’s a lot to learn the day before a big speech in front of big-deal lawmakers, almost like I’m cramming for a final exam. I’m full of butterflies, but Morag, bless her, is doing everything she can to put me at ease: making me a cheatsheet of sorts that lists our core messages, as well as answers to a few potential questions the MPPs might ask, and certain segues and transition phrases I could use to bring the conversation back to my main message. SO unbelievably helpful.
And then there’s pivoting—the art of pivoting. Morag is brilliant. She allows me to approach this difficult thing like I’m five years old and then slowly arrive towards this place, this aura of understanding and eventually, confidence. It’s the way she puts it at the start: “Okay, Ottavia, so I understand your position is that you like yellow sunflowers. But what are your thoughts on red roses?” And my job is to process that question and figure out how to pivot away from red roses and towards my main message, which is that yellow sunflowers are cool. All of that in, like, .5 seconds.
I don’t know about you, maybe you’re a freakishly intelligent debate kid like Danny, but for me and my little neurodivergent brain, this kind of thing is not easy. I’m not a particularly eloquent speaker. I’ve written about this before; I use humour out of desperation, to get through a conversation and as an attempt to get people to like me and think I’m smart. I can’t fake things very well at all. I can get in a “professionalism” type of zone and turn it on when I need to, as I have for presentations and workshops that I’ve done, but it’s much like a mushroom in Mario Kart, where—hear me out—I can hold it for a limited period of time before the anxiety gets to me and the words fail me, and once I stop talking I feel super drained.
And I’m much more comfortable on the page, but even then, as you’ve seen from this Substack, I use a lot of hedge words. And, as has been the case for ages (Jessica, Matt, and now Jared know this well) I’m mostly unsure of myself and whether what I have to say is even worth writing down. I can be quick-witted at times, but this whole speaking-extemporaneously-in-front-of-important-people thing is totally outside of my comfort zone.
Pivoting takes some time to figure out. At first my answers come out shaky and discombobulated. But Morag is so encouraging, asking question after question and digging my responses. Eventually we pivot (pun unintended) to a few potential questions the MPPs might ask me, and I start stringing coherent sentences together. Even friggin Jared pops in and starts asking me questions like he’s the Ontario Simon Cowell. But I answer his questions and I sound okay! It’s a nice feeling despite the overwhelmingness of the call. The two of them just believe in me so much it astounds.
But then Morag and Jared are like, “Do you have any questions?” And I just start bawling on the phone.
Poor Morag. Poor Jared. The silence on the other end of the line makes me think they don’t know what to say. Who can blame them? I try to explain how I’m feeling—I’m a writer, goddamnit, I should know how to do that—but I can’t find the strength to pivot here. I’m back to being six years old and afraid of letting go of my mother’s hand on the first day of first grade. The pressure. The fear. The anxiety.
“I just wanna do a good job!” I sputter. “I just wanna make you two proud.”
“Ottavia. There is no universe where that doesn’t happen,” Jared says matter-of-factly. (I’m getting teary just putting this little scene of my life on paper.)
"Yeah, like, you’re doing such a good job answering these questions,” Morag says.
“I just…like…this is a lot of information,” I admit, still crying. “And it’s like…like, I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Oh my god, of COURSE you can,” Jared says. “Dude, you’re remarkable.”
And he goes on to say some other incredibly kind stuff about me that I really wish I wrote down so I could cherish it forever. Afterwards the three of us discuss logistics, what I should wear, and a few other things I can’t remember for the life of me. I ask Jared if he can sit beside me in the audience tomorrow before I go up to speak, because I am in desperate need of moral support, and he says, “dude, absolutely.” Thank God. He also tells me I can bring Morag’s notes with me to the hearing to refer back to, which, again, thank god, because trying to remember everything from memory was extremely taxing on my wee little brain.
At 5 it’s time for another phonebank webinar thing, and it’s cool because a gazillion kids show up thanks to our amazing team’s outreach efforts. I miss nearly the entire thing because I’m too busy eating pasta and crying. (I’m so relatable.) Jared texts me to say that FM staff member Meshall will be driving myself and my friends P, E, and T to Brampton tomorrow. We have to be at UTM for 9 am and we have to wear green. I text Jared that I am a CHANGED WOMAN because of today. He says he’s glad it was such a positive experience, as it was for himself and Morag.
Later on I call Morag again and ask for tips on how to make sure I’m speaking slowly and clearly. And also how to deal with the nerves. She tells me to breathe (good point) and to write the words “SLOW DOWN” all over my paper as a reminder to, well, slow down (another good point). She tells me that Jared picked me for a reason because he knows I can do it. She wishes me good luck and says I will absolutely rock it. “I hope so,” I say. “You will,” she says.
Jared texts me a few hours later to say that the speech script has been finalized. He took some time along with Morag to go through it with a guy named Evan who works for this sick organization called The Atmospheric Fund. He’s a very nice guy and a climate policy expert (double whammy) so he ironed out the kinks of the general policy stuff of the speech with Jared and Morag, which was a big help because the MPPs are gonna wanna know about that stuff.
did Morag tell you I was just on a call with her? I text Jared.
we got to chat for a bit, yeah! he says.
I asked her a question and she was like "that's a good question!" and I said "look! you're pivoting!"
I can hear him laughing through the screen somehow. she says she is obscenely excited for tomorrow! you couldn’t be more prepared.
I get up and practice my speech in front of the mirror three more times just in case.
The big day arrives. I stay up until 12:30 am shaking from nerves and wake up shaking 6.5 hours later. I comb my hair 55 times times before I realize that I didn’t wash it the night before. Meaning all these politicians are going to see my greasy, oily, slickly hair in full HD. Whatever, I might not look as presentable, but I WILL look more #relatable!
I eat half a chicken wrap and fill my water bottle up to the max. Every time I think about my speech I want to puke. Not because it’s bad, but because I’m worried I’ll be too nervous to say it out loud. Jared calls me twice and I miss both of them because I’m too busy running around the house at 7am making sure I have everything ready. I hope he’s not offended. I print out my speech in 16pt font so my bad eyes can read it, and write “SLOW DOWN” in red ink down every third of every page. I slide all my papers into a thin binder that already has papers inside—my notes from when I workshopped a few poems with Janelle Effiwatt during the Iowa Young Writers Studio. 100% a good luck charm. I put on the only green shirt I have and slip on my killer $105 green blazer that I nabbed for $65. It’s also 18 degrees Celsius outside, but screw it, I am willing to suffer in the name of climate change action.
I read over my speech waiting for the bus and then I read it again while waiting for the second one. I read over my talking points on the bus and again while sitting on a bench in the UTM gymnasium, watching as the minutes pass by like they’re seconds. None of the people here lifting weights know I’m about to complain about climate change to 12 MPPs, I think, and the thought is reassuring. P and T and E arrive. P kindly gets me a muffin from Tim Hortons. I am so happy to see all 3 of them and I cannot believe they are about to watch me publicly humiliate myself in front of important people. Today is going to be one of the coolest days of my entire life.
Meshall picks us up shortly after 9. She tells us about herself and we hit it off. “Who’s excited for today?” she asks. Everyone whoops.
“Are you excited for today, Ottavia?” P asks.
“N-n-no,” I whimper. “I’m too scared to be excited.” I mean, the excitement IS there, but the nerves have shoved it deep into the pit of my stomach.
We spontaneously decide to blast the new Taylor Swift album on the way there. And you know what, everything really does start to feel like a lavender haze. We chat about our favourite songs off the album. E says he’s not a Taylor Swift guy; he’s more of a post-hardcore fan, so we freak out about La Dispute and Modern Baseball together. It all makes for a very good distraction.
We pull up to the venue at around 9:45. It’s right beside this giant Mandarin (the buffet chain). I’m almost put at ease thinking about delivering a speech on climate change while all these fancy politicians are eating Mandarin for breakfast. But no, it’s actually this big banquet hall and convention centre where all these weddings and corporate events take place. When we walk in, I gasp. It’s all happening, as Penny Lane would say.
The room where the hearing is taking place is definitely not wedding-sized, but it’s not small, either. A giant rectangular table with an even bigger hole in the middle takes centre stage, and a few MPPs have already sat down. There are three empty seats where the witnesses are supposed to be. No podium. I’m actually sort of relieved. The audience seating is filing up, too. All the chairs are covered in this fancy white cloth. I swear under my breath.
Jared’s sitting at the end of one of the back rows. “Duuuuuude,” he says, beaming. “Saved you a spot.” He looks cool as a cucumber pointing at the chair to his left. I hug him quickly before E, T, P and I move in to sit down. “So good to see you!” he says to me.
At this point my memories of the day start to become quite blurry, but I’ve tried to fill in the gaps as best as I can.
The hearing starts at 10. One MPP goes on about the rules and whatever, how three people get to speak during the first hour, and then another three during the second. I’m in the second group, so I have an hour to freak out in private. The first group I don’t pay attention to much because my nerves are making me feel completely helpless. Two of the witnesses are against the bill while one is for it. One of them starts his speech with the words “Thank you, Chair,” which I assume refers to the MPP who was doing all the talking at the start. It sounds professional and I am very much not, so I take out a pen and scribble it down at the top of the first page of my script. “Genius,” Jared says.
“How are you so calm?” I ask him at one point, totally incredulous.
“I just know you’re gonna crush it!” he says.
During the whole hour I’m just freaking out and swearing under my breath. T and P and E are impressively engaged with the conversation happening in front of us, nudging me whenever someone says something totally bogus or closely related to our message. We learn very quickly that you aren’t really allowed to clap or cheer or anything. But you can snap! T snaps during important parts. So on-brand for her. Someone mentions that Bill 23 is 227 pages long. I jot that down and T laughs.
After speeches the questioning period starts. I should’ve paid more attention to how the witnesses responded but I’m more concerned with the format and how it starts and stops. Every time the Chair cut someone off so that another party could start to ask questions, I lunge from my chair, afraid that my turn had come and it was already time to go up. T and P and Jared would laugh and calm me down and remind me that it wasn’t my turn yet. They were the best cheerleaders I could possibly ask for.
And this has been a theme of this post, but poor Jared—I just keep annoying him every five minutes with questions and anxieties and what ifs that come up, and the whole time he’s just calming me down and reminding me that I’m prepared and ready to take them on.
At one point he taps me on the shoulder. “I can’t wait for you to write about this for your blog.” We giggle, almost too loudly. (I sure hope he enjoys reading this mess.)
As 11 am draws closer, more of our supporters start coming in and I start giving myself pep talk after pep talk. Y’all should’ve heard me. I sounded crazy. “You can do this you can do this you can do this. P believes in you. T believes in you. E believes in you. Morag believes in you. Meshall believes in you. Jared believes in you.” Jared hears that and chuckles real good.
At 10:50-something, I’m really jittering. I fist-bump E and P and T for good luck. T tells me she’s going to film the whole thing for us. I pull my phone out and double-check that my hair looks at least 75% neat. I drink some water, and then when I put my bottle down, I see Jared’s left leg bouncing at the speed of light. I trust that he’s nervous because he cares so much, because he thinks I’ll flourish. He never questioned my ability to do this and to be here. In the end, that’s all that matters and that’s all I care about. And I decide that for the next hour I’m going to push myself harder than I ever have before. For youth across Ontario. For real climate change action. For the team. For my friends. For Jared.
At the top of the hour the Chair grumpily calls up the second group of witnesses. “Oh my god,” I say. My heart starts absolutely pounding.
“Go Ottavia!” I hear a few people whisper. T pats my back. I get up, grabbing my bottle and binder, and move past Jared, not before a quick good luck hug. “You’re gonna kill it,” he says. I don’t even remember if I said anything back.
I walk up to an empty chair in front of the MPPs and sit down. My legs have turned into spaghetti noodles by the time I open up my binder and take out my script. These two other old guys—both climate experts—sit to my left. The age gap between us is comical. But the Chair looks at me first, because of course. He says something along the lines of “yadda yadda please stare your name for the records” and I give him my name. There’s a second of awkward silence before he says “okay, you can start.”
“I can start?” I ask, realizing I’ve forgotten what words are.
“Yes,” he says, and leans back.
“Thank you, Chair,” I blurt out. It’s go time. Just do it, I think. Say the damn thing.
My name is Ottavia Paluch, and I am a first-year student at the University of Toronto Mississauga.
Yep, that’s my second time stating my name to the committee. Whoops!
I’m here this morning with Future Majority, a nonpartisan organization that elevates youth priorities to the agenda. I joined the Future Majority team as a volunteer about six months ago, and this is the first time I have gotten involved with politics. I’ve also never spoken in front of this many people that hold the power to make things happen. How cool is that?
A few MPPs start chuckling. As ever, Jared was right—my honesty is a necessity.
As exciting as it is for me to be up here today, I’m also really scared. I’m scared to stand up here all by myself, because those are the rules - my team isn’t allowed to join me up here. I'm scared you’re going to ask me questions I don’t know the answers to, and I’m scared for the future–especially if this bill is passed the way it is currently written & the problems it creates for communities trying to respond to climate change & affordability. More specifically, we’re asking that you amend this bill so that it doesn’t override council approved green & sustainable design standards that include energy efficiency. To be clear, that means we want municipalities that already have green design standards or green development standards to be able to continue to enforce those guidelines; and municipalities that want to pass new guidelines, to be able to do that as well.
I grew up quite oblivious to the effects of climate change. At home, whenever the topic came up, my parents would usually say something along the lines of, “Whatever, we’re all going to die anyway.” Yet as mentions of climate change increased in the news, in my elementary and secondary school classes, and on social media, it seemed increasingly impossible to ignore. It began to dawn on me that my future was no longer promised. That the future of my generation and the generation after mine was no longer promised. It felt harrowing, and scary, and sad.
I remember being invited to go to my first Future Majority event, and being unsure if there was much of a point in getting involved. Yet being in that room, surrounded by all of these young people from vastly different socioeconomic and political backgrounds, coming together for a common cause - it felt like something really shifted for me.
My friends & I were really surprised to learn of the enormous impact of buildings on the climate crisis. That’s right, Canada Energy Regulator’s most recent statistics state that buildings are the second largest emitting sector in the province & Mississauga’s 2021 Climate Action Plan determined that buildings are the top emitter in my hometown. We’ve been so stoked to learn that in response, municipalities across Ontario have been making big strides on climate & affordability—and we want to see this incredible momentum continue.
Because what we are asking for is not particularly radical or revolutionary. Bill 23, as it is currently written, will make it much harder to implement council-approved green & sustainable design standards in municipalities across Ontario that include energy efficiency. Young people recognize that we can’t focus solely on the climate crisis, as the housing crisis is all too real. But affordability & energy efficiency are not enemies.
Better insulated homes keep heat & cool air from leaking out, saving residents huge amounts of money on energy bills. Low and no carbon heating & cooling systems like heat pumps & high-efficiency appliances shield residents from increasingly volatile gas prices. We also need to ensure that the 1.5 million homes we’re building don’t need retrofitting within a decade or two, as that cost will fall to our generation.
It’s actually kind of insane how I managed to not sound nervous at all. Or at least according to Jared. He called it magic. I call it "practicing in front of the mirror until you drop dead.”
We’re young folks that care about our country’s well-being, present & future—not policy experts. We’re deferring to The Atmospheric Fund’s expertise in this space & suggest that you refer to the open letter that they’ve sent in response to this bill. They offer an amendment that will guarantee municipalities the power to implement green & sustainable design standards across Ontario without impacting the government’s goals to get homes built quickly.
We have enough on our plate, I promise you. We're counting on our political leaders to show leadership on climate, because we have exams to write; we don't have time for hurricanes.
Week after week, I’m left breathless by the energy of my incredible teammates. How fired up we all are to fix things, how stoked we are to save the planet in our own small, passionate, powerful way–that brings me so much hope. And it brings me so much hope to show you the legion of young people we have brought along with us to today’s hearing.
I ask them to stand up. Everyone in the room, MPPs or otherwise, starts clapping. This part of the speech was Jared’s idea—dude is smarter than he gives himself credit for—and I knew it would work, but I didn’t think it would work this well. I strain my eyes and neck, desperate to make out Jared’s face, anyone’s face. It was an incredibly powerful moment. I will never forget it.
Of course, the Chair had to step in and literally yell “ORDER!” which, ugh, but I was determined not to let him completely ruin our fun:
Look at us! Look at how cute we are! How could you possibly say no to our demands?
That line was pre-planned, but it got a good laugh! I’m adding “made a bunch of politicians laugh” to my resume.
And then I’m like:
This is what a youth movement looks like.
At this point the Chair was probably thinking, I’m gonna get back at this girl. “One minute,” he says. Meaning I have one minute left to deliver the rest of my speech. Remember: they gave me 7 minutes. This speech is 5ish minutes long TOPS. Talk about being insecure!
Like, he throws me off my rhythm completely. “One—one minute?” I stammer.
“One minute,” says the Chair. Panic sets in faster than I ever thought was possible. Screw this guy, I think. It’s only when I start rushing through the last two paragraphs that I realize there really are only two paragraphs left. They’re important ones, though, and I want to fit every single word of them in. It’s funny that FM picked this part to post online because I’m tripping over my words and talking a million miles a minute. I’m BARELY keeping it together.
This is why I’ve taken a day away from classes. This is why my friends and teammates and I have been calling other young folks all week and encouraging them to call you directly with the same message. We’re asking that you modify this bill so we can get back on track to meeting our climate emissions targets. We’re asking that you modify this bill to make sure hard-won municipal climate policies aren't reversed overnight. We’re asking that you modify this bill–just a little teeny, tiny bit–so that this bill doesn’t override council approved green & sustainable design standards in municipalities across Ontario that include energy efficiency.
Because this is a once-in-a-generation bill that’s going to set the table for the next several decades, and my generation–alongside young people all over this province—are counting on you. Thank you.
I hear faint snapping behind me. I sure know where that’s coming from.
Immediately, what I feel is relief—but it’s a temporary one, knowing I’ve only hit base camp and still have a ways to climb before I reach the top of the mountain. I slouch back into my chair and take a…a very shallow deep breath. LOL. I drink a sip of cope while the Chair lets the next guy speak, and then the other guy. I try to listen to their speeches, but my nerves, even though they’re not as bad as they were before, make it extremely difficult to focus. I flip over to my notes on potential questions the MPPs might ask and start reading them over and over, stuck in a nervous cycle of forgetting and then re-remembering my talking points. Jimmy Eat World’s “For Me This is Heaven” echos in my head. Can you still feel the butterflies? Can you still feel the butterflies?
Before long, it was time for questioning. (When the Chair said that out loud, I shivered in my chair.) What sucks is most of my memories of it have been wiped out from adrenaline and anxiety. I can’t wait to see the videos T took of that part of the hour. For now I’ll just tell you everything I can remember.
How it works is exactly 39 minutes are allocated for the entire questioning period, with the rest of the hour put towards delivery of the speeches. There are two rounds of questioning, and in each round every party is given a few minutes to ask questions to whichever witness they’d like. So you see folks from the current sitting government get their turn to ask questions, as well as the official opposition and the independents. I learned very quickly that you kind of have to always be alert and composed, especially because they might give you questions you weren’t expecting, and also really detailed, policy-heavy things, and all the while they’re expecting strong and immediate answers from you. And let me tell you, none of us at FM—not myself, not Jared, not Morag—thought the MPPs would ask me THAT many questions.
Like, I’m not joking when I tell you AT LEAST HALF of their questions were directed at me. P and T and E were discussing this with me afterward, and they concluded that the MPPs’ choice to ask me so many questions was a deliberate one. They’re smart, these politicians, but they’re also desperate to push a certain agenda forward. They knew I wasn’t an expert—I literally told them that in my speech. They knew I was going to be the least prepared, the least on-the-ball with my knowledge of the bill and of the housing crisis and of climate change. All of that is correct. As hard as I worked, as prepared and as smart as Jared and Morag believed I was, I’m also nineteen and know literally nothing. I’m an easy target for these people. I’m in my first year of a bachelor’s and it felt like I was defending a PhD dissertation. It SUCKED. The MPPs wanted to capitalize on my inexperience for political points, but I was so, SO determined to do everything in my power to pivot—literally and figuratively—their attention towards GDS and the importance of fighting climate change. It was, and this is no exaggeration, the most difficult thing I have ever had to do.
A lot of the MPPs start off by saying how happy they are to see me and the team at the hearing. I thank them all as politely as I can despite the nerves. I sound a little repetitive, but I want them to know how grateful the team and I are. (It also buys me a few seconds to come up with answers to their ridiculous questions.)
There were some MPPs who gave me some questions that I was ready for, stuff about the importance of climate change and of youth in politics. I crushed those. It gave me a ton of confidence. Every question they give the other two experts is a chance for me to breathe.
And then the housing questions start piling on. Was not ready for that. This one old guy (P called him Nosehair, which is honestly so perfect) gave me a very detailed one on housing. I remind him that I am not a housing expert and that I’m here for action on climate. Why should I be expected to answer on his terms, for his benefit? Why should I be expected to know everything about everything?
Oh, and this other MPP, she’s the only one of the 12 who says my name correctly—meaning I know for a FACT that she’s been paying attention to everything I’ve said—and then she pulls out what she feels are the receipts. She’s like, “oh, Ontario is meeting climate targets, we’re doing good on climate, our climate impact is not as large as others, yadda yadda. So why should we do this?” I bet she feels good about herself, trying to destroy the mental state of a poor 19 year old girl. Let’s GO, I think. You wanna play? You wanna mess with me? And I totally annihilate my response.
She’s not fully satisfied with my answer, though, and she asks me why GDS is so important, or something along those lines. So I give her receipts of my own. I go toe to toe with this woman. She frightens me. One day she’ll be in my nightmares.
Her colleagues, seeing our exchange, decide to push even harder on the housing aspect of the bill. And it’s really frustrating, having to answer question after question about housing this, housing that. But something just takes over me. I’m on it. I’m friggin on it. I sound good and I’m consistent with my messaging. In my head, the only thing I hear is pivotpivotpivot. GDSGDSGDS. It’s like a mantra. Honestly kind of nuts. But it got me through the longest hour of my life.
Finally, the Chair announces that the second round of questioning is over and that the committee is now going on an hour-long recess before reconvening at 1. Looking around, it seems like everyone has already begun to pack up their stuff. Guess I’m off the hook!
I straighten up my papers and look to my left, where one of the climate experts testifying was also straightening his stuff. Not his hair, though. He was bald.
“You had a great speech, sir,” I say, because the 30 seconds of it I was somehow able to digest in between all of my anxiety sounded pretty good, honestly.
"You did a fantastic job,” he says, smiling. “Good to meet you.” We shake hands. I doubt he was stressing out like I was—like, he’s an older guy, and I’m nineteen. Those MPPs showed no mercy towards me whatsoever. They were RUTHLESS.
I shove my papers into my binder, and then as I close it, I see someone tall and lanky sprinting towards me, a huge smile on his face.
“Ottavia,” he says.
Oh my god. He’s here. It’s over. It’s really over.
“JARED!” I shout, louder than I should at a banquet hall, getting up as fast as I can from my chair, and completely throwing my entire self into him, giving him the longest, tightest hug I have ever hugged. And in a way, I have to hold onto him; I feel more mentally exhausted than I have ever been in my entire life. My gasps for air envelop his green sweater. I feel every emotion in the fucking universe.
Usually when I have hugs like that it’s because I am super sad and need someone to just…hold me. But in this case, it was more relief than anything else. Like, what the hell, I cannot BELIEVE that just happened, I cannot BELIEVE what I just did—that kind of relief. Like, Jared is the guy who put me through these four days of insane stress and pressure, but that’s because he thought I could handle it. And I did. I survived and I have no idea how. And now I’m clinging to him like he’s made of glue, and I’m this tattered piece of paper desperate to stick to something, someone, anything at all.
But Jared is one of the kindest men I’ve ever met, so he takes it in stride. This guy’s seen me at my best and my worst. At my most confident and funny and at my most stressed and weepy. He knows how much I stressed over this thing, and my bet is he knew how much I needed that hug. I can only imagine how stressed he was, sitting in the audience, watching me try so very desperately to formulate comprehensible answers to these difficult questions out of thin air.
“Oh my god, dude,” he muffles into my ear, his voice like a pillow. “That was absolutely incredible.” My knees, which have been quivering all morning, nearly buckle from the weight of his kindness.
Did I even respond to anything he said? I don’t even remember. I’ll have to ask him. But it was just…the greatest release of tension I could possibly ask for. I start choking up. I want every piece of his joy, his relief, his gratitude. And then, over his shoulder, I see someone in a suit and tie walk past us. Oh NO, I realize, there are politicians here. And they’re watching me hug Jared like a maniac. What am I DOING?
So I have to let go. Lord knows what I would give to just stand in that room with him, mentor and mentee mid-embrace, taking in the sheer magnitude of what just happened.
Yet in seconds MPPs are flocking to me like I’m a peacock at the African Lion Safari. In a flash, like, literally straight out of my hug with Jared, I have to put my mask back on and try to be as professional and courteous as I can while also feeling the most mentally drained than I ever have before. I’m in disbelief that these powerful people even want to talk to me, but Jared is shaking their hands like it’s no big deal, as if he literally didn’t just give me one of the most emotional, meaningful, powerful hugs of my life. It was a lovely moment, standing there with him, both of us beaming after all the hard work we had done together, while these fancy dignified people were rushing over to shake our hands because they cared enough about what we were doing and were impressed enough by us just…being there.
It was like six MPPs in 30 seconds. I don’t even remember what most of them said, I just tried to give a polite reply whenever I could. One of them compliments the green blazer I got for 45% off (we all tried to wear green to the hearing, because, you know, green development standards). One of them calls my name while he’s taking to Jared and while I’m talking to someone else and I race over and shake his hand and say thank you and nervously laugh—the fact that these people remember my name, despite not saying it correctly, felt incredible. John Mayer could never.
Another MPP tells me how impressed she was by me and says I should run for office. “Hahaha, sure!” I lie. (I will NEVER run for office. Especially after today.)
Four of them give me and a few others their business cards. I forgot those were a thing. I still have them on my desk here as I write this. They’re from a mix of parties, which is interesting. I guess they wanted us to come work for their constituency office or something? Nah, not after you grilled me like that today!
Oh yeah, and then multiple, like, we’re taking three or four MPPs, ask if they could take a picture with the group we brought with us today. We’re all like “yeah!” but then Jared explains that no, we can’t, because we’re supposed to be nonpartisan. Later on, P and T and I realize that they asked for a photo because they think we’re cute. “Like, oh, look at how much I care about young people, now go vote for me!” I remember P saying. P is very smart.
As everyone is mingling I circle the room and try to take deeper breaths. There’s a part of me that never wants to open my mouth again, but everyone is so excited to talk to me and so ridiculously kind. I high-five everyone that came with us and I thank them for coming and for their support. I must’ve sounded like a broken record, but I meant every word. I had no idea who most of them were but I was so glad they were in my corner, our corner. It’s all a blur, I can’t tell you 90% of what they said, but everyone’s just gushing about how good I was. I tell them that I’ve never been more scared, which is 110% true. T and P run up to me and hug me and it feels amazing. I run up to E and force him to hug me. I hug T again out of sheer excitement.
One person who came with us and whom I had never met before says that I did fantastic and that they are a huge fan of the blog and that otters are their favourite animal. Their words, not mine. WTF?! No one has ever come up to me in-person before and told me they love the blog! That’s a first for me! And I’m never gonna forget that exchange. I just about died on the spot when they told me that.
And then Nosehair comes up to me.
“Thank you for coming today,” he starts, and reaches out his hand. “Young people are important.” I shake it. “But you have to understand: this is a bill about housing. I understand you are concerned about the, um, global warming, but we are here to fix the housing situation. It is very important.”
I want to rip the hairs off his nose so bad.
Thank god for P and T, because they come RIGHT to my rescue and immediately start debating with Nosehair. I had to work my tail off to form complete sentences in front of this man, but these two are so naturally good at it. I try to follow along with their conversation for a bit, but then decide to slowly walk away. I’m too tired and way too stupid to properly debate this guy.
We take a group photo without any politicians. I shake the hands of a few more MPPs and audience members. And then Meshall is like, “Jared, we have to get going, I have to take them back to UTM.” Oh my god, I think, I have class at 1. How am I going to take notes for two whole hours? (Spoiler alert: I didn’t.) The way reality set in just like that…it was surreal. There’s a part of me that wants the beauty, the humanity of this recess to last forever. But we force ourselves to say goodbye. And then, just before we take off, I’m like, “JARED!”
He spins around.
“Hug me,” I ask, and I know he will.