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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.

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.

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 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.

Why Did We Need to Know? TMI After Blacksburg

3:53 a.m.

Thank God for exhaustion, or I wouldn’t have gotten the hours of sleep that I did. A long hot bath helped, though there isn’t enough soap and water to clean out my head. A heavy dose of bed-time narrative – imagine Kurt Vonnegut as escape fiction! – and I was finally able to knock myself out. And then my little boy called in the night: I’m thirsty, it’s too dark, something. And now I can’t get that other voice out of my head, that fully grown, lip-quivering boy at the perfect storm of petulance, his self-loathing narcissism gone murderous.

If you haven’t seen the Virginia Tech murderer’s rant, my counsel is to avoid it. It is toxic. And no, I did not take my own advice. I couldn’t not watch. Get right inside the mind of a mass killer! Step right up, folks, and see the Wounded Boy! Hurry, hurry, hurry! It’s Actual Footage! Live! Inside the heart of darkness! Tell your friends, invite your enemies, forward this everywhere! And please, don’t forget to patronize our sponsors… When I wrote about Dawson College and the shooting there on that bitter day last fall, I refused to name the shooter, just as I do when I reflect on the earlier Montreal Massacre. How quaint, how fussy that now seems when NBC News has decided to air the ravings of the Blacksburg killer. NBC itself is BIG NEWS today! So, by extension, is the Globe and Mail and all the other TV, print and online media that have dutifully obeyed the pre-death wishes of that catastrophically maladjusted man-child in Virginia. (No, I won’t name him, either. I crave the conquest of barren hillsides. I fight battles out of time. I’m an idiot, but I do what I can.)

I am stunned by what I saw. I am bewildered that I could click on a bit of text and bring the sickness, the disgusting narcissism of raging injury right into my house, right into my heart. (“Create in me a pure heart, O my God, and renew a tranquil conscience within me, O my hope…” Pray and pray.) I wonder at the decision-making process of the major media. WAS there any? Well, DUH, of course we run it!! We’ll never have a scoop this loaded again! The number of jolts this provides to the planet is beyond counting. We will watch and watch again, a lurid and haunted fascination. We don’t know what’s good for us.

So while the commentators (like me) prattle about “copy-cat killings”, now the Manual for Impotent Men is available free, in deathly colour. It’s the school for scandalous action. And now YOU can get the revenge you deserve! It WORKS, kids! When the revenge fantasies don’t work anymore, try reality! The guy’s a hero now. He has a constituency. He’s the patron saint of Glock masturbation. He has been given exactly the public exaltation that he lusted for in his pornographically petulant dreams. We nourish this madness. We feed upon it. It is unbelievable. It is this week’s sign of apocalypse, if we needed one.

No doubt there will be pious invocations of the public’s right to know, the sober responsibility of the broadcaster and the journalist. But this is the ultimate sell-out. NBC has hit a jackpot, and they’ll keep pulling that slot machine’s crank. Vonnegut couldn’t have invented a humour so bitterly black, where mass murder and mass media join hands and celebrate the power of rage and heartbreak. In Canada, the families of slain and dishonoured girls fought long and achingly, at an emotional cost we can’t imagine, to restrain access to the ugly evidence in the Bernardo trial. Can you imagine now how the families of the Virginia Tech innocents are feeling, knowing that this filth is number one with an on-line bullet? Can you imagine their decision, to watch or not? I pray that they don’t, but what if they do?

I will try not to watch again. My eyes are raw and my gut hurts, but I’m like a billion others. I want to understand. (Ah, noble intentions. Or maybe I just want to say, Didja see? Didja see? Maybe I just want to peek into that corner we all know is off limits. It’s psychological pornography, and we get to justify it with all kinds of righteous reasons. Didn’t NBC?) But I do want to be able to sleep. Macbeth comes to mind. (I’ll name the Scottish play, but I won’t name the Blacksburg bastard. And yet I hear he had hardworking parents. Dry cleaners. Out, out damned spot!) Do you remember the aftermath of murder in the play?

Methought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more!
Macbeth doth murder sleep,’ – the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds…

It’s 5:03 a.m. I’ll try sleep again, but even writing doesn’t seem too cathartic right now. We will all sleep again. (Pray for the sleep of the bereaved families. And I hope, too vengefully, that somewhere news executives are losing a few nights of their own.)

Word Nerds of the Outaouais, Unite!

Which title reminds me of the unfortunate graphic incident when the learning disabled community tried to get organized. They were ready. They had the banner and everything: Dyslexics of the World, Untie! So close to being write. (So close to humour! ‘Kay, how ‘bout this: What’s the difference between bagpipes and an onion? Nobody cries when you cut up a set of bagpipes…)

Barbara Gowdy at WritersFest

ANYway…I’ll be doing some thinking-online this week about what I’m able to see of the Spring Edition of the Ottawa Writers’ Festival. Last night was great, but first let me say that I must read more Barbara Gowdy. She is blonde and pretty and so darned smart! The Romantic was a fascinating, sad and hypnotic book, its Abel being one of the most interesting and frustrating characters I’ve read recently. I’ve long meant to read The White Bone (the “elephant book”), which I understand is desperately sad; mind you, I’m mourning Kurt Vonnegut these days, so sadness artfully done is literary catnip for me. Gowdy has just come out with her latest novel, called Helpless. It’s about a child abduction, and the perp is at least partly a sympathetic character. Monday night, she spoke about this choice, criticized in some circles, arguing that the psychopath is a boring character precisely because of the lack of conscience, the amorality that is so central to that pathology. Interesting, as was this: “Never before have little girls been so sexualized, and never before has men’s interest in them been so vilified.” She is deeply shy, but the subtleties of her writing (and her speech) are rich and full of wit. She is convinced that she will never write again, and has taken up plastering.

And We Mourn for the Americans…

“We are all Hokies today,” said one email to an American sports radio show today, as the chatter about bad calls and draft prospects was cut off at the knees by the word out of Blacksburg, Virginia. Yes, Virginia Tech’s athletic teams are the Hokies, but nobody’s thinking much about spring football or the basketball season just past. “There’s somethin’ ’bout Mondays always makes me blue,” Steve Earle was just singing out of my stereo. The grim curtain of violence has just fallen again in the United States. Somehow, thirty-three dead in Virginia hits harder than another Baghdad bombing statistic, but we’re all human. The hurting is everywhere, but it’s hitting the Americans especially hard today.

This particular bit of grimness is farther away for us in Canada, but only good luck and good policing prevented a similar death toll in our own college shooting last fall. (I wrote about Dawson College here. The feeling is the same today.) Education and gunshots make a horrifying juxtaposition. I grieve for those students hurt in body and soul. I try not to imagine the parents of VaTech students, waiting and wondering, and especially for those who don’t wonder anymore.

The words of Bahá’u’lláh, 19th-century Founder of the Bahá’í Faith, come to mind as we all ask, like sports-talk jock Jim Rome did today, “What the hell is going on?” Just before the dawn of the 20th century, with all its apocalyptic confusion, Bahá’u’lláh — a Persian nobleman tortured, jailed and exiled for teaching the oneness of humanity and the renewal of civilization — wrote this:

The world is in travail, and its agitation waxeth day by day….How long will humanity persist in its waywardness? How long will injustice continue? How long is chaos and confusion to reign amongst men? How long will discord agitate the face of society? The winds of despair are, alas, blowing from every direction, and the strife that divides and afflicts the human race is daily increasing. The signs of impending convulsions and chaos can now be discerned, inasmuch as the prevailing order appears to be lamentably defective…”

We will know more, and it will likely make us sick. May it also make us work for the betterment of the world and the well-being of our communities.

June Callwood, Too

I don’t have nearly so much to say about June Callwood as I did about Kurt Vonnegut, but thanks to the Globe and Mail‘s Sandra Martin, I don’t have to. You can find a splendid memorial to the remarkable Ms. Callwood here. This fiery, compassionate woman probably wrote more books than Vonnegut, but she was a different sort of writer altogether. She’ll be remembered more for the causes she espoused and the amazing number of organizations she founded for the public good. (A propos of her crusading innovation, Martin makes a comment that reminds me of the old joke about Liberal MP Ken Dryden when he was a hockey player: that he’d written more books than his teammates had read.) She was a brilliant and angry woman who put both those powers to superb use.

I long thought that Trent Frayne was a fine writer on hockey and other sports, and he was. But I have come to admire him hugely in recent years as June Callwood’s husband. I learned what a fine and loving man, father and husband he was. It’s not easy to be married to smart, strong women, especially back in the 1950s when he and Callwood began. By all accounts, especially hers, he was a prince. And what a loss now for him, I don’t forget, as Canada mourns one of its outstanding women, his June.