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We’re Overboard on Bullying

Like most parents and as a former teacher, I’m concerned about bullying. Mainly, I’m worried that we’re worrying about it so much. The words of Barbara Coloroso, an American educator who’s one of our sanest voices on parenting and education, come to mind. “Rescue, rescue!” is her sarcastic reference to the desperate attempts of adults to save their kids from, well, what exactly? We all agree that we need to do what we reasonably can to protect our children from physical and moral danger. But in trying to protect every last kid from taunting, from falling off his bike, from having to actually walk to her school, we’ve surely gone over the edge.

It is amazing that, in among the safest parts of the world, affluent North Americans  are the most obsessed about safety. Sometimes, this is to our credit as a society. But too often, we mistake discomfort for genuine danger, and give psychiatric labels to the normal changes and chances of life. It’s as if we think our privilege extends to the point where no child of ours should ever experience difficulty.

Don’t mistake me. I’m not advocating carelessness or the law of the jungle. But, for example, Ontario’s Safe Schools Act and the millions to implement it do strike me as another example of what we were calling the “add-on curriculum” when I started teaching back in the 1980s. Schools have difficulty doing what they do best when they are responsible for everything, for what families and neighbourhoods and clubs and congregations and a child’s own resiliency were once expected to take care of.

I don’t mean to slag the initiative. I know it comes from noble intent and intelligent people. But imagine (he dreamily noted) if schools were funded so that student-teacher ratios were dramatically lowered, if class sizes never exceeded 12-15 in primary, or 20 in intermediate grades. A lot of the problems of bullying – and of illiteracy, and of poverty, and of alienation – would quickly be lessened if the bullies weren’t cloaked in the invisibility of large, factory-like schools where teachers have all they can do to maintain a shadow of order. Bullying is generally a symptom of a larger problem, and crowded schools is one of them.

The attempt to end bullying is also a symptom of a culture of fear, and our social compulsion to control. When this is applied to children beyond a reasonable level, its results are less dramatic but even more harmful than the ill we are trying to treat. We risk, in overprotection, producing children who are convinced of their victimhood, their need for protection. Kids are worth our attention, but they are also worthy of respect for their resourcefulness, not to mention the resources allocated to the schools that work with them.

Grey Cup Sunday: Football, Canadian Style

I’m not the CFL fan I was in the days of Garney Henley and Joe Zuger, Ben Zambiasi and Chuck Ealey. (Does anyone out there know what I’m talking about?) I’ve seen some highlights from the Canadian and National Football Leagues (interesting how the “national” league claims it plays for the “world championship”, isn’t it?), but I haven’t actually watched a game this year. I was determined to at least see the Cup. (I make the same general rule for the Super Bowl, which usually has ten times the hype and half the excitement.) Anyhow, I apparently don’t move in the right circles to wangle an invitation to a Grey Cup party with a decent television, so I ended up working my magic on the rabbit ears and the mighty CBC telecast came through fairly well. Had the living room all to myself. (Sigh.)

The first half was like a lot of Super Bowls, filled with tense athletes and careful coaches and defences preying on the timidity of both. 10-1 at half, a bit of a yawner. Halftime was one of those weird spectacles, where dancing girls and extras are brought around a stage – tiny in the midst of a football field – and the camera operators keep a tight focus so that we at home can’t see what they can: stick figures on a stage playing to a hundred people, acres of turf and half-empty stands (there are more beers and goodies to be inhaled, and incredible quantities of urine to be leaked).

So home’s the best seat in the house, which matters not a whit if you have to watch the Black Eyed Peas. This was my second BEP sighting, and I don’t get it at all. Sure, I’m a forty-something guy who had a James Taylor phase, but I can get hippity every once in a while. Eminem’s a bit toxic, but he’s a talent. I’m getting to know dear old Public Enemy a little, and I actually dig Buck Sixty-Five with a fairly large shovel. But the Peas? Please. Somebody has to explain this to me. (Unless it’s all about a blonde singer grinding with men of colour. Nah. Couldn’t be.)

Anyhow, the second half made me pay attention again: play upon play, lead change after lead change, overtime thrills, a bonehead play by a brainy quarterback. My joint was jumping and I  was the only one there. So I may not get the halftime show, if I ever did, but I still get football, Lord help me, and nothing beats the big-balled Canadian version (with its imported American stallions) when it’s at its best.

(Just one more thing: Madame Jean, nice to see you there for the presentation of your predecessor’s famous gift to Canadian football. But if the Governor General is going to honour the champs with Lord Grey’s famous mug, she shouldn’t do it while playing Vanna White — is she still alive and flipping? — to the CFL Commissioner’s Pat Sajak. I’m just saying.)

Basketball Boy Gets Out With the Ravens

We had shared pizza and ice cream and our favourite examples of good news. It was our Saturday evening antidote to fearful headlines and breathless predictions of imminent disaster, the ones that lead so smoothly, so ridiculously, into pitches for cars and entertainments. And then everybody took off early for a serious dose of music-as-medicine, so I was free to sneak off to a ballgame. Whee! I was a free man in Ottawa / I felt unfettered and alive / There was nobody callin’ me up for favours / And noone’s future to decide. (Apologies to the divine Ms. M.)

Carleton Ravens basketball is a great sports story, grinding toward a fourth straight national championship and building on their crazy run of success. Tonight, against the Waterloo Warriors, their undefeated streak hit EIGHTY-TWO. They’ve lost a couple of early-season exhibitions over the last few years, but in league and playoff matches they haven’t lost in 82 straight contests. They have no dominant post players. (Haven’t had during the whole run.) They are outsized nearly every night, yet they almost never get outrebounded. This year they don’t have a true point guard, and there’s nobody you’d call a scoring machine or a magical passer. And it doesn’t seem to matter a bit. They defend maniacally, they shoot fearlessly, they play together.

And I can get into this stuff, lived it for a long time as a high school coach, but tonight I watched the game as if it was played in an aquarium and I was outside it. I remembered clearly what the fishbowl was like, and what part of it I had once inhabited. I easily recognized all the species swimming inside it, but the experience felt distant. (Or I did.) Hmm. So this is basketball. Right. They take it so seriously. Coach Dave Smart is a drama, all expectation and insistence and disbelief at his players’ failings, even as they dismantle an opponent. The relentless quest for the meaning of performance. It all looks so fun and familiar, but I felt so far away.

Moms Are The Bomb

Beezer finally brought ‘round the new little package. I’d seen it before, usually during lunch, but it was always under wraps. The B plays her cards pretty close to the vest, but this was extreme even for a tough lady like her. She’d asked a lot of Good Consumer questions in advance, she’s bright, and nobody’s going to push her around. You know the kind: knows her job, wants to do it right, sure that her way is good. She also boxes, just for fun and fitness. She loves to laugh, but can stone you at ten paces with a glare.

Yes, and I was so happy when I found out that her belly was rounding for a reason! We got to see more tender silliness at work, and anybody who’s been around pregnant women recognized that distant look in her eye (“Is Squishy on the move?” “Oh, yeah. Friggin’ hyperbean at the moment.”) Well, Squishy turned out to be a pink little human female and is working hard to outgrow her in utero handle. Tarah, she is. And Queen B is the sweetest and goofiest and most dedicated mother. It looks wonderful on her. Never got to be dad to a girl unit, but Tarah felt just fine in the crook of my arm. A thing to remember about men and women: we were all little puddles of cooing goo in the arms of our mother and fathers. (Most of us, anyway, thank goodness.) We all came in blind and hungry, ready to learn and yearning to grow. We were all magnets for love, and everything else has just been the dressing on a splendid human salad.

Hey, Tarah, thanks for letting your Mommy come out to play.

On Raising Loving Children

You may never have heard of APAPSO, but this small and dynamic community did another fine thing for all of us who are raising children, running busy homes and lives, or trying our best to love a partner. L’Association des parents et amis de la pédagogie Steiner à Ottawa (whew!) is the Mighty Mouse of area education, a group of parents who have instituted a pilot program using Steiner-Waldorf principles in a French-language public school in Vanier. On November 11-12, they held a conference called “Raising Loving Children” featuring Gene Campbell, a Toronto consultant and trainer, who was brought to Ottawa to help parents to make sense of all the things they are trying so hard to do well, to do “right”. It was a wonderful session.

For someone like me, who had to miss the Friday evening session, the Saturday morning start was a bit awkward – for about two minutes. But then Gene helped us do what she does with the youngest children: shut off our minds and go to our bodies. We clapped and snapped our fingers and learned how to get in synch with each other. “The mind has no sense of rhythm,” she later pointed out. “It’s very linear. We need something to interrupt the pattern of a mind-centred materialism. Only the heart, the body, has rhythm…”

And so that’s where we started. In an amazingly short time, as we introduced our children to the group and expressed our dedication to them, we became a community. As we expressed our dearest wishes and feelings, we were united as friends: listening, comparing notes, laughing, even crying together. And that’s when the doors to learning really opened.

Gene has quite a following among Steiner-Waldorf parents, and I could immediately see why. She has huge experience – she taught school for 16 years before she ever ran across the writings of Rudolf Steiner – deep knowledge and eloquent speech. She knows the principles and she has put them into action for years and years. Clearly, plainly, simply, she helped us to learn these things:

* Too many choices aren’t good for the little ones—it makes them too individualistic, and it’s too early for that.
* We need to help them get out, not only out of the house but also out of themselves; nature and imagination are essential to this.
* “Individualism is not a sustainable route to happiness. They need to feel the ‘we’, that sustaining sense that they are part of a family, a team that is there for life…”
* Playing a recorder is not only musical fun but also a psychological assessment tool!
* The creation of community is something we all instinctively long for and have the power to achieve.
* An orderly home is not impossible to achieve, and there are simple techniques and principles to help us get there.
* The home is a body, with its heart and its lungs (and its excretory function—get rid of that stuff!).
* Sometimes, the obstacles and emotional attachments that we think the kids have are really coming from us.
* “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” (These are Margaret Mead’s words, but Gene gave us the same challenge, the same hope for what we are doing with this program.)

And as much as anything, we learned that we are all in this together, that the little
group at Trillium is filled with caring and loving parents (and grandparents), and that the Waldorf-Steiner program has intelligent principles and practical help for this most important job: educating our children in a loving family setting. Our numbers grew as the day went on, and no doubt those numbers will be even higher the next time Gene Campbell comes to town.

This article was written for a local newspaper, and appeared later in November as well as in the APAPSO newsletter.

Remembrance Day. A Touch of Bruce.

I almost forgot to emerge from my second-floor grotto for 11 a.m., but the Green Lady had the day off and she helped me remember. We don’t watch a lot of television, but the dear ol’ CBC had the national memorial on screen, and we were able to tune it in. Diana held one wire of our 19th-century TV antenna, and I held the other. Neither of us needed to stand on one foot this time; my left hand was raised, her right, and our wee bouts of sobbing as the wreaths were laid did nothing to disturb our tenuous grasp on the signal. Another thing to be thankful for, along with Silver Cross mothers, Parliament’s eternal flame and those faithful old fellows. Thanks to them, thanks for all.

Another small bout of gratitude, too, because Radio One programming, which we’d turned on for better sound, went straight to Sounds Like Canada and did it ever: Shelagh Rogers was interviewing Bruce Cockburn. He has a new album, which I’d like to take credit for. I’ve been thinking for a long time that he should put out an album of his brilliant finger-picking instrumental pieces. Well, not that I ever told anybody, but I guess they picked up on my brainwaves. (Mighty buggers, they are.) Speechless is the new album, a bunch of the best guitar work Bruce Almighty has done along with a few new pieces. He sat for half an hour and played some, talked some, in studio. Superb in both languages.

Too Old for Treats

The cutest little 5-year-old vegetarian vampire went our marauding our neighbourhood with his Mummy this evening. The teeth were intimidating, but he refused to have any blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, or any threatening makeup. Blonde hair and dimples were unimpeded, the sweetness unalloyed. He carried a UNICEF donation box, for goodness’ sake.

And speaking of that, Count Samuel was the only one I saw collecting for UNICEF the whole night. There’s an idea that seems to have gone the way of McRibs. What I noticed most, apart from the beautiful innocence of the smallest fairies and felines, was more fuel for my annual Hallowe’en rant. I didn’t, again, have the heart to do more than josh and harass them as I dropped chocolate into their pillowcases, but there’s something about teenagers trick-or-treating that gets me growling. Have some self-respect, kideroons…

Wish You’d Won With the ‘Spos, Larry

I wanted to write about Larry Walker. Lest we forget — Canucks and any fans who like their baseball smart and skilled, a little folksy and funny — Walker preceded Steve Nash as The Lad from HockeyLand who made good in American sport.

Walker made it best in American sport, winning the National League MVP in 1997. In my idealistic universe, of course, he’d have done it as the right fielder for the Montreal Expos (long may their goofy caps reign) rather than the Colorado Rockies. The view of sportswriters I respect is that he’ll never make the Hall of Fame – too many injuries, too late a start in the bigs – but that won’t bother Walker too much, I don’t think. It’s hard to tell how badly he felt, after his MVP year, when he wasn’t even named Canada’s top athlete. (Jacques Villeneuve was; as Walker cracked, “I got beat by a car.”)

I wish I’d seen him play more. He had a sensational gun from the outfield, ran the bases brilliantly, and had that gorgeous left-handed swing. Not bad for a failed goaltender. Too bad that he got on the wrong side of the Red Sox exorcism last year, and fell just sort of the Series again this fall. He went with a laugh and that usual hoser straight-talk. He was the best ballplayer we’ve ever had come out of Canada, and I’m sad to see him go.

This Word is Unacceptable

Mr. Martin did it again. I can’t even remember what he was indignant about this time. Everything after he, again, dropped the ubiquitous “U bomb” faded into irrelevance for this word-weary wanker. It drives me nuts. Can anyone tell me when and why the word “unacceptable” became the most stirring (and the most repetitive) expression of dismay or disapproval that our public voices can summon? How can a word be so clear and yet so toothless?

Unacceptable is what your handwriting is when your partner can’t tell what you want at the grocery store. Unacceptable describes an undeserved compliment or an invitation to a party you’d never attend in a hundred years. Surely we can find something less tweedy, less bureaucratic, less parson-ish to describe scandalous immorality and international brutality. Come on, Paul. You have good writers. You guys can do it. Your present vocabulary is just, well, you know…

Boys Will Be Boys at McGill

In the football community in Canada, this was a small bombshell—they shut it down. Administrators at McGill shut down the entire football season over a hazing incident, apparently a long-standing tradition, that went public this year because one kid refused to take it lying down. (Or on all fours, more accurately.) And the ol’ jock wishes he knew more about it, because mixed feelings are jabbing at me rather unkindly, a sort of mental “Dr. Broom” (I presume).

Cynics might say, “McGill football, big deal, they get killed most weeks anyway” which is, as cynicism usually is, about as far from the point as it could be. It matters to young men; to some of them, the freshman that went home is a coward and a villain and thank-god-he’s-not-on-our-team (if they still had a team, that is). Initiation rituals are a bonding thing for a team. They are also a frequent outlet for sadism and interpersonal tyranny, so who knows which was pre-eminent at McGill? The school’s leadership decided that the former wasn’t a good enough reason to risk the latter, not to mention immorality and stains on the ivy-and-dignity image of the university.

Sometimes it’s embarrassing to love football. Sometimes I’m a little sheepish about understanding, at least a little, about what such a primitive ritual might mean to that particular crew. I remember ninth-grade initiation, when such things were still possible, and the perverse thrill of going through the “Ghost Walk”, a slide down a basement corridor a foot deep in rotting vegetables and other unidentifiable ooze. Being pelted by the football players with special glee tickled me, because they knew who I was. I felt good to have endured, to have come out with the smile on my face that said “Hey, that wasn’t so bad!”

So I get it. But I also get why a young man would refuse to “get it”, and know that it would have taken another kind of courage to say NO to getting probed by “Doctor Broom”. I wonder if he’ll ever play football again — the kid, not the Broom. I wonder if McGill will.