The Skirmish on Christmas

This is a reprint from a blog posted a few years ago but I think it's still relevant...

Let me say up front that I have a healthy skepticism about the purported "war on Christmas" that is allegedly, and perennially, being waged by atheists, non-Christians and general purveyors of the destruction of Christian culture in the Western world. The biggest (and loudest) proponents of this view are, of course, Fox News and Christian televangelist Pat Robertson, ad nauseum, every Christmas season.

This war is, at best, perhaps a skirmish rather than a war - its militants are armed not with nuclear armaments but some lesser weapon ... say, machetes or, possibly, bayonets. 

What Fox News fails to acknowledge is that the Christmas spirit, such as it is, is omnipresent, pervasive, sometimes annoyingly so, in a society so obsessed with materialism and ostentatious public displays of wealth. It not so surreptitiously follows you into the drugstore, on to street corners, into the workplace, into every retail outlet and coffee shop with merchandise to peddle. It is virtually inescapable for those who do not celebrate it.

One minister recently offered an astute observation as to the biggest threat to the true meaning of Christmas: the rampant consumerism and monetization of everything having to do with Christmas, and not the godless heathens (like me) who don't believe in celebrating the birth of Jesus.

On the other hand, the crusaders against Christmas are tragically repulsed by, and rail against, the appearance of a lone Christmas tree at city hall, artfully designed nativity scenes in malls and the singing of Christmas carols by children in schools. 

I completely understand the unease of those who feel religious prayers should not be conducted in public schools and imposed on all, regardless of their religious belief. I, unconditionally, support the removal of religious symbols in almost all public spaces - the judiciary, municipal, provincial and federal offices, etc ...

Here is the secularist Annie Laurie Gaylor's triumphant crowing when she and fellow believers (or is that non-believers?) managed to have a nativity scene banned from Palisades Park in Santa Monica:

They [the secularists] showed the Christian people of the city what it feels like to have a public park promoting views that offend your personal conscience. These views were on public property that were supposed to be owned equally by everyone.

I agree somewhat and yet ... I can't help thinking what [fill in the indefinite article and  expletive of your choice].

Christmas has taken a distinctly non-religious character for many Canadians, newly arrived immigrant or long established citizen. In an on-line poll conducted by Abacus Data in December, 2011 of 1,004 respondents who were asked if they celebrate Christmas - no fewer than 86% in any given demographic category (and as high as 97% in one category) said that they did celebrate it - regardless of gender, age, province/region, religious affiliation, status as an immigrant or education.

I suspect that many of us do not necessarily celebrate the birth of Jesus - we celebrate something else, a tradition of being with family, gift sharing and charity. As one smart ass noted recently on facebook: "Just 'cause I say 'Merry Christmas' doesn't mean I worship Jesus." Indeed not.

But say we do try and eliminate all vestiges of Christmas from public life ... why stop there? Why not remove all religious paintings from publicly funded art galleries, forbid the singing of Christmas carols on the street and public spaces, halt all St. Valentine's, Easter and St. Patrick's Day celebrations in public schools, all holidays that clearly have a historical, religious Christian origin? No Valentines shared between schoolmates. No Easter egg hunts at school. No images of floppy Easter bunnies bearing chocolate eggs. No images of shamrocks or leprechauns.

But wait ... why not abolish Family Day in Ontario too? Doesn't that discriminate against some people? "What if you don't have a family?" one hapless female whined to me when it was announced that we would have a civic holiday in February named Family Day. Why ... were you raised by wolves? I wanted to ask. She was miffed by the name of the day. Okay, let's call it "Do whatever the heck you want day." Feel better now, girlie?

What a soulless, boring, fastidiously politically correct existence that would be ... to wipe out all the charming little rituals and customs that have a religious origin because some of us are alienated by Christianity (or any other religion or concept). Why eliminate that which is beautiful, charming, fun and artful - the sacred music and Christmas songs, the iconic visual art of the season, the nativity scenes, the Christmas fables for children, the sharing of wonderful treats particular to the Christmas season - because it may offend or is not in accordance with our own particular religious views?

This draconian perspective that requires that we eliminate all that potentially offends or alienates from public life will have a much larger, deleterious effect - it will destroy the goodwill and intentions of those who do not wish to offend, who are not bigoted, but merely wish to celebrate a Canadian tradition - because, yes, Christmas has become for many a Canadian tradition not a religious one, irrespective of one's faith. It's embedded in our culture and history. It's a part of our culture. Canadian culture.

Please, remove that which is racist, ugly and distasteful in society ... oppose intolerance everywhere, in every instance, but does Christmas really fall into that category?

The Bashing of St. Jack

Now that some time has passed perhaps we could assess Christie Blatchford’s article on the “thoroughly public spectacle” of Jack Layton’s death. I don’t subscribe to the view that I shouldn’t give her any credence by posting a link to her article with the fear that others may read it too. You can’t respond responsibly, and critically, to an issue if you don’t understand it or even deign to read the original source of your displeasure. So here is Blatchford’s article then let’s you and I have a chat ….

Ready? Aside from launching this attack on-line - and I really don’t know how you could construe it any other way - a mere ten hours after Layton’s death was announced and posting it the same day, I was also a bit surprised at the strength of the emotion displayed by the public. The news saddened me and although I have always voted left of centre and Layton represented my federal riding (I have seen him at more community events in my riding than I can count) I wasn’t having the same reaction as many of my fellow constituents or even family members.

Still Blatchford’s response seemed ill timed and particularly malicious. She bemoans the reaction of the media figures, singling out Evan Solomon, and found Harper’s more sedate response judicious. I have no quarrel with Harper’s response – it seemed sincere and kindly meant. If it was subdued, so be it. She is uncomfortable with the canonization of St. Jack and I understand that she feels that it was excessive.

Ms. Blatchford condemns Layton’s last letter to the public and noting that:

“… it’s remarkable because it shows what a canny, relentless, thoroughly ambitious fellow Mr. Layton was. Even on Saturday, two days before he died, he managed to keep a gimlet eye on all the campaigns to come.”

“Gimlet eye” is particularly offensive. It means sharp-eyed, piercing, which implies that he was trying to manipulate us from his death bed. Some might say that; some might say he was trying to offer hope and comfort to his followers and well-wishers. She finds the letter full of “ruthlessly partisan politicking” and “vain glorious”.

The excessive effusiveness and affection of the public was also disconcerting to her:

“In truth, none of that is remotely unusual, or spontaneous, but rather the norm in the modern world, and it has been thus since Princess Diana died, the phenomenon now fed if not led online. People the planet over routinely weep for those they have never met and in some instances likely never much thought about before; what once would have been deemed mawkish is now considered perfectly appropriate.”

I have long ago determined (perhaps it was with the advent of Princess Diana’s death) that you can neither control nor deny the feelings that people have for a public figure whether it is Ronald Reagan or Michael Jackson or Kurt Cobain. It may seem ridiculous to you as it often has to me but there is no point wagging a finger at them and telling them that they are being foolish. Their grief is their grief. She would have done better to examine why this widespread phenomenon of grief happens rather than castigate those who demonstrate it.

It is mean spirited, it is cheap to say, “Yet again and again, waving the cane that became in his clever hands an asset, he campaigned tirelessly.” So a cancer victim, who uses a cane due to his illness, is wielding it simply to garner sympathy or, even more callously, your political vote?

I had my reservations about Layton as a leader. I sometimes found his responses to be mechanical, less nuanced that other politically progressive politicians I admire (Adam Vaughan, Bob Rae, Michael Ignatieff for example) but I wouldn’t question Layton's sincerity or courage in conducting himself the way he did in the last few months before his death. I say this not because his memory is sacrosanct to me but because he doesn't deserve that kind of cynical derision.

And I have to say although I am certainly not a fan and do not agree with her that I‘m appalled by the vicious attack on Blatchford herself – the childish name calling, the overt threats, the ugly comments on news websites and facebook posts. By all means if you feel that she is wrong, attack her position … what does it matter if she isn’t your cup of tea as a female? She’s not vying to be your prom date … she’s expressing a point of view (which is what she was hired to do). It might be wrong-headed, it might be mean-spirited, so attack her on those grounds and leave everything else alone.

Quando c'è Che (When there is Che ...)

Quando c'è Che ... the rules seem to change. I am conflicted about this powerful image. And I am conflicted about this man's life and whether I should be enamored of this photograph taken by Alberto Diaz Gutiérrez, known as Korda.

This photo is used now to sell everything from T-shirts to knick knacks and the blank paged journal which I purchased at the UofT Bookstore and in which I wrote this initial entry. As a more conservative friend noted wryly, "Che must be spinning in his grave" watching this capitalist explosion of merchandising imagery and idolatry. He is now, as the writer Alvaro Vargas Llosa describes him, a "quintessential capitalist brand".

Was he a liberator and a true hero of the revolution? Or a murderer and a tyrant? Or all of these things at different points in his life? Is carrying his image about akin to carrying a picture of Stalin (who, by the way, Guevara admired). Would it be any different than walking around wearing a crucifix? Surely Catholicism has been responsible for many more deaths than Che and the revolutions in South America he might have spawned.

In this corner ... Che, liberator of Cuba, revolutionary par exemplar, murdered by the right for his leadership as a Communist and guerrilla. A man who forsook his bourgeois origins and the certain prospect of a comfortable, middle class life as a doctor.

In that corner ... a ruthless pursuer of Communist ideals and the building of a new Cuba. But he also laid the foundation for the totalitarian state that Cuba became where citizens were executed without trial, imprisoned if they disagreed with the government (or in the past simply if they were homosexual) and which still prohibits its citizens from leaving or emigrating legally.

Certainly his language was violent and unambiguous in his pursuit of Communist ideals. His actions followed suit killing both known and suspected enemies and authorizing others to do so as well. Hundreds (some say thousands) of deaths are attributed to him or to those following his direct orders. Alvaro Vargas Llosa noted in his 2005 New Republic article in "The Killing Machine: Che Guevara, from Communist Firebrand to Capitalist Brand":

After witnessing American intervention in Guatemala in 1954, Guevara radicalized and become convinced that the only way to bring about change was by violent revolution. He wrote in a letter to home: "Along the way, I had the opportunity to pass through the dominions of the United Fruit, convincing me once again of just how terrible these capitalist octopuses are. I have sworn before a picture of the old and mourned comrade Stalin that I won’t rest until I see these capitalist octopuses annihilated."

Vargas Llosa claims that in 1958, after the Cuban guerrillas took the city of Sancti Spiritus, Guevara tried to impose "a kind of sharia, regulating relations between men and women, the use of alcohol, and informal gambling". Not only was he unsuccessful but he seemed unable to control these impulses in his own life.
Most notoriously when he governed La Cabana, a prison holding those suspected of counter-revolutionary activity in the early years of the Cuban revolution, he was ruthless in his eradication of opponents and responsible for the death of hundreds of prisoners. In 1961, Guevara openly opposed the "right of dissidents to make their views known even within the Communist Party itself".
So the list is long and disturbing (only a tiny portion is noted here): murder, deprivation of human rights, theft of personal property, a single minded desire to force others to conform to his vision, hypocrisy. And certainly, the list of abuses are sometimes compiled by rabid anti-communists and Ayn Rand devotees (hello - welcome to the Internet) but Vargas Llosa, a respected political journalist born in Peru, does not appear to be one of these loony tunes with an agenda. But this might bear further inquiry which I will pursue.

So does embracing the artistic image (even if beautiful, artistic, powerful) condone the actions of the man? Is it immoral and illogical if I recognize these actions to be criminal and immoral but still covet the image, the other facets of the man, admire the image and show it to the world?

And what of my enthusiasm for the bandits Salvatore Giuliano, Jesse James and Ned Kelly - described variously as freedom fighters, terrorists, liberators, rebels. Even the notoriously unphotogenic John Dillinger of the 1930s has recently had a makeover - could they find a more handsome man than Johnny Depp to play him in the Public Enemies?

I have a framed album cover of an old LP which tells the story of Giuliano's life from when I was child. It sits above my writing desk (a gift from my sister) on the wall. Giuliano, killer of one hundred men, mostly carabinieri, and the presumed instigator of the attack on peaceful Communist supporters at the Portella della Ginestra. Should I take it down? Burn the 300 page fiction manuscript I wrote on his life? Renounce my interest in him?

I think we should be responsible for our fetishes, our little fantasies of romance and rebellion which may distort the truth. But I also think that, unfortunately, decades from now when the names of the dead are forgotten, these evils will also be forgotten or ignored for a more romantic viewpoint such as the one I have embraced about Giuliano.

Giuliano's transgressions are almost sixty years old and he is still venerated like a saint in Southern Italy. Jesse James has been dead since 1882 and he still elicits sympathy and admiration rather than repulsion or hatred. Ned Kelly is still a folk hero in Australia.

Their notoriety still grows, devotion swells, transgressions are seemingly forgotten ... so too with Che I think. Who mourns for the murdered lawman, the unfortunate bank teller or the bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time? Many admire a bad boy if you catch him on the right angle of the lens.

So I'm thinking, maybe I do not necessarily ditch the image but certainly ditch the idolatry lady.

Tweets, Textiquette and the Tsunami of Technology

We had a long and involved discussion at last Sunday’s Descant literary magazine meeting (where I serve as a Co-Editor) about upcoming themes for future issues. We meet once a month. One co-editor suggested a theme along the lines of communications and incivility, the erosion of the personal and public space (an idea which obsesses me a bit I must say). I think that was the gist of the suggestion. This conversation carried over into drinks at a bar down the street after the meeting.

I cannot say it isn’t maddening to have a friend or colleague peering at their Blackberry, cellphone, PDA, or what have you, during a meeting, social or otherwise, or that I haven’t nearly lost my mind asking my daughter J to put away, put away, please put away, the cellphone, DS, Macbook, etc … she is using when company is over, during dinner, while practicing her guitar, etc …

Listening to complete strangers discuss the most intimate or unsettling details of their lives to friends, boyfriends or sisters on the streetcar ain’t my idea of fun either. And I fear that I will soon become one of those old, sour-faced ladies who will bellow to some apple cheeked but oblivious youth on the subway: “COULD YOU PLEASE TURN DOWN YOUR IPOD??”

But although a curmudgeon at heart, I feel we rail against a stronger foe than ourselves that cannot be beaten, indeed, should not be beaten. Secretly, I do sometimes wring my hands thinking, “Why can’t people send handwritten letters any more instead of e-mails?” To my mind, e-mails are as a characterless and ephemeral as the dust on butterfly wings – who will save the e-mails that we send to each other a hundred years from now? “Why don’t we read more newspapers?” I sometimes wonder. The great newspapers are being diminished and destroyed, page by page, column by column, every day for readers who favour getting their news on-line. Guilty as charged because that’s what I do now for the most part aside from the occasional Globe & Mail or New York Times.

“Why can’t X just call me instead of tweeting or writing on their Facebook page or sending me a text or an e-mail?” But I am part of that problem too …

“Why am I getting my political news from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and Bill Maher’s Real Time rather than Peter Mansbridge or Brian Williams?” I sometimes think guiltily.

I really do have these thoughts and that’s just … sad.

I will attempt to answer these questions: We now have access to modes of communication that are seen to be more relevant, faster, exciting, interesting to utilize. Not necessarily superior, mind you, but more relevant, faster, exciting, interesting. The new technology is like a tsunami and there is no point in saying I really wish I wasn’t in the path of that tsunami. I really wish we had been better to the environment and then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. You are in its path, it has now reached the balcony and the roof - it’s here now so how shall we deal with it? Despite moralizing and handwringing, we cannot compel people, especially younger people, to use modes of communication or media that may seem outdated, un-user friendly, not ecologically sound, uninteresting.

I love newspapers but I don’t subscribe to one anymore.

I love my library of books but I have definitely reduced my purchase of them now sometimes borrowing from libraries and friends and weeding out my library at home (I have images of my kid cursing me when I pass away and she has to dispose of all my books and such).

I am a bit of a news hound but am I listening to respected news anchors on the CBC or network television? No, I’m guiltily watching Jon Stewart on the Comedy Channel or Anderson Cooper on CNN or reading the Globe & Mail on-line.

When compelled to do something that one finds somewhat distasteful but necessary (as in engaging with the real world - as irksome as that may be to some of us) do as Lady Alice Hillingdon, wife of 2nd Baron Hillingdon, did in 1912.
When speaking of the need to fulfill her husband’s unsolicited desires she wrote: “I lie down on my bed, close my eyes … and think of England.” The original quote, possibly apocryphal, was a bit more graphic than this but you get the message.

Think of the phrase “Think of England” as the future, and that this is the technology that I will need to navigate the new world with. Pretending that the world has not changed or should change to your liking won’t make you more adapted to it. Only a bit sadder …

An Imposter at the Ball

What the (fill in the expletive of your choosing) am I doing here? I wondered as I drove up to Gilmour Hall at McMaster University. I had been invited to read a piece at a conference entitled “Italian Canadian Culture in the New Millennium” on a beautiful day in early November, organized by a trio of professors at McMaster in the Department of Linguistics and Languages .

One of the organizers, Asst. Prof. Paolo Chirumbolo (surprisingly young and “hot”, I noted to myself unprofessionally as I was introduced to him), had read an essay that I had written in an anthology of writers of Sicilian descent three years ago called Sweet Lemons: Writings With a Sicilian Accent and invited me to speak.

Many of the speakers were academics or had Ph.D.s and now have prominence in the cultural and business communities: the Italian Cultural Institute, the CBC, the Italian Chamber of Commerce Toronto. Then there is me, a lowly writer whose only claim to fame is a modest publishing CV and an acerbic blog where I give vent to my odd obsessions. I felt like an imposter at the ball …

I looked around the room and, reassuringly, I recognized a few faces. But, sadly as well, my thoughts echo the rebellious murmurings of my old friend CP, a poet, who has also been invited to read. He wondered, Dove la gioventu? (Where are the young people?) There were a sprinkling of fresh faced undergrads near the front sitting together and later acknowledged as Prof. Paolo’s students (of course). Another friend, the writer VF, wondered if we were only speaking to ourselves. This is a recurring theme at these conferences.

CP’s annoyance might have something to do with being positioned next to last in the reading lineup (lowly writer, me, is last, of course). Self consciously, I wondered if it was because I lacked the requisite initials after my name, no M.A., no Ph.D., and no elaborate treatise to read with a title like “Whither the hyphen in Italo-Canadian culture?” (this is a made up subject but indicative of what is read at conferences like this).

The first presentation was an astute, if longwinded, hour long dissertation by DP, dubbed "the the colourful former head of arts and entertainment at CBC Radio", on the use of the hyphen and its disappearance with the success of Italo-Canadian artists such as Nino Ricci, Antoni Cimolini or Richard Monette (who is half Italian, who knew?).

The other presenters tackled worrisome issues pertinent to the community. The words “cognitive ethnicity”, “invisible minority”, “metalinguistic”, “meta-histories”, "cultural data” and "Sisyphean" abounded …

Oh boy, did I mention that there was also me, reading a highly personal essay on race and identity which was mercifully short because I couldn’t bear these half hour monologues and that I was scheduled to read at FIVE O'CLOCK at the end of the day. I told very few people because the essay is highly charged and I felt I might lack the nerve to read it.

There was the usual Nino Ricci bashing ... "he's a sell-out, only produced one good book, the TV series of Lives of the Saints was atrocious", blah blah blah ... this unpleasant blather is so cliche, so typical of immigrant communities with chips on our shoulders - of course, we would attack the person who is the most successful amongst us. Especially reprehensible as I have never heard Nino Ricci utter one negative thing about the community or other writers in general.

Some standouts: John Calabro, writer and co-publisher of the new small press Quattro Books, who spoke from a personal perspective. He wanted writers to pointedly reject the current sentimentality and maudlin nature of Italo-Canadian writing (speak truth to power John). He then read a subtly subversive piece of fiction about a son visiting his parents in Woodbridge and provoking their anger simply by refusing a glass of homemade wine. It was a perfect metaphor for the alienation which some 2nd generation Italo-Canadians feel.

Something I noticed too, when the Sicilians amongst us spoke, we always mentioned that we were Sicilian, always, in our presentations.

Other questions poised: is Italo-Canadian writing as “good” as the writing of other Canadians? Yes, and no, the assembled panel reluctantly admitted: there is good writing and dreck (but this is obvious, no?). The questioner seemed to think that Italo-Canadian writing was subpar and cited the example of a recent anthology called Mamma Mia: Good Italian Girls Talk Back. I have not read the anthology and the title (not the content) did seem a bit cartoonish and commercial to me at the time, as if that stereotypical ejaculation summed up our culture.

But I was a bit shocked to learn that the editor of that anthology was seated amongst the listeners and it turns out that I know her. FS, a playwright, opined sagely that there is much that is good and much that is not great out there but we have to start somewhere. She is right of course.

Later a prof from Wilfred Laurier University read her piece entirely in Italian. The young girl beside me started to text and, obviously resentful because I couldn’t follow the speech properly, I begin to write this piece on McMaster letterhead. When the same prof leapt up and asked for water in English, the woman across from me muttered “Why didn’t she say that in Italian?”

And hey, by mid afternoon, I had figured out where the gioventu were folks ... according to a prof from York University they're on that newfangled Internet on their Facebook pages joining groups which ask pertinent questions of other kids of Italian descent such as: recollecting favourite things your Nonna has said, bonding with other people of mixed Italian heritage, or deriding insulting stereotypes of Italians in commercials. So as awkward and so ten minutes ago as a presentation on "Ontario Italian Facebook groups" sounded, it did seem to give us hope that the under 40 crowd is interested in our culture; they just manifest it in another way and in another form of media.

The conference soon (did I say soon?) drew to an end with a short film on a prayer group by SM, a charming professor of anthropology based in B.C. (quick shout out to Racalmuto - his father is from my parents' village in Sicily), a piece on the introduction of Italian food into Calgary in the 50s and then an entertaining presentation by my truculent friend CP, the poet, whom I consider to be 50% brilliant, 50% full of hot air (but hey, it makes for a charming mix).

Finally at five, I read my short piece (oh yeah - thanks CP for spilling water all over the lectern). I was nervous because it has to do with my father and race and certain unpleasant memories and I am keenly aware that people must be tired at the end of this long day. I made it through the essay, but just barely kept it together. The response was gracious, people were kind but I was disappointed by my reading. I have done better I know.

As I left, I was relieved that certain participants offered kind remarks and we traded parting comments on our mutual obsessions: our kids, the Sicilian bandit Salvatore Giuliano about whom I have written a novel, the special difficulties for women writers, the small magazines that we are a part of. A reporter from the Hamilton Spectator said she wanted to ask me some questions (we weren't able to connect but the article is printed here)...

Although I felt both physically and emotionally exhausted, I am glad I came; it is important to connect with like minded people. Hey, it’s the closest I ever come to walking into a room and thinking “These are my people.”

Go Sens Go (no really please just go ...)

My sister and I were bemoaning the ongoing television coverage of the Stanley Cup finals because in the late spring the CBC always preempts a certain British soap that she and I have been accustomed to watching for decades now in the evenings. And we get very ornery about not seeing it regularly. We are fairly bitter about it and still have not become accustomed to this.

"What is this sports hysteria about?!?" my sister exclaimed. It was a very dramatic outburst as we were both lying on her couch like two recumbent Scarlett O'Haras perspiring in the heat. We were recovering from a celebratory brunch (my sister has a new job) and a heat wave that was just starting in Hamilton that weekend. We were both overdressed for the weather and extremely grumpy. "I totally don't get it," she fumed.

We launched excitedly into this discussion: neither of us are sports enthusiasts and never have been, being more in the culture vulture/bookworm category; hence, our ongoing puzzlement regarding the Canadian passion for hockey or anything vaguely athletic. She started talking about an Iranian film called Offside in which a number of young Iranian girls are so desperate to play soccer that they disguise themselves as boys. That didn't puzzle my sister so much as the fanatical devotion to the Iranian soccer team and the country which has oppressed these girls. That was mystifying ... their devotion to the sport of soccer trumped their justified anger and resentment at the restrictions that their country had imposed on them.

What is at the root this emotion? I'm convinced that it (fanatical devotion to anything) is just another conduit for religious fervor. How else to explain the rabid devotion of some to vegetarianism, cycling, Madonna (the singer not the Virgin), the Toronto Maple Leafs, personal fitness, fashion, golf, science, music, blogging? As human beings I think we have this inherent need to powerfully believe in something, anything, and devote ourselves to it, sometimes in a cult-like, slavish fashion.

I remember when I witheringly commented on the fact that an acquaintance of my partner's had a painting, not a photograph but a painting, of the hockey player Frank Mahovlich at his home. "A painting of Frank Mahovolich? What is he a saint or something?" I snickered. I fully expected him to agree with me.

"Well why not?" he argued. "How is that so different than that photograph of Virginia Woolf you have above your writing desk?"

"Yes but - yes but -" I sputtered. Come on, Frank Mahovlich?

But really is it so different? What is that weird fixation I have on British writers which I mentioned in my blog on May 28th? Is it better than thinking about the Leafs 24/7 or wholeheartedly buying into Amway or holistic medicine?

And as a lapsed Catholic I know that some things stay with you forever.

Barbara, Undine at last

I was mildly surprised to read in Barbara Amiel's April 30, 2007 Macleans column about her admiration for Edith Wharton's The Custom of the Country, particularly when she writes of the main character, the beautiful and ruthless Undine Spragg and her various vicissitudes as a scheming social climber in the old money New York of the late 19th century. Amiel now writes her Macleans columns from Conrad Black's side in Chicago where he is on trial.

This is how Amiel describes the black haired Undine: "her startling good looks boost her up the social ladder with remarkable success, snaring a Park Avenue blueblood as her second husband [Ralph Marvell], next a French Marquis [Count Raymond de Chelles] ..."

Undine carefully marries up and up the slippery social ladder of old New York families and lets her purpose be known immediately exclaiming on the very first few pages of the novel that there will be "no more mistakes and no more follies now. She was going to know the right people at last - she was going to get what she wanted." Indeed ...

You have to wonder how much Barbara identifies with the determined Undine. Born in Britain, Barbara Amiel's father left the family for another woman when she was eight. Her mother remarried, emigrated to Canada and settled in Hamilton, Ontario. Her relationship with her stepfather was not happy, not the least of which was his inability to find employment, so at 14 she struck out on her own. A year later her biological father killed himself back in Britain. Her background is cited by some as the reason for her cool, if slightly hardened, image today. She has openly talked about having her clothes ridiculed by an early boyfriend's mother as the cause for her obsession with clothes and looks. Her struggle to establish herself as a writer is well known, perhaps even more than her awesome ability to seek out the wealthy and powerful in any realm she has dwelt in.

Her open admiration of Wharton's anti-heroine Undine almost trumpets "I know what you think of me, your estimations of my marriages and the successively richer men that I married until I "finally" settled on the biggest prize of all ..." That parade included the virtually anonymous Gary Smith in 1964 ; poet, broadcaster and author George Jonas in 1974 ; cable businessman David Graham in 1984; and, finally Conrad Black in 1992.

Amiel's advice in the same Macleans column to the wealthy Forest Hill types she reprimands (for some unknown reason she feels that they require reprimanding): "Today's sad people whose self worth depends on acceptance by local 'old families' could improve their standing - and their minds - by reading almost any one of Wharton's 40 books."

I feel that she is teasing us a little bit - is she saying don't do as I did, creating false idols of wealth and privilege because it all ends badly, oh say in a Chicago court with a beleaguered, rapidly impoverished tycoon husband? Is she saying that the "Forest Hill types" will never be fully accepted as she herself has never been fully accepted? Or does she separate herself from the Forest Hill nouveau riche with her admonitions?

Wharton's Undine Spragg is a frustrated, if wealthy, divorcee with a string of exes who never achieves her secret ambition - to be the wife of an ambassador.

Pretty, well bred but impoverished Lily Bart, another Wharton heroine in The House of Mirth, lies dying in a hovel because, some might say, she never found anyone good enough for her expensive or particular tastes, then couldn't marry when she desperately wanted to and no one would have her as her beauty and social status faded.

Yes Barbara, we would all do well to re-read Edith Wharton.

The Cruelest Month

The massacre at Virginia Tech in April has somehow achieved a disturbing normalcy for North Americans. As horrific as it is, somehow it now fails to shock. We seem to expect no less from American society (or Canadian society to a lesser extent - because we are not without our own sins in this area).

A template for sorrow seems to be developing: the bewildered roommates anxious to give their version of the story, the long shots of trembling hands clasped in prayer with heads bowed, tears streaming down the faces of the affected students, the innumerable flowers and memorials, the media converging like locusts to interrogate the survivors. Perhaps we have all just accepted that this is the new norm in the 21st century?

Then there is the inevitable handwringing and finger pointing: movie and TV violence, excessively violent video games, sadistic pornography, liberal parents. As a Canadian you may think, as I do, perhaps finally, the Americans will do something about the proliferation of guns, the easy access to firearms, the speed with which you can acquire a gun despite your past criminal or medical/psychological history. There is a brief tumult of emotion and angst in the media, denials from the NRA and conservative politicians about the need for gun control and then … nothing, absolutely nothing.

Karen Von Hahn's insightful article, Tacky balloons and rotting flowers, in the Globe and Mail on May 5, 2007 appears equally mystified by the new rituals of mourning surrounding the school massacres (and other death rituals which she cites in her column).

And as a writer, you start to wonder how much the homicidal rantings of the killer on paper fueled his behavior - did it provide the impetus to act, or was it “merely” a manifestation of his disturbed mind? Certainly those writing professors who read his work at Virginia Tech were sufficiently disturbed to try and intercede on some level but to no avail.

I recall in past writing groups or workshops reading the work of fellow classmates in which there was some pretty disturbing material - fairly explicit depictions of rape, torture or murder. Does it become a safety valve for certain writers? Does to commit the act on paper eliminate the need to commit the act? We, the primarily female readers of the work, all tiptoed around the writers in our critiques. In all instances the writers were male (I’m not making a comment on the male psyche here, that’s just how it happened to be in these particular instances). One writer was, I’m not making this up, a postal service employee and perceived to be quite strange by the majority of us.

And I always thought how odd, if a fellow female writer wrote an explicit story about disfiguring a male, or killing a male, or torturing a male, the rest of group would be very disturbed, quite anxious. Would we be more vocal in our critiques?

The women in the writing groups remained quietly diplomatic in their analysis, perhaps there was a raised eyebrow or two and a look that passed around the room amongst the women. No one wanted to appear to be a prude or over react to the work it seemd to me - in most instances the writer himself appeared normal enough, whatever that means, and, I seem to recall, a little bit surprised if someone raised the issue of the gratuitousness of the violence. What did we do when we read the disturbing stories: we raised our eyebrows, looked covertly at each other in a meaningful way, muted our comments and shrugged. Why, because, secretly, we think this is what men are? That this what they, not so secretly, think about?

Of course, one can never know when the creator of the work is merely expressing him or herself or quietly setting the stage for future actions of violence (obviously in almost all instances they are not acting on these ideas). I think that whether the writer acts on his or her impulse or not, his ability to put it down on paper will not push him into a horrifying scenario such as we witnessed in Virginia.

But why this propensity in Americans specifically? Violence is not particular to America only. Open a newspaper on any page, scan the headlines on any news website … But why do such specific, formulaic explosions of violence occur there specifically in a school setting? To perpetrate violent crimes against people who really have no bearing on how you have lived, or suffered, in your life?

Americans are, indisputably, the most indulged, the most privileged people on the plant earth with the highest, most unrealistic expectations of success, fame and wealth (even the transplanted "nationals" such as Cho). And with such an inflated sense of what they can, or should accomplish, when they fail in the most mediocre way as we all do, every day of our lives (we can’t find a girlfriend, we are not the best in class, we didn’t get the job we wanted, we have trouble making friends, we hate our roommates, our lives are boring), they want to register their misery in the most graphic and explosive way possible. To ensure that when they go down they will go out in a blaze of glory.

Literally.