Originally Published: Nov 7, 2025
In Canada, a “minor” is anyone under the age of 18.
I’ve always loved words — their origins, their hidden meanings, the way they shape how we think. I even love counting and making lists; it calms me. My brother was like that too. We used to love doing inventory together — weird, right? Maybe we were just trying to prove that we weren’t “minor” after all.
The term minor comes straight out of Christian teachings wrapped in British rule. It means someone of minor significance. When I learned that in my children’s rights course at university, I was enraged.
Why? Because suddenly I understood something terrible: maybe that’s why some of my family members thought they had the right to rape me. I was a child — and in their minds, of minor significance. Who cares what happens to someone who doesn’t matter?
And you know what? They were right — no one did care. Not the system. Not the laws. Not the churches, the schools, or the community centers that are supposed to protect us. That mindset — that children are lesser — is still woven into the fabric of our country.
This isn’t history. It’s happening right now. In Canada, one in four children will have to survive child sexual violence before they even get to vote. That’s about ten million people living with the aftermath of the worst kind of violence.
And here’s the thing about that violence: it doesn’t end when the act is over. You’re left alive only so they can come back for more. And for those who make it to adulthood — many of us turn the pain inward. Some even pick up where their predators left off, carrying on the cycle.
We can change this.
I vote that we start by refusing to call children “minor.” My child, your child — every child — is significant. There is nothing minor about them.
And let’s be honest — real change rarely starts in boardrooms or polished political speeches. It starts with the people. The working class. The ones busting heads, raising their voices, and jumping up and down on rooftops demanding justice. And for those of us living rough — we’re not on rooftops at all. We’re screaming from the gutter.
These are the true army — the people closest to this crime against humanity. The ones who see it, live beside it, survive it. They are my people.
Together, we heal. Together, we find our power. It starts with love — and that love fuels the people who become teachers, police officers, social workers, doctors, lawyers, judges, and politicians determined to end child sexual violence.
Are you one of them? I’m looking for you.
But make no mistake—all of you fortunate folx with a degree framed on your office wall will be standing on the shoulders of farmers, truck drivers, house cleaners, and factory workers.
We will meet. And armed with education, justice, and love — we will end child sexual violence.