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June Up, June Down

It’s an exciting time of year – but also a sigh-inducing, did-I-do-all-that-I-could’ve, what-the-heck-happened-to-Sally period of angst-y reflection – for the teachers.

After six weeks at a suburban Ottawa high school, I’m within hours of my release from room 222. It feels good, mostly. It always did, and why not? While it has been odd to be teaching my head off without really knowing all my students very well (let alone my fellow staff members, or the community within which this school operates), the late-night marking sessions are over. The texts are in. The deadlines for reporting and commentary have been met. My room is clean and the car is packed. I can look forward to the plans for summer, and in particular to making friends with my keyboard again. My writing output has suffered during this return to full-time teaching, so I’ll relaunch my writing / With gnashing and biting / And blasts from a thousand kazoos… That’s the end of my favourite limerick.

But here’s a line from another poem, a fairly whiny bit of long-ago existential self-importance: The loneliness birds are croaking / There’s that pressure behind my brow… Yes. It’s an odd little tang of nostalgia to leave this school, where I have no history and no expectation of ongoing connection. I’ll observe graduation ceremonies tomorrow for senior students for whom I know not a single name. But that’s just life and my peculiar ability to get sentimental about nearly anything.

Worse, there’s a sour ball of disappointment in my gut over the grade nine kids who didn’t get their credit in my courses. That’s the angst. That’s the wondering. Of course, in my situation, the kids who flunked were well on their way by the time I came on the scene in May. (I was covering a maternity leave.) I don’t know if it’s like this for every teacher, but I can’t help feeling my own failure when a kid goes down. Mind you, it chagrins me over and over again to realize, as is too often the case, that I seem to take it harder than the kids do. Even after all these years in classrooms, I don’t find it a bit easier to handle an adolescent nose-dive, though I’ve only known these folks for six weeks. And in virtually every case, the student either dithers or outright decides to not bother doing Essay X or Reading Y (why?), and they are far from surprised at their outcome.

Parents, though, are sometimes blindsided. “He never told me there was a problem!” I can hear the same little guilty tune playing behind their questions, their bewilderment and even the anger and blaming. It becomes a control issue, of course. I still have to remind myself, after 20 years of doing this job, that there are limits to what I can do. I can’t rock every student’s world. I can’t make them love language or care about ideas or be hopeful about the future. It’s up to them. Sigh. I hate that.

“You have the right to fail,” I have sometimes said, “but why would you want to do that?” It’s one of my many attempts to shift a student’s perspective. As teachers, we might wish that we could force a student to do what seems to us so clearly to be the best for him or her. I sure do. But like us, young people have an irritating tendency to want to make their own decisions. And so on we go. Life is for learning. Et cetera.

And in other news…

It’s also an exciting time of year to celebrate all that is best about Canada. Living in Ottawa for these past five July Firsts, it has been quite wonderful to celebrate in the capital, to see the dazzling fireworks that have so terrified our little Sam each year as they explode over Parliament Hill. He’s seven now, and is given to marching through the house singing “O Canada” in French at the top of his lungs. (He has a delightful Outaouais accent. He didn’t get it from me.) I think this will be the year that these astounding displays will be delightfully awesome fun for him instead of an incitement to run away screaming or hide under his Mummy’s arm. Mars Attacks. I thinks that’s what the experience has been for him.

I miss down-home festivities in my little riverside hometown, though. It hasn’t been so long since I lived there. I’ll miss the parade with almost as many people in it as there are watching, the crowds of people milling about in the park afterwards, the more modest but still terrific fireworks down by the dam. We love being around the Big Show here in Ottawa on our national day, but it’s like the culture shock I had about big city grocery stores: I won’t see many people that I actually know as we share our patriotic joys. For that, I’d have to be hanging around the Grand River in Caledonia on Sunday. I’ll miss all those familiar faces, and I’ll remember on Sunday that there are all kinds of communities. One of those is my own little neighbourhood, where Sam and his Mum and I, before we head downtown, will eat hot dogs and wave flags with Djiboutian and Somali-born parents whose kids think Canada Day is the coolest.

Return of the Chalk Monster

Sorry to have been so long since the last post. (Hmm. The Last Post. What a mournfully gorgeous thing that is when played on a trumpet. November 11. Remembering the cause of peace, honouring the sacrifice, praying for the dead and the eternally changed. That is a thousand leagues from my recent inability to publish my tiny cerebral explosions.) As for my Web site silence, I can only say that education is to blame.

I am now, and again, a fully-fledged High School Creature. After months of substitute gigs in several Ottawa schools, I have taken over a position at a suburban educational emporium. (Cairine Wilson Secondary. Know who she is?) I’m not sure who has been more challenged and distressed by the change, me or the ninth and tenth graders I teach. (Okay, it’s the students. Who am I kidding?) Administratively, organizationally and interpersonally, it’s been a fair upheaval. For one thing, this place begins its classes at 8:10 a.m., so that my bride has had to adjust her morning routine in order to get Junior to his bus, which had been my job. And yes, I got a little lost on the way here the first day, and there were computer problems, key problems, and behavioural problems (not all mine!). Curriculum, planning, materials, mindset – all of this has needed considerable massaging and headscratching.

But for all that, and though many of the students have been reluctant to accept graciously the new Ogre in room 222, I feel at home here already. I still don’t know where a lot of things are in this funky, ‘70s-designed school layout, but I’m getting there. But being in the language classroom again – two French classes, one English – feels fine. Last Friday, after perhaps the most frustrating day of trying to get my new kids on the same page as me, was a turning. There were more smiles. There were glances that said, Hey, maybe this clown won’t be so bad after all. I could lower my shield and sword, bring some energy and animation to what was being taught, and not worry about losing the kids to side conversations and general distraction. Cool!

My writing schedule is completely thrown off, though. Not only have I not been posting to my Web site for the last two weeks, but the less visible writing projects that I’ve been trying to nourish lie in a dusty, chaotic heap in my home office and in foul-smelling corners at the back of my mind. Forgotten, but not gone, I hope.

The most urgent reason for returning to education was a financial one. I had a steady and adequate salary when I was writing for and with the former Governor General, Adrienne Clarkson. As an independent flogger of my own ideas, though, my income has been, well, less than stellar. (If I was a more confident/arrogant writer and weighed a little less, I might have called myself a “starving artist”.) After a year and a bit of literary exploration, I have had to bow to economic realities. (Can’t stand economics OR realism!)

Less urgent, but more important – at least to me – was that even during the best periods of my exclusive writing life, something was missing. It was my Teaching Jones. I love that whole relationship: Educators and Those Who Need Them. I love being at the centre of a community of learners, of which I am one. Sometimes high schoolers don’t recognize their own hunger to know, blunted as it can be by distraction and the habits of enforced ignorance. (And, I’ll say it, by poor teaching.) But when those coloured lights start to sparkle and glow, there’s nothing like it. I often felt, even when I was writing speeches for the visit of Heads of State or for national honours to the greatest of Canadians, that I was likely doing less for the world than I had done as a chalk-stained wretch or whistle-toting basketball guru.

And so I’m back in class. I surely hope to balance this return to Shakespeare and the passé composé with my ongoing quests as a writer. But if my next school needs a basketball coach, I don’t know how I’m going to keep all those ducks in a row. So many darned ducks!

Shining Lamps of India (small deeds)

“Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”

This gorgeous paradox comes from Mahatma Gandhi. I have proven it true.

“We can do no great deeds. We may do only small deeds with great love.”

This parallel thought is supposedly Mother Teresa; this may be true.

“Do I really believe that my work is crucial to the planet’s survival? Of course not. But it’s as important to me as catching that mouse is to the hawk circling outside my window. He’s hungry. He needs a kill. So do I.”

The writer Steven Pressfield is not from India, but he echoes the subcontinental heroes above in The War of Art, p. 66.

Helen Keller (on humility in work)

“I long to accomplish great and noble tasks, but it is my chief duty to accomplish humble tasks as though they were great and noble. The world is moved along not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of the tiny pulses of each honest worker.”

Helen Keller‘s quote reminds me of the banner on the weekly Haldimand Press from back home: “Small service is true service.” It comes from a wee poem William Wordsworth wrote in 1834:

SMALL service is true service while it lasts:

Of humblest Friends, bright Creature! scorn not one:

The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts,

Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun.

Mr. Gere Goes to India

Don’t think that I’m going all People magazine on you if I write about Richard Gere and the uproar he has caused in India. It deserves some comment, maybe even mine.

I’m on shaky ground here, because I haven’t been paying much attention to the North American media coverage of The Kiss and The Dip and their aftermath. That this story has penetrated my fortress of celebrity solitude tells me that it’s getting huge play. And why not? India is an enormous country. We know why the story is big there: an alleged disrespect for the moral conventions of Indian public life, and for the lovely young actress in question. (Her name is Shilpa Shetty, and she apparently became a big British reality TV sensation due to a race-based controversy she was involved in. She is certainly getting attention far beyond her Bollywood stardom.) In matters of sexual morality, India operates under a rather different code than does public life in North America and Europe. But why is this such a big deal here?

That it’s Richard Gere doesn’t hurt, but as far as celebrity amperage goes, there are many brighter bulbs. (Maybe Mr. and Ms. Pitt have slowed down their adoption rate.) After all, Pretty Woman was a long time ago, centuries ago in the pop culture universe. So let me wander out on a limb: the foundation of this story is cultural mockery. This story has legs, other than Ms. Shetty’s demurely covered ones, because it’s a chance for “sophisticated”, culturally “advanced” Western peoples to laugh at the ridiculous prudery of a “backward” nation and its sexually repressed peoples.

Except that population figures would suggest, and the romanticism of the gigantic Bollywood film industry confirms, that the people of India have a very healthy interest in sex and coupling. However, perhaps they are more inclined to view sexuality in the context of family — in other words, a more private context. It is one of the myriad ironies of life in the West that we are culturally obsessed by privacy – the ideal of the private home surrounded by green and gates, the one man/one car transportation preference, and the general suspicion of anyone outside our tight little circles – and yet we are ever more inclined to go public with the most personal and intimate of human actions. (We’ll leave prayer out of this discussion.) Is sex over-emphasized in our society? This is a long debate that I could argue either side of, but I’m inclined to say rather that we undervalue it, that we cheapen it by making it casual and common.

On the other hand, it seems pretty clear that the Indian judge who has called for charges to be laid has leaped from the opposite extreme. I doubt judges there are elected, as they can be in the States, but he seems to be courting public favour of a certain kind. (Pun intended.) I’m not sure the average pious Hindu would regard the kiss on the cheek as “highly sexually erotic”, as the judge termed it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was regarded as vulgar. Crass. Undignified. Richard Gere is doing, if my read is correct, some really fine and self-sacrificing work in helping India (and the world) to address the growing threat of AIDS in the sub-continent. We must avoid another pandemic on the scale of the African one. It’s pitiful, though, that this media tempest makes only the barest mention of the HIV/AIDS issue while it smirks over cultural differences. We don’t have so much to feel superior about.

Tangled Up in Green

My goodness, but that was a long post on David Suzuki! Kudos to you if you made it through all that goo… (It was very good goo).

When did I get so green? Thanks to good luck in the marriage lottery, I have been exposed to many of the best thinkers on ecology and sustainability. Environmental issues do get me wound up, and it’s not just a function of their size and potentially catastrophic impacts. It’s also because climate change, perhaps more than any single issue other than nuclear war – or an invasion by ugly, laser-toting aliens with attitudes – speaks to what I have become convinced is the central challenge of the modern age.

It’s about UNITY, smarty! We are ever more conscious of the singularity of the planet we call home, and of the oneness of the human race. This seems to be the way of it: if we don’t move toward unity voluntarily, then the spirit of the age kicks us upside the head. So if there’s a silver lining to the threat of cataclysmic climate change, it’s this: it’s a problem we can solve only by united action. All the people. All the governments. All the time. “So powerful is the light of unity that it can illuminate the whole earth.” That was Mírza Husayn ‘Ali, in the 19th century. I’m listening. We’re learning, but my God it’s slow!

And because you’ve been so patient, and because I went on so yesterday, that’s all I have to say about that. Now we’re even. (You’re welcome!)

Earth Day: David Suzuki and the Primal Shout

At our house, we still have something of an Earth Day hangover. EcoBride, naturally, was at the centre of several events over the weekend, and I was over-doing it, too. In other words, we were pooped before the work week even began. Mainly, though, my brain is buzzing from renewed attention to environmental responsibility. Time to be mindful. Time for a change. Lots of changes.

Sheesh. I should have a T-shirt printed for myself: I DROVE MY CAR TO THREE EARTH DAY EVENTS. It wasn’t all laziness and irresponsibility. Event the first, Saturday’s “Sacred Earth” meditation/story-telling/dance session, and the EcoFair that followed it, required some materials to be transported and was followed by another event across the city. I had a shaky excuse for Event the second, David Suzuki’s talk Sunday at the WritersFest. I was going to bike to it — I really was! — after riding with Li’l Bozo to a schoolmate’s birthday party. EcoBride was off on her B bicycle, which left her A machine and my hunk o’ crap to choose from; however, both had flats and the party was starting and tears were flowing. Sigh. As for Event the third? It was another WritersFest talk on “The End of Food”. I was just tired and lazy. I drove.

But enough of my excuses. If you’re a Canuck, you likely know who David Suzuki is. If you’re not, but you pay attention to environmental heroes and the sustainable changes they long for, you probably know him, too. (But check out his Foundation here, whether you think you know him or not. It will help you live well. Really.) Suzuki is over 70 now, but his passion for environmental issues burns hotter than ever. His Earth Day message at the Ottawa International Writers Festival – besides his eco-evangelism and television fame, Dr. Suzuki has written over 20 books – was characteristically smart and skilled, but I’d never heard him so emotional. He was a volcano. He has grandchildren. He has been banging the drum of ecological warning for decades, and absolutely fumes at the continued political dithering and partisan point-scoring. He is outraged and desperate.

And so, he says, he was quite taken aback when his 27-year-old daughter, Severn, told him recently, “I think we’re living in the most exciting period in human history!” She’s been an environmental crusader herself since, aged six or so, her famous father caught her selling off his hardcover books to raise funds for the rainforest. And David Suzuki has come to accept her viewpoint, though he couches it in rather more dour terms: “Exciting? Well, yes. We will, in this relatively brief period of time, decide whether or not we are just a spectacular flash in the pan as a species.” His energy and his arguments were exciting, but even though he went over his allotted time (none of us were grumbling), he hadn’t the time to get to the good news, the hopeful stuff. (“Read Good News For A Change. It’s all there.” Good book.) The consistent mis-steps and political forgetfulness, the rampant materialism and hubris of our societies make for a dismal tale. Suzuki didn’t spare the overflow crowd that had come to hear him on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Here are some things that stood out to me in his talk.

 I still haven’t read Silent Spring (1963). Suzuki paid heartfelt tribute to Rachel Carson and the way she brought ecological issues to the forefront. She also chastised the overweaning pride of scientists, who thought their laboratory findings were universally applicable. (Suzuki himself, self-described “young hotshot geneticist”, had his life changed by Carson.) They thought DDT was a miracle chemical. Suzuki remembers his mother spraying it in the kitchen during meals so no insects would bother them.

 “We are an infant species.” By the time recognizably homo sapiens creatures appeared in the Great Rift Valley of Africa, life on Earth had existed for nearly four billion years. Suzuki whisked us back 150,000 years to imagine scoping out these critters, and at first glance we didn’t look too promising: small, weak, slow, with only average senses. But we could learn. Above all, we were the only species that showed foresight. We could analyze, we could predict, and we could plan ahead for the needs of our offspring.

 From that small group of Africans, living in a world of unbelievably abundant animals, fish and fowl, our population very slowly grew and spread through tens and tens of thousands of years. We finally reached a billion people only about 200 hundred years ago. But population is now on an incredible upward slope, literally growing through the roof, and at 6.5 billion we are now the most populous mammal on earth. “More humans than rabbits – that really impressed them in Australia! More humans than rats. More humans than mice…”

 “Consumption” was the gentle old name for the disease tuberculosis, which in our part of the world barely exists anymore. “But the Earth is now suffering from consumption,” says the good Dr. S., meaning our seemingly insatiable desire to buy more stuff. “The most humiliating Canadian statistic I know,” Suzuki said, “is that, compared to fifty years ago, our families are twice as small but our houses are twice as big.” Monster houses. Unbelievable amounts of stuff that we can’t seem to stop acquiring or know what to do with once we’re tired of it.

 After the shock of 9-11, when he made his first public address to the American people, what was President Bush’s first message? What central truth about the reality of citizenship and life did he use to console and inspire his people? “I want you to go out and shop.” Yes. Show the terrorists that nothing can stop us from buying stuff. We consume, therefore we are…

 It’s now 15 years since 1700 of the world’s greatest scientists, including most of the living Nobel Prize science winners, issued a dire warning about the declining state of the Earth’s soil, water, and air. They foresaw that continuing along the path we were on in 1992 could lead to a fundamental and irreversible change to life as we know it. (Foresight. Foresight. And we have continued.) Only one problem: neither CBC nor the Globe and Mail in Canada, nor the American newspapers of record (the Washington Post and the New York Times), even bothered to report it. There is always time for celebrity obsessions, of course, but do you remember what we were gossiping about while our greatest minds were pounding on the door, unheard?

Scientists warned that New Orleans was inevitably going to be creamed by the big hurricane, more than 20 years before Katrina. Hello?! Is anybody home?

 Good news: human beings are endowed with foresight. We can use our big brains to avoid problems. Bad news: we can get used to almost anything. Adaptability is important, but it also means we can learn to accept the unacceptable, and this is why we need the wisdom of elders and a longer frame of reference than the 24-hour infotainment cycle. Elders remember when the word “disposable” didn’t exist, when wastefulness was considered one of the worst sins. We must listen to what they know. Suzuki reluctantly concedes that he, too, is now an elder.

 ECOLOGY: The word comes from Greek roots than mean “study of the home”, understanding how our environment thrives (or doesn’t). Ecology is routinely put on a low-priority shelf, since caring for it might temporarily affect our great political god, the ECONOMY. But listen: the root meaning of “economy” is something like “management of the home”. The overriding principle in running our economies is growth, that there must always be MORE: more production, more consumption, more hours in the working day. “Economists think that growth has no limits!” Suzuki thundered. “THIS IS THE CREED OF THE CANCER CELL!!” We know as a matter of common sense that there must be limits to growth, but our dominating ideas of “management of the home” ignore this.

 “Economics must become subservient to the care of the Earth’s ecology, and not the other way around! In the name of economic growth, we have been dipping into the ecological capital of our children and grandchildren! How DARE we say that we cannot afford to care for the environment?!” Wow. Righteous indignation. Suzuki is furious.

 And then, by way of hopefulness, Sukuki took us back 50 years. In 1957, he had just completed his undergraduate biology degree in the United States. It was a startling year for Americans: at a time when the U.S. military branches were failing repeatedly in attempts to reach space, the Soviet Union launched the Sputnik satellite into Earth orbit. (And then the first animal, and then the first cosmonaut, and then the first woman in space…) It was the Cold War, of course, and the Americans were shaken to the core by the evident Soviet superiority in science and technology. And so they decided. At all levels of society – governmental, scientific, industrial, popular – there was a national commitment to meet this scary challenge and win it. Nobody complained about the cost. And nobody could have predicted all of the incredible, indirect technical breakthroughs that resulted from the financial and human resources that the United States committed to the Space Race: stunning advances in computing and communications are only two of the most obvious benefits from this investment.

 “The world we have now,” Dr. Suzuki reminded us, “where youth in Uzbekistan can whip out a cellphone and call anywhere in the world, where Americans now win nearly every Nobel Prize in science, in large measure was created because the collective will of a frightened United States said, ‘We WILL do this!’” And so, in the face of the catastrophic effects of human growth and waste on our planetary home, we need to summon the same kind of united, cooperative and urgent work on a global scale. And we can’t worry about the price tag! What will be the price if we don’t?

 What to do about it? Well, we could start with Suzuki’s Nature Challenge. Don’t wait for the politicians to lead. Let’s lead from the grassroots. Let’s do something ourselves. Dr. Suzuki wants a million people to take the challenge in Canada. “You don’t have to go live in a cave. These are practical but useful measures we can all take in our homes.” We’re signed up. What are you waiting for?

Dr. Dave was once a brilliant young geneticist. Startled by Rachel Carson and other visionaries, he turned his talents to public education, towards a better understanding of the truths and the role of science, and especially towards greater societal awareness of ecology and stewardship. He’s been a TV superstar scientist and a prolific author, and has become over the decades a national hero. He can explain the science of climate change – or of anything – in such a way that jocks and poets can understand it. Suzuki is a master communicator.

But his conclusion on Earth Day was pretty primitive, radically blunt. He was shouting at the politicians, and at all of us whose complacency gets in the way of essential change.

“GET ON WITH IT!”

Because he doesn’t have much time, and neither do we.

Partying with the Baha’is

The “Most Great Festival” of the world-wide community of members of the Bahá’í Faith is underway. It is called “Ridván”, an Arabic word meaning “paradise”, which is pronounced several different ways depending on one’s origins and one’s ability to get tongue and lips organized. (My Canadian mouth manages something like ‘Rez-VAWN’.) It’s a 12-day period that contains several major celebrations of the public declaration of the Faith’s founder, Bahá’u’lláh, in a Baghdad garden in 1863. His exile from Persia was just about to be extended farther to penal colonies of the Turkish Empire.

Here’s the thing that has always fascinated me about this whole celebration. Do you know how the Bahá’ís kick off their biggest annual wing-ding? They hold their local and national elections. Oh, there is feasting, song and dance and drama and generally boat-loads of roses and other beauties, but a sacred kind of voting is how it all begins. This might have been my first clue that the community was organized a little differently: they love their elections. No lie: I genuinely look forward to this process every year, because it is one that induces hope, requires prayer, deepens friendships and forms the basis of an entirely radical, completely new way of organizing human affairs. A Boston-area believer named Philippe Copeland writes about it very well here, if you’re interested. (He starts with the menu for his local gathering – mmm! – but then gets on to a good description of how one community does it, and the principles on which it’s based. Cool.)

In Ottawa, and around the world, they gathered to select the nine members of the Spiritual Assembly. There were no campaign slogans or placards, not even any nominations, for heaven’s sake. Just this, among many other calls to an electoral process that is oddly simple but incredibly profound: “Consider, without the least trace of passion and prejudice, and irrespective of any material consideration, the names of only those who can best combine the necessary qualities of unquestioned loyalty, of selfless devotion, of a well-trained mind, of recognized ability and mature experience.” So we did. And so it begins, and can you wonder why I love spring?

In the rose garden of changeless splendour and in my home and adopted towns, and yours, too a flower hath begun to bloom, compared to which every other flower is but a thorn, and before the brightness of whose glory the very essence of beauty must pale and wither…

The best of the season to you.

WritersFest III: Prisoner of Tehran

So many things to catch up on – it was a jam-packed weekend, but in my non-teaching period at the Home of the Rams I can get a little posting done. (It’s a supply teaching gig, so no marking, no prep! No steady income, either, mind you. Compensations.) Saturday began with an Earth Day festival of story, dance and other artful expressions of faith in human beings (a scarce but renewable resource) and reverence for the environment (ditto). Yes, and worm-powered composts, electric bikes, grassroots community-building and off-grid power. (All of which is green and great but, I admit, has nothing to do with prisoners or Tehran.) Then we roared off to further Ridván (“Paradise”) festivities, which did have to do with Bahá’u’lláh, the exiled Persian nobleman, also a Prisoner of Tehran. But that’s not the prisoner I mean, either.

From the mid-afternoon Ridván observance, I was off and running again to catch what remained of the Ottawa International Writers’ Festival and its second-to-last day. Especially, I wanted to hear more of the story of featured, first-time author Marina Nemat – yes, I AM getting to the point of this post! – who was jailed as a teenager in Tehran’s notorious Evin Prison. Her crime, apparently, was to be a young woman with opinions; she spoke up to a high school teacher, asking that the class get back to what they were supposed to be learning and not the pseudo-religious political dogma that was being spouted. Not a prudent position to take in 1982 in the immediately post-revolution Iran! Her torture and imprisonment, her spookily brutal marriage to her jailer and her eventual escape from Iran have made for a tremendous story, one that she couldn’t tell for many long years as she rebuilt her life in Canada.

Marina Nemat is a very young-looking 42 now. Over the last several years, she found the courage (and perhaps the desperate need) to write her story. “I was a volcano,” she says simply. “I had to write this.”  And in facing the inevitable survivor’s guilt, as one who found a tangled path by which to walk away from Evin when others she knew did not, she eventually decided that making her story public was her raison d’être. “I realized that I was the perfect person to be a witness to what happened to my generation in Iran. I felt strongly that…this was why I had survived,” she told us. “I had to show that they had not forced me to change my mind.”

She speaks with great dignity and directness. At one point, she was asked from the audience whether she fears for relatives back home, or for her own life. There was no drama in her answer, but the simple bravery was breathtaking. There are perhaps “some second cousins” left in Iran, so she does not worry about anyone else in her homeland being made to suffer for her candour. And as for herself, she says, “I will never wear a bullet-proof vest or have a bodyguard. I was a captive to fear for too long, and I would rather live one day freely than 20 years with a bodyguard. That is not living.” We all love our writers at this Ottawa celebration of the power of the word, but after this remarkable window into a world of fearsome oppression, the applause went on and on. It was a day when the standing ovation was not a mere artistic convention, but a symbol of profound respect. The gratitude of strangers.

WritersFest II: Men’s Night

There was a superb collection of brainy and passionate literary warriors last night in Ottawa. (I was there, too!) Session One of another evening at the Writers’ Festival was titled “Canada: The Imagination of Place”, and it took the often-banal national navel-gazing to a level of intelligent feeling that we don’t often don’t come near.

B.W. Powe discussed and read from his (again) newly revised A Canada of Light, which examines the philosophy and perception underlying the country. He is not without self-confidence, and describes the book as “my ‘Leaves of Grass’, my attempt to do for Canada what Walt Whitman did for the United States”. Or maybe he just meant that the centre of his life and thought is right there, and he keeps going back ‘til he gets it right. (Did Whitman do the same?) “We should celebrate the solitudes and the strangeness of this country,” he says, “because Canada works very well in fact, just not in theory!” Canada offers to the world, he argues, not a mirror but “a new premise, a new ethic” based on what he calls, oxymoron intended, a “radical rootlessness”. Yes, he invokes Innis and McLuhan, and has something of the wild-eyed romantic about him. Powe, eloquently and forcefully, puts forward a poetic vision of the country, one that opposes the ever-present forces that subvert hopefulness and joy. He wants us to understand what is in front of our faces right now, to “face the present! For the future is implicit in it.” Powe is passionate and lyrical about our country, its place in an evolving world, and would like for all of us to see it more clearly.

So would Andrew Cohen, whose While Canada Slept bemoaned our loss of moral (not to mention military and diplomatic) influence in the world, has now come out with The Unfinished Canadian. He examines the Great Northern Project from a more historic and political viewpoint — our collective choice of evolution over revolution — and his urgently practical manner was an interesting counterpoint to Powe’s visionary urbanity (“Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair!”). Substituting as he was for Roy McGregor (who was puck chasing with Sidney Crosby and the Senators), Cohen told a hockey story to illustrate one of his strongest points. After the hail of criticism that fell on the Canadian women’s hockey team (and the women’s game itself) as they stir-fried their opponents at the Torino Olympics, star Cassie Campbell had to wonder. “Just what is it about this country that we get slammed for excellence?” Ah, the tall poppies. They must be cut down to size! Cohen decries our poor grasp of our own history, and our reflexive anti-Americanism, dismissing the recent bestseller Fire and Ice precisely because it panders to our desperate urge to see ourselves not only as separate from the Americans but, well, better than them. While there are real differences, Cohen finds it rather unbecoming to “protest too much” (and so inaccurately). He’s an unabashed nationalist, however. To the charge that nationalism is so 19th-century, such a violent albatross from the past, he responds with a call for civic nationalism: pride in our institutions, in the ethics and practices we have evolved and the good things Canucks have made and done in the world. It is, on the other hand, the ethnically based nationalism, he argues, that is limiting and has such rich harvests of bigotry, war and misery. It was all good stuff.

Next up was the third of the Writers’ Festival’s “Writing Life” series, featuring two men I’d never heard of and a third I’d never read. I find writers sharing their work unfailingly interesting, but I was particularly impressed last night. Neil Smith read from his debut collection of short stories, Bang Crunch. Having been a student in Montreal when the 1989 massacre of 14 women occurred – and with Virginia Tech reverberating in every mind – Mr. Smith read from a disturbing mass-murder tale of his own invention. He has an unusual reading voice and style, and was quite compelling. I’ll be paying more attention. C.S. Richardson is another first-time author, after a distinguished and ongoing career in the visual arts and design. (He was the designer of Smith’s book, for example.) What an engaging person and writer: his character descriptions flow beautifully, unpredictably, in his novel The End of the Alphabet. Because of what he selected, I have little idea of the plot, but sign me up – this is a novel I want to read.

The third writer, Lawrence Hill, has made a sensation with his newest novel, The Book of Negroes. It is a shameful omission that I haven’t read him before. For one thing, he’s from my neck of the southern Ontario woods, but his background couldn’t be much different – intellectual American parents, a white mother and black father who came to Canada to escape bigoted attitudes (and laws) toward racially mixed marriages. He has been writing the stories of his own family, of the African diaspora and especially the North American experience of it. His reading from Negroes was outstanding. He has told this story of many stories in the voice of an African woman, from her youth in what is now Mali, her enslavement and her release from it after the American Revolutionary War, a Black Loyalist move to Nova Scotia and one of the first back-to-Africa voyages ever made by a black community. At the beginning of the novel, and again at the end, we listen to her as an elderly woman in Britain at the height of the movement to abolish the slave trade. With this year marking 200 years since that epochal change, Hill’s timing is excellent but, more importantly, he has the story and he has the voice. It’s funny: I’ve never read the man before, but one night in his company has made me a big fan. He is gracious, enormously eloquent, and there’s a quiet fire burning in all that he says and writes.

Chalk up another great night for the wordwatchers. And somehow, the Senators managed to defeat Sidney and the Penguins without me frozen in front of the tube.