01.11.08 - article
Chapter to - Killing Me Sweetly: The Truth About Aspartame
Click to read my article outlining the dangers of aspartame.
06.15.07 - article
Battle of the Bald: An Adventure in Female Hair Loss
I don't really give a toss what you call it: alopecia areata, lacking treads on the head, cue-ball syndrome…. It all comes crashing down to one thing: hair loss. And my encounter with it started at the end of June last year. At first it was nothing more than few extra strands coming out in the comb after shampooing. Certainly it seemed like nothing to lose sleep over. After all, I wasn't some menopausal, middle-aged woman with hormone-levels plummeting like a faulty elevator. I even joked about the situation over lunchtime martinis with friends a few days before I was due to fly out to London for the summer.
"My hair's falling out!" I exclaimed, somewhat gleefully, though the lethal combination of thirty degree plus heat, glaring sunshine and a third martini likely accounted more for my flippant attitude than any genuine happiness about the situation. I fully expected to be reassured by everyone at the table that my blonde tresses were safe. After all, losing one's hair at my age, as a woman, was impossible, right? Instead, one of my gay male companions turned to me. Not even the hint of a smile played on his face.
"Girl, for your sake I really hope that's not the case," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "Your hair has such great shape the way it is."
Those words would haunt me over the next few weeks as I pulled handfuls of soggy hair out of the drain after every shower and swept copious balls of hair off the bedroom floor each morning. Initially everyone in London assured me that I looked exactly the same as I had in January when they saw me last. Then I made the mistake of showing one friend the amount of hair that had come out when I'd combed after shampooing.
She frowned. "Actually, that is a lot," she said. "I didn't know it was really that much when you told me. I thought you were exaggerating."
Things went from bad to worse. On a weekend abroad in Amsterdam, I refused to go clubbing, instead I stayed back at the hotel and cried over the massive clump of hair I'd thrown into the bin like a piece of toxic waste. By this time my temples had thinned so badly I could only wear thick bands and hats to hide the loss. Worst of all, I began having dreams about Gail Porter. In fact, though I hate to say it, I started to obsess about Porter. One afternoon when I was having a bite of lunch with a friend in Marylebone, the television presenter's name came up.
"I shouldn't have mentioned her," my friend said, her voice apologetic. "It's just that I saw a thing on the television about her the other night. She always annoyed me so much before she went bald. Now the whole thing is just so sad. But that won't happen to you," she quickly added.
I was pretty certain that Porter, infamous for having her nude body projected onto the Houses of Parliament, never fathomed that she would end up bald either. I did the maths: we're the same age; are blondes (or at least Porter had been) and, most importantly, both of us suffer from hypothyroidism. Mere coincidence? Maybe, but it was enough to convince me. I had to do something about my hair loss.
The first thing I did was ring both my endocrinologists in Toronto. I'd had blood work done just before leaving for England and was certain the test results would reveal the reason I was beginning to look more and more like Sinead O'Connor. To my surprise and dismay, they informed me that everything was normal. Women's hair does thin, they explained, as though I'd just phoned made a transatlantic phone call to inform them I'd broken a nail. Of course losing one's hair is often not a big deal for men. And that's because there's still a huge double-standard when it comes to balding. Though unpleasant, baldness isn't a self-esteem crushing issue for men. Take Patrick Stewart for example. He's still considered dignified and sexy, despite being as bald as a baby's bottom. And one only need look at the coverage of post-head shave Britney Spears to see the flipside of the issue. The media has blatantly equated her baldness with madness, using adjectives such as: "erratic", "troubled" and "unhinged" in their explanations for the pop star's decision to go sans hair.
When I called my dermatologist, who just happens to be a woman, the response was completely different. She told me she'd fit me in for an appointment as soon as I was able to come to her office. There was one slight problem with that. Not only was I in London; I also couldn't change my British Airways ticket due to the failed terrorist plot of August 10th which effectively shut down the entire airline industry and had hundreds of people clutching their passports in plastic baggies whilst sleeping on the floor at Heathrow airport. It was clear I wouldn't be hitting the streets of Toronto anytime soon.
That's when I decided to take matters into my own hands and visit a hair loss clinic in a very posh postal code of London. I'd even heard rumours that Prince William was using their services in his own battle with baldness. They guaranteed a reliable "tricho-check," a specialized hair wash and a laser comb treatment. Halfway through the conditioning treatment portion of the hair wash, the clinic's fire alarm sounded. This meant the evacuation of the entire building out onto one of the busiest streets in London near Victoria Station. I had to laugh (it was that or cry) as a packed double-decker tourist bus pulled up and stopped for a moment, its passengers curiously checking out all of the towel-headed patrons of the salon, myself included. Three hours and one hundred pounds later, I walked out of the clinic with two twenty-four quid bottles of conditioner and shampoo and a diagnosis that I was suffering from female balding, despite the fact that no one on either side of my family had ever exhibited signs of thinning hair, let alone baldness.
It seems that in our stress-filled world, incidents of female hair loss are on the increase. During the months that I experienced the increased hair shedding that is typical of telogen effluvium, I was much more cognizant of the hair loss problems of others around me. Sitting on the tube or a bus, I noticed how many women were wearing partial headpieces, sporting parts as wide as the Grand Canyon or cleverly covering the thinning bits of their hair with well-thought out styling.
The day after arriving back in Canada, I went to my dermatologist's office. With a simple hair pull test and a brief chat about events in my life over the past few months, she diagnosed me with telogen effluvium, which is basically a condition in which more hairs than usual are "shocked" into the resting phase and then fall out a few months after the event which caused the shock. These hairs are recognizable by the tiny bulb or "club" found at their tip. It is usually resolves itself within a few months with normal hair density being achieved about half a year after an episode. My hair stopped actively shedding in early October and, thought it still isn't as thick as usual, I am assured it should return to normal within a few months. I guess I won't be joining the ranks of Gail Porter anytime soon after all….hopefully.
01.31.06 - article
The Return of Bridget Jones
Strangely, I only discovered Bridget Jones after returning to North America from England, which was about five years after her initial inception. I read the novel Bridget Jones' Diary with enthusiasm; it was very entertaining and a good laugh, though hardly Whitbread or Booker material. Thus, the first weekend Renee Zwelleger's cinematic version of the zany, charismatic Bridget hit the theatres, I eagerly attended a screening in Toronto with several Welsh girlfriends. I remember the four of us laughing loudly at times when the rest of the audience was left in confused silence, unable to decipher the quintessential Brit references. Zwelleger's rendition of the lovably maladroit Bridget ensured the film's success, as did Hugh Grant's spot-on depiction of the rakish Daniel Cleaver.
The first Bridget novel created quite a stir in the world of commercial fiction. It was even the impetus for a new genre of fiction, the infamous "Chick Lit." Despite this, author Helen Fielding's follow-ups were dismally disappointing. Personally, I found it too painful to read further than page three of Bridget Jones: On the Edge of Reason, the sequel to the uber-successful first Bridget novel, and the cinematic version of the same was chocked full of moments that were not only ridiculous, but utterly cringe-worthy. It was especially difficult to digest as a female audience member.
Worse yet was Fielding's desperate attempt (after the second installment in the Bridget series) to create a new heroine, resulting in the cliché-ridden, preposterous Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination. The jacket cover of my book claims that Olivia is a "heroine for the 21st century." If this is the case, I'll take the villainous anytime. My only thought after reading about the inane adventures of Olivia Joules was that I'd wasted several hours of my life on the drivel. Yet, despite the inanity of the last Bridget Jones novel, I still found myself purchasing a copy of The Independent newspaper last Thursday to see just what Miss Jones had been up to.
It seems that The Independent, the newspaper in which the weekly Bridget columns originated, began to print the new adventures of Fielding's madcap protagonist this past August. According to an article by Mihaela Strola of Softpedia News, "Fielding confessed that despite her many ideas about what will happen to Bridget, she was too scared to write a new book." After reading the column's latest installment featuring Bridget's New Year's resolutions and "reflections" on 2005, I fully understand Ms. Fielding's trepidation about writing another novel about Britain's favourite singleton.
Though it's been ten years since the trials and tribulations of Bridget Jones first appeared in print, her character remains unchanged, as though trapped in some horrible time-warp. Maturity and common-sense seem to simply have passed Bridget by. She's now pregnant with Daniel Cleaver's baby or, in her own words has become pregnant, "via drunken shag with emotional fuckwit." And her reflection on the worst British political decisions of 2005 has nothing to do with Blair continuing to stick his head up America's ass or the government mistakenly allowing sex offenders to work in the education system, rather Bridget feels the "worst piece of British political timing" was the "abolition of licensing hours just when have got pregnant and given up drinking." Better yet, when Bridget recounts her biggest screw-ups of the year, she includes: "driving away from petrol station with pump still attached to car [and] not noticing above had happened for three days, until Mark Darcy alerted self." It is a bit unbelievable that Fielding would use such cliched stereotypes- women can't drive properly; women can't pump gas independently, etc., etc. If a reader didn't know better, it would be very easy to believe that the Bridget column was being penned by some middle-aged, misogynist male writer. In another part of the columns, Fielding makes Bridget sound like a South London teenager, with her revelation that one of the best things about being pregnant is that she "will have a little baby to love." All things considered, it would probably be best for the little unborn tyke if Bridget simply got an abortion and took a stroll to the Battersea Dogs' Home if unconditional love is high on her list of must-haves.
When I was in my twenties, Bridget was a bit of a laugh. She magnified the insecurities all of us felt to some degree: starting out in the professional work world, trying to navigate adult relationships, discovering that your parents are also mortal and struggling along on their own journey through life, realizing that uni-type drinking will get you into far more compromising situations in the grown-up world. As a thirty-something, things change. Some of the insecurities are still there, yet tempered by a sense of finding one's feet, feeling empowered by the achievements of the last decade. Acting embarrassingly when drunk will only get you labeled as an unpredictable commodity or a raging alcoholic, and rather than screwing up dinner parties with dismal cooking, we've learned to cater. Most of the single women I know realise they can make it on their own; some even feel it would be a hell of a lot easier and more fun to do so. Certainly no one would think of "adopt[ing] a Chinese or Ethiopian baby in order to attract a man in manner of Angelina "Jolly" with Brad Pitt." We realise that intelligence, political awareness and, yes, fantastic looks and a smashing body, are more attractive commodities.
At the end of the day, Bridget is not easily identifiable to thirty-something women, at least not in the way that Carrie Bradshaw was. Carrie was still slightly neurotic, but intelligent, stylish and accomplished. She knew the decision to have children would impede on her independent, martini-drinking, Manolo-buying lifestyle. Bridget, on the other hand, holds no appeal for women her age. No longer a laugh, she's merely pathetic. Bridget appears stuck in the mindset of a woman in her early twenties. The problem for Fielding is that no twenty-something wants to read about the trials and tribulations of a pregnant woman in her mid-thirties. And, in light of her insecurity about writing another Bridget book, I'd reckon Fielding is sadly aware of this.
Post-script: I feel I should add here, that I don't mean to bash Fielding. She's a talented writer. I believe that a return to her writing roots would be best as her first novel, Cause Celeb, is by far her best.
12.19.05 - article
More Ramblings
I know it has been quite a while since I've added anything to this section of my website. As the icy fingers of winter now have Toronto firmly in its grip, I suspect I will be contributing more often.
"There are no ordinary cats." -Colette
On December 2nd, my wonderful companion cat, Merlyn, lost a short, but devastating battle with kidney disease. The painful ordeal of vet visits, medications, misdiagnosis, force feedings and finally euthanasia threw me into a reflective funk that was partially guilt-fueled. I didn't take Merl to her regular vet straight away when she became ill, yet should have. She was misdiagnosed first with parasites (despite having being an outdoor cat since coming here from England) and then hyperthyroidism whilst the entire time a kidney infection raged, doing irreversible damage to her organs. Merlyn was given to me whilst I was living in London and came to Canada when I returned in late 1999. It's funny, but when you spend the better part of a decade sharing house with a little, gentle soul, upon death, the loss is immense.
Ironically, I just happened upon New Orleans writer Poppy Z Brite's journal today and saw that she lost one of her cats, Tomas, to renal failure just a few days ago. Her description of the loss being just like a "cat-shaped hole in the heart" is so apt. As she says, "My heart is getting to be more cat-shaped holes than muscle tissue." I think this is true of all grief and the loss of loved ones. Eventually, when someone lives long enough, there are so many holes where loved ones who have passed are being grieved and missed, that I think the body just gives up, unable to contain anymore sadness. And let's face it- no one wants a heart that is as fragmented as a piece of Swiss cheese.
For more information about chronic kidney failure in cats (an EXTREMELY common condition), please go to: www.felinecrf.com
Cheers
The internet is the most tempting means for writers to procrastinate; however, it is also the most useful way to keep one's finger on the pulse of the industry. I came upon a very interesting and engaging interview the other evening during one of my bouts of procrastination. It was an interview of Matthew Firth, the editor and founder of the lit magazine Front&Centre for The Danforth Review. In the interview, Firth was asked why he chose to start his own lit magazines (Front&Centre is his second). When Firth answered that there was a great deal of good work in Canada that just wasn't being given a chance to reach the published page, he was then asked the following question:
DR: Do you think the publishing community in Canada is too cautious?
MF: Yes, too cautious, definitely. Canadian publishing is largely this great, self-perpetuating cliché: that we are all WASPish, middle-class folks with gentle dispositions and manageable problems. There is too little blood and guts and grit in Can Lit; way too little.
This is not the first time a Canadian writer has been honest and gutsy enough to step forward and challenge the status quo of the writing industry in Canada. A few years ago my brother, Rob Payne, wrote an article that appeared in The Globe and Mail examining this same issue. Peter Darbyshire (another talented, young Canadian author) wrote in Eye magazine, "Rob Payne caused a minor uproar in the Canadian publishing community [when he] …argued that our literature is stagnant because it is dominated by formulaic historical fiction, or what he labeled MMD- books that "Make Me Drowsy."
As a writer currently living in Canada, this situation is extremely frustrating. One well-known agent gave me the following commentary on the manuscript of my first novel:
"It's highly readable and well-written- you certainly have talent….but the deciding factor for me was that is so clearly falls into the style of British commercial fiction, and Canadian publishers are very selective about what they take on in that area."
Already our country loses almost all its talented actors and musicians to the United States and other countries. In order to gain proper recognition for their work, many of our writers are also leaving or dividing their time between two countries. Kate Pullinger and Tessa McWatts are two good examples of Canadian writers who have found success upon moving to the UK. When will the Canadian public and government make an authentic effort to support originality and risk-taking in our arts community?
11.11.05 - article
"As human beings we have a duty to know what is going on outside our borders."
A friend of mine took in the International Art Show at the Toronto Convention Centre last weekend. Despite the infernal downpour of rain that evening, a few of us met up at The Communist Daughter, a quaint, bohemian hole-in-the-wall located in Toronto's Little Portugal. Over the sound of the improvised jazz band, we asked him what he thought about the art show.
"I'm telling you, there's a crisis in our society," he said solemnly. "I just wanted something uplifting and universally appealing. But everything is so depressing and cerebral."
And it's true. There is a crisis in our global society. These are difficult times.
Jeers- Shell Consortium
As the tenth anniversary of Nigerian writer, journalist and social activist Ken Saro-Wiwa's hanging approaches, it is pertinent to ask whether we are doing enough to protest against the activities of large oil consortiums such as Shell and BP. The war in Iraq with its "sexed-up dossier" and illusory weapons of mass destruction is just one example of the way in which greed over oil is causing pervasive suffering and environmental degradation inside the world's poorest nations. Problem is, those people who are courageous enough to speak out against such injustices face potential incarceration or death simply for acting as the voice for thousands of disenfranchised world citizens. Ken Saro-Wiwa is one such example of this. Ten years ago this Thursday, he was hanged for leading the Ogoni people of Nigeria in peaceful protests against Shell.
Unbelievably, neither Shell nor the Nigerian government has ever really been held accountable for Saro-Wiwa's execution which took place on November 10, 1995. Not only have no punitive measures been brought against Shell, the oil consortium is continuing to instigate ethically and environmentally questionable projects. One such project is the proposed building of a pipeline and refinery in County Mayo, Ireland. The Shell Consortium is proposing to build the pipeline and refinery through unstable bog land, without ensuring that the necessary technology would be in place to alert the surrounding residents if a leak should occur. Once again, Shell is targeting traditionally poor and disenfranchised populations. Shell's plans raise serious public health and safety issues and threaten to devastate remote conservation areas.
This past summer, Irish protests against Shell's plans resulted in the detention and incarceration of innocent people. In July and August, during protests by the people of County Mayo, five men were arrested and jailed for refusing to allow Shell to build the pipeline through their land. Michael O'Seighin, Willie Corduff, Vincent McGrath, Brendan and Philip McGrath are now known as the Rossport 5. There will be joint memorials for Ken Saro-Wiwa and assemblies to support the Rossport 5 throughout London in the coming days. To find out more, please go to: londonrisingtide.org.uk
10.31.05 - review
Zadie Smith
Last week at Toronto Harbourfront Centre's International Festival of Authors, I went to see Zadie Smith be interviewed by the Globe and Mail arts journalist Rebecca Caldwell. I have counted Smith amongst my favourite authors for the last few years, ever since reading her debut novel, White Teeth, which perfectly encapsulates many aspects of present-day British society. And just prior to the interview, I'd crammed in her newest novel, On Beauty, finishing the final pages of the book that morning.
Early on in the interview it seemed Caldwell was in over her head. Perhaps the Globe should've sent feisty Leah McLaren in Caldwell's place because Smith had the soft-spoken journalist practically cowering. For instance, when Caldwell asked Smith if she enjoyed interviews, the author retorted with something along the lines of: "What kind of a question is that? I mean really, would you like to be interviewed like this? I honestly don't know what kind of a question that is. How bizarre."
Though the two women beside me kept whispering to each other about how awful Smith was being to Caldwell, I couldn't help but admire the acerbic wit and intelligence of the talented author. When Caldwell tried to drag Smith into a discussion concerning her criticism of Britain in a recent interview, the reply was short and curt: Smith doesn't standby what she says in any given interview. And why should she? After seeing Bret Easton Ellis read last month, it was refreshing to see such honest disdain for the cult of celebrity. And yet Smith is extremely self-deprecating and honest about her writing. It was also evident she was worried about saying the wrong thing during the interview. Considering some of the press she's had in the past about her behaviour in interviews this is not surprising. Take for example David Steven's remarks in Bookslut in 2004: "Zadie mopes. She frowns. She sulks. She shuns eye contact…Her publisher received complaints: Zadie Smith is rude, disgusting, anti-social."
In my opinion, what the interview beautifully depicted was the contradictory nature of the modern reader's desire to elevate authors to a cult of celebrity versus the writer's own honest aspirations. Smith made it very clear that she feels a need to continue improving her craft and that her ultimate aim is to write a "truly good book." As a writer, I found Smith refreshing, and as a reader I highly recommend her latest book, On Beauty.
Some interesting points that stuck with me from the interview:
When a male member of the audience had the audacity to first comment on Smith's physical beauty and then ask if she thought her "experience as a writer would have been any different if she were frumpy", Smith was quick to counter that she highly doubted a male writer would ever be faced with such a query. In fact, I imagine Smith's husband, Irish poet Nick Laird, doesn't get asked that question, though he is inarguably extremely handsome.
Smith readily admitted that she doesn't see many of her characters as three-dimensional, realistic human beings per say (with the exception, she notes, of On Beauty's Kiki), but rather as representations of certain ideas or philosophies. She also confessed that she often forgets many details about the plots and characters of her novels once they are finished.
What I enjoyed most was Smith's take on nationalism, particularly as her message was being transmitted to a Canadian audience. She said that whilst she considered herself to be quintessentially English, she couldn't understand people who go around shouting about how "proud they are to be English," as their being English has nothing to do with any personal accomplishment, but is rather simply the result of being born in a certain geographical location. In other words, it is luck or fate that dictates what nationality we will be. I loved hearing these sentiments! I've been involved in countless debates with Canadian friends who get very angry when I refuse to declare my pride in being Canadian. I've tried to explain that I feel very lucky to have the privileges associated with Canadian citizenship, but feel no pride because I've done nothing myself to earn these privileges. I also feel that pride in one's place of birth infers that other nationalities must be somehow inferior. For instance, I've often been frustrated by the plethora of Canadian travelers who feel the necessity to sew, pin or stick tiny flags on themselves whilst they travel. When questioned, Canadian travelers have explained their reasons for doing this is so that they can be "treated better." This desire for better treatment seems to be especially prevalent with Canadians traveling through Holland. Unless they actually helped liberate the Dutch at the end of the Second World War, I can't help but wonder why the hell anyone would presume to have the right to be treated any different from those around them. Quite honestly, to me this type of arrogance smacks of the same sort of thinking that drove systematic apartheid and segregation. Nationhood or skin colour….take your pick. Does anyone actually have any say in determining either of these things in their lives?
09.19.05 - article
Ramblings
It's been a while since I've sat down to add anything to this notebook and for that I apologise. There are several reasons for this, first and foremost being my overwhelming anger and sadness regarding the entire situation in New Orleans and surrounding areas. In the days and indeed weeks following Hurricane Katrina's devastation, I felt compelled to write about it, but wanted to do so in a meaningful way. I hope that the article that will follow these ramblings serves to do so.
Review of Jamie Oliver's restaurant, Fifteen.
The Sunday before I departed London, I decided to take a close friend for breakfast at Jamie's restaurant, Fifteen, in Hoxton. Anyone who has watched the series documenting the first year of this charitable project will be aware of the philosophy behind the creation of Fifteen. To sum it up, Jamie wanted to make a difference in the lives of disadvantaged youths not finding success in traditional academic settings. As he explained, he wasn't "the brightest banana in the bunch" himself whilst at school, but felt success and inspiration cooking in restaurant kitchens and wished to give other youths the same chance at self-discovery. It certainly hasn't been an easy go, (anyone who works with at-risk youth will understand many of the reasons why all too intimately), but Fifteen's success is now being emulated with Fifteen Amsterdam which opened in 2004.
The restaurant itself is set back from the main road and is set in a beautifully renovated red brick, industrial building that I would hazard a guess is Victorian. My friend and I ate in the trattoria, which was tastefully decorated in fuschia with beautiful, eclectic floral bouquets and funky mirrors. Much of the food is prepped out in the open, so that the pungent aroma of a fresh bowl of garlic cloves greeted us as we walked in and we were treated to a bread-kneading session close by our table. The menu itself presented several tempting choices and we both settled on scrambled eggs (mine with chili peppers) on freshly baked sourdough bruschetta with sun-ripened blush tomatoes and grilled Portobello mushrooms. The coffee was quality Illy coffee (less than ten years ago I would've given my eye teeth for a good cuppa in London) and we also ordered a bottle of sparkling water and "freshly-squeezed" cranberry juice. (The menu said all the juices were freshly-squeezed. I had to wonder at this with regards to the cranberry).
I've read many of the scathing reviews and commentary on Fifteen and peoples' experiences dining there. Yes, the service and the food are perhaps not what you'd expect at an upscale restaurant, say the Ivy or the like. However, Jamie and the crew make no pretension to be what they are not. It is a charity first and foremost and a training ground for (hopefully) future chefs. If people choose to dine there, they need to remember this fact. Personally, I found the food quite tasty and the portions more than ample. My friend's meal arrived approximately ten minutes after mine, for which the staff apologized profusely. They were friendly and professional, even agreeing to my friend's request of a photo on our way out, despite the trattoria being full at the time. Would I go back? Absolutely. I look forward to having the opportunity to sample the menu further upon my next visit and hope to also support Fifteen in Amsterdam the next time I am in that city.
Location: 15 Westland Place, London, N1 7LP (closest Tube station is Old Street)
Price of full breakfast for two: approximately 25 pounds, including an obligatory 12.5% gratuity
Chris Cleave and Bret Easton Ellis
Whilst others have been eagerly scouring trendy Queen West haunts and upscale Yorkville eateries for celebrity sightings this past film festival-filled week, I looked forward to meeting British newspaper reporter-turned-novelist Chris Cleave at the Harbourfront reading series. Last night after a few martinis and dinner with a friend, we attended the reading featuring the unlikely pairing of Cleave and Ellis.
Ellis is as well-known for his controversial novels as his controversial lifestyle. He is the author of such familiar titles as American Psycho, Less Than Zero and Glamarama. His most recent offering, Lunar Park, is described as a "mix of autobiography and invention". It is explained on Ellis's schizophrenic website as part-memoir written for his son, part homage to Stephen King and the horror genre. Ellis is clearly a gifted writer and his reading was entertaining, yet disturbing. Let's face it, there is something severely disconcerting about a room full of adults laughing as a novelist/the protagonist recounts anecdotes in which he was so drug-infused he attempted to make a Doberman perform oral sex on a groupie. I admit to laughing along myself, as Ellis's self-deprecating style was beautifully executed. However, as he swaggered away from the podium, bottle of water in hand, a single word kept playing itself in my mind: egotistic. Sorry, Bret, but I highly predict the novel is all downhill after that flashy prologue you read. Hopefully you prove me wrong.
In comparison, Cleave was unassuming as he read from several sections of his novel, Incendiary, which is written as a letter to Osama Bin Laden from a working-class, Eastender following the death of her son and husband in an Al Qaeda suicide bombing at an Arsenal football match. The novel, which I hungrily devoured in the span of about three days, is beautifully written, encapsulating perfectly the nuances of class, race and cultural diversity that characterize modern-day London. For instance, in one part of the novel during which the protagonist takes a ride on the London Eye with her new lover, she notes the inequitable amount of cables from the "Shields of Hope" (large barrage balloons constructed to stop hijacked planes from flying into the city) protecting North London versus South London. As she observes this, she thinks, "It was like the people who built the Shields of Hope weren't really all that hopeful about Brixton and Camberwell and Lewisham." As a former resident of South London, this wry comment on the inequities of class, race, and location in the city made me want to simultaneously laugh and cry for its painfully exact observation. This is only one of many places in the novel where art and reality are brilliantly intertwined, making the fact that the novel's release date came on the same day as the first actual Al Qaeda suicide bombings of London all the more surreal.
At the closing of his reading, Cleave took time to address the London bombings and the terrorist atrocities taking place almost daily in Iraq. He asked that the audience share with him a minute of silence to remember the victims of these attacks. I respected his courage in doing this. Afterward, Chris and I briefly discussed the fact that the apocryphal reaction of the British government to Al Qaeda suicide bombings detailed in his book actually didn't transpire in reality (thankfully). However, as I write this, the British government is warning that new measures to combat terrorism will impinge upon individual rights. Let's hope good sense prevails, though it hasn't often in the last few years of New Labour rule (see my soon-to-be-released article on uselessknowledge.com: The Death of Cool Britannia).
Don't miss reading Incendiary. It is an excellent offering and I definitely think Chris Cleave is a writer to watch.
Tidbits
Toronto Arts Council
Thanks to the Toronto Arts Council for the generous grant I received this week. The financial help is always needed, but I think it is just as important to know that others have faith in the potential of a project or piece of writing-in-progress. To celebrate, I went out yesterday and purchased a copy of Stephen King's, On Writing, and Zadie Smith's, On Beauty.
Poppy Z Brite
Since the devastating events in New Orleans and the surrounding area, I've been closely (some might obsessively) following author Poppy Z Brite's struggle to rescue her cats (and albino snake) and to come to terms with the destruction of her home and much of the Big Easy. I wanted to thank Poppy for bringing me back to my writing roots. In her online journal last week she mentioned wanting to read Stephen King's, The Stand, again and she also recommended King's book/memoir, On Writing, as the best book on our craft. In the past few years since I started writing seriously, I've been often asked what authors have inspired me. I've always given credit to Sylvia Plath, Zadie Smith, Alice Walker, Amy Tan, Virginia Woolf, Colette, etc. However, all of these writers came to my awareness relatively late in life, say university or the tail-end of my secondary schooling, or in the case of Smith, only a few years ago with the release of her first novel, White Teeth. When I was younger, one of my favourite memories is getting ready with popcorn and rootbeer to settle down and watch Rod Sterling's Night Gallery with my father. Stephen King was my literary hero at the time and I was rarely seen without one of his novels clutched in my hands during the fifth grade. He is a consummate storyteller and I always hated leaving the characters he created behind at the close of each book. Admittedly, I haven't read his more recent works, but The Stand, It, and many of King's short stories were pivotal in creating my desire to write. One of my earliest short stories dealt with a woman who is unable to conceive because of the damage her disordered eating has done to her body. She is haunted by the spirit of her unborn child, which compounds her aversion to food. Since then I've not really written anything that involves the supernatural, but like to think that the darkness lurking in many of my short stories is a tribute to King.
Television
This is a funny one for me to write about as I don't watch much more than seven or eight hours of television a week at the most. And seven hours of that television watching is composed of the BBC World News. Working full-time and trying to write every other spare moment I have leaves me with little leisure time and that which I do manage, I tend to like to use socializing with friends over good nosh and wine (or martinis!). However, I usually leave one hour a week to squeeze in watching a particularly well-written show. I'm not going to pull any pretension here. A well-written television show is a vehicle for good writing, full-stop. Of course, the clincher is that good television scriptwriting requires excellent acting as well, which is not always evident in North American television. Since the demise of Sex and the City, just finding one quality show amongst the sea of rubbishy reality shows and poorly-written dramas was a challenge. I generally ended up turning to Australian and British comedies such as Little Britain and Kath and Kim. In the past year or so, I can't help but notice a plethora of well-written, confidently executed shows out there. Lost, House, Desperate Housewives, CSI (in all its forms), This is Wonderland, and Medium are just a few that immediately come to mind. Last year I chose Medium as my show of choice (Again, shades of Stephen King. Once a horror junkie, always a horror junkie, I suppose). The combination of one of my favourite actresses, Patricia Arquette, and weekly ventures into the world of the supernatural was irresistible. It is brilliant to see that Arquette has won an Emmy for it as well!
08.29.05 - article
Transatlantic Adventure- Installment 2
I meant to keep this little "serial blog" updated whilst I was in London, but social commitments combined with brilliant weather kept me from sitting indoors at a computer unless it was absolutely necessary.
Saturday rolled around and I found my feeling of dread about flying with American Airlines steadily increasing. I'd already lost at least a day in London and didn't relish losing another because of an unreasonable connection time. The good news was that BA was in the air again, albeit without edibles. As I waited in the very slow-moving American Airline's queue, I noticed that BA had extra flights leaving. Thanks to a fabulous bloke from Newcastle who was waiting in front of me to check-in for his flight to Los Angeles, I was able to leave my luggage and sprint to the other side of the terminal, thus securing a seat on a BA flight. The BA staff were brilliant. I received a twenty-dollar voucher for food at the airport's restaurants and kiosks and was upgraded to business class. So, rather than sipping my cold red wine, I indulged in some good champagne, reclined in my seat and snuggled under a blanket to watch a very clever and entertaining cinematic adaptation of The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Wouldn't find a good Brit film like that on American Airlines, I reckon!
The rest of my journey to London was fairly uneventful, aside from a few tense moments trying to get a security guard at Heathrow to move a bit faster in clearing away abandoned bags in the non-EU passport clearance queue. A family from New York City seemed overwhelmingly intrigued that I'd spotted the bags so quickly. So much for extra vigilance!
During my first few days in London I could detect no discernable change in the city, other than the substantially increased police presence, including constant police patrols outside South London tube stations like New Cross Gate and Lewisham. And more people than usual seemed to be staying on the bottom level of the buses, despite having to stand for the entirety of their journeys. The only thing I found myself doing differently was that the sound of sirens (which are a constant background to my urban existence in both Toronto and London) now registered in my consciousness. I noticed the sirens. I listened to them with a new awareness.
There were a few indications that the memory of the bombings was fresh and that the city was unified in their determination to remain united. Throughout Central London, banners proclaiming Seven Million Londoners, One London, can be found on most lampposts and on an estate just past Victoria, a homemade English flag (created from what was surely a white bed sheet in a former life) sporting the cross of St. George and the word "Peace" was prominently placed so that it could be seen by passing traffic. It was simple and poignant, but seemed to speak for the city as a whole. Like all Londoners, the person who'd made the flag just wanted life in this vibrant city to continue as it had prior to July the 7th. I was struck once again by the difference between post-9/11 Washington (I was there in December 2001) and London. Unlike Washington, in which almost every building had been draped in monolithic American flags and crying for revenge, Londoners were largely going about their business, with the quiet hope that peace and unity would prevail. Whilst acknowledging the loss of life that the bombings of July 7th brought, many Londoners I spoke to seemed to feel that the terrorists hadn't done much at all in the way of damage. One friend even said, "Is that the best they could do? Bring transport to a standstill for a day? That's all they did; we were all back on the buses and Tube and to work the very next day." Talking about the bombings took place in private as Londoners generally don't like public displays of emotion. There is unanimous gratitude toward those tourists who have still come to spend their holidays in the capital. But the main feeling is that the city is ready to move on. My friends were engaged in DIY projects (a favourite British pastime), preparing for childbirth and going on holidays abroad. They might not display the joie de vivre that permeates cities like Havana or Montreal, but certainly Londoners are not retreating into their homes, cocooning as the trend was in the USA after 9/11.
As one of my friends, a life-long Londoner said, "We're absolutely horrible to one another on a day-to-day basis, not smiling, being miserable, but if there's a crisis-situation in the city and London is attacked, we'll do anything for each other."
08.14.05 - article
Transatlantic Adventure- Installment 1
It is just shy of midnight on August the 12th and I am supposed to be somewhere over Ireland at the moment. But I'm not. In fact, I'm sitting in front of my computer at my flat in Toronto, having spent the better part of the evening drinking happy hour martinis with several friends at a cozy lounge on Wellington Street East. Though the company was brilliant and the bar funky with its Soviet chic décor and house DJ, I couldn't get my mind off the fact that I was meant to be sipping cold red wine out of a plastic cup somewhere over the Atlantic.
The news of the British Airways turmoil came as a surprise to everyone, including the airline itself, which can hardly afford another summer of uncertainty. My adventure began around noon on Thursday when I first came upon the news regarding BA's cancellations at Heathrow. Dismissing the situation as a minor inconvenience which would probably result in a delayed flight and the need to eat at Pearson International Airport in Toronto before my departure for London, I carried on with my day. It wasn't until later that afternoon when the BBC news reported that talks between Gate Gourmet executives (the sole catering company BA uses) and its staff's union had broken down that I realized the seriousness of the situation. My trip to London was definitely in jeopardy.
Generally a cancellation of my trip wouldn't have been so upsetting. After all, I am in London a great deal and I could definitely put the refunded money toward some other "expenses" I've incurred. However, in light of the July bombings this summer, I've felt a real need to see everyone in London and to be back in the city. And so the challenge to find an alternate means of getting to the UK began yesterday evening around 10:30 pm after being notified officially that my flight was cancelled. After spending three hours (Yes! Literally three hours!), on hold with British Airways, I was finally able to establish contact with a human being. His name was Joseph. Though I had little faith that much could be done to rectify the situation, Joseph rerouted me onto an American Airlines flight via Chicago to London. The flight was due to depart a day later than my original BA flight, but I was grateful nonetheless. After all, I'd just spent three hours listening to the same Yanni song over and over. I think even dental surgery would've seemed appealing by the time my call was picked up by Joseph.
And Joseph seemed grateful in return.
"I want to really thank you for being so understanding," he said after putting me on hold briefly to check for alternate flights.
"That's alright," I replied, though I was so tired I could barely remember my name. "After all, it's not your fault. Or BA's for that matter."
"No, but seriously, I really want to thank you for your patience," he repeated. "We're all so tired and working overtime with this situation. We've brought in extra people, but still…." At this time he made a quip about the torturous Yanni music.
It was then I realized that, despite how rubbish my evening had been, Joseph and the entire BA staff involved in customer service had likely been the target of thousands of customers' abuse and misguided anger all day long. He wasn't simply spewing the usual corporate clichés- he was genuinely grateful for my understanding.
And why not be understanding? A younger, decidedly more hot-tempered version of myself likely would've chosen a more aggressive approach to the situation, but in light of things such as suicide bombers on the Tube, friends losing their children in infancy or having to perform CPR on a dying parent, a delayed or cancelled holiday is pretty insignificant. Furthermore, the rights of the Gate Gourmet workers need to be respected and supported. Texan-owned Gate Gourmet executives pay these workers a shameful wage and, if reports are true, decided to sack hundreds of employees without any warning. It is capitalism at its worst; the workers are seen as dispensable and treated as such. According to sources, employees on maternity leave were fired and some Gate Gourmet workers were even informed of their imminent sacking via megaphone.
So, after a very short night's rest, I decided to check out American Airlines. I've never flown with an American carrier. Naturally, I was a little surprised to see that my new flight itinerary allowed for a scant 35 minute window between my arrival and departure times at Chicago's O'Hare. Problem number one: O'Hare is one of the world's largest airports. Problem number two: I've never been to O'Hare. Problem number three: a thirty-five minute window to make the connection to an international flight is insane. To make matters worse, almost every customer review of American Airlines decried their rubbish service, pathetic food, and angry crew. Brilliant. I was particularly dismayed to hear that they charged five dollars American per glass of wine or beer during flights. Considering the fact that I will have no American money on me and that this is an exorbitant amount price tag for a plastic cup of cheap wine, I resigned myself to the fact that I would be facing my journey to London sans the detoxifying benefits of a glass or two of red. The information wasn't entirely surprising. Puritanical America regards alcohol with a large dose of suspicion. Like all the other ironies about that country, they view alcohol as evil, but having a gun in the house on par with owning an ironing board. I discovered this fact a couple of years ago when I tried to find a pub in Washington, DC. It was the middle of the afternoon and the weather was miserable. All I wanted was a cozy corner of a pub, a glass of red and time to do some writing. Not only did this prove to be a formidable challenge, but the looks of horror and confusion I received were pretty surprising. I was pointed toward many family-style diners, but no pubs. I was lost amongst a sea of Republicans and Starbucks. I could just imagine what the people I asked were thinking as I walked away, my frustration apparent as the wind and rain pulled at my umbrella: "God bless that young lady, she must be an alcoholic. And God bless America."
As I finish writing this and prepare to do my last-minute packing before heading off to Toronto's Pearson airport, I am reminded that this will be my first time back to London since the July bombings. Will the city have changed? However, before even contemplating London, I need to successfully make it across the pond. Will I be spending the night at O'Hare? It's a very real possibility.
07.25.05 - article
Cheers and Jeers
There are many individuals and groups doing amazing things in the world at the moment. I feel that these acts of kindness, courage, and positive inspiration should be as widely recognized as possible. Though the "jeers" portion of this is somewhat tongue-in-cheek, the "cheers" section is not. These are not easy times. Those who take individual and collective action to create a more positive, equitable and sustainable world for everyone need to be lauded. That was the inspiration for creating what I hope will become a regular "blog" in my notebook section. As always, feedback and constructive critiques are welcome and encouraged.
Cheers
Marie Fatayi-Williams, Nigeria
Since the London bombings on July 7th, Marie Fatayi-Williams has been working diligently to remind people to continue to strive toward a common humanity. On Monday, July 11th, Marie stood near Tavistock Square (the location of the fourth explosion on the No. 30 bus) with a picture of her missing son, Anthony, and a piece of paper with a speech on it. She'd flown from Nigeria just days before in the hope of finding out what happened to her eldest child, and only son. Her words, spoken to the people of London, have an important resonance for the world. They stand in stark contrast to the pseudo-Christian, American rhetoric of a "war on terror" and the need to "hunt the perpetrators" of terrorist crimes. Her speech reminds us that we need to unite and celebrate our differences, not live in fear and suspicion of others. Since the bombings in which Anthony died (he was identified as one of the victims of the No. 30 bus bombing just days after his mother made her impassioned speech), Marie has created The Anthony Fatayi-Williams Foundation for Peace and Conflict Resolution. To visit and donate to the foundation, please go to: www.afw.org.uk
I've included a few quotes from Marie's speech below:
"It's time to stop and think. We cannot live in fear because we are surrounded by hatred. Look around us today. Anthony is a Nigerian, born in London, worked in London. He is a world class citizen….Hatred begets only hatred. It is time to stop this vicious cycle of killing. We must stand together, for our common humanity."
"Throughout history, those people who have changed the world have done so without violence, they have won people to their cause through peaceful protest. Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King Jr., Mahatma Gandhi, their discipline, their self-sacrifice, their conviction made people turn towards them, to follow them."
Whirlpool Canada
The city of Toronto has declared a record number of extreme heat and smog alerts this summer. In July alone, over a dozen heat alerts have been issued and many heat-related deaths have occurred, mainly amongst the cities' homeless and economically-disadvantaged citizens. This past week, Whirlpool sponsored a barbeque for the residents of the Regent Park housing community to announce the company's donation of over $180 000 worth of air conditioning units to the Regent Park, Moss Park and St. Jamestown housing communities.
(Regent Park is the oldest and largest social housing project in Canada. There are many unique challenges that this vibrant, diverse and creative community face on a daily basis. I have the privilege of working within the community as a teacher at Nelson Mandela Park Public School (and during summer school as a teacher at Lord Dufferin Public School). To find out more about the community and the many wonderful projects happening in Regent, please go to: www.catchdaflava.com
Jamie Oliver, London, UK
The goal of Jamie Oliver's "Feed Me Better" campaign is to improve the diets and nutrition of all school-aged children in England. His platform includes increasing government funding for school dinners, the banning of all junk food and fizzy drinks (known as soft drinks in North America) from England's schools and to serve school dinners that use fresh, unprocessed ingredients. As seen in his accompanying television series, Jamie's School Dinners, the London Borough of Greenwich was the first educational authority to attempt Jamie's revolution in healthy eating. The improvements noted in behaviour and concentration amongst the students at Kidbrooke School after the implementation of Jamie's school dinners were significant.
One of Greenwich's neighbouring boroughs is Lewisham. Lewisham council began to assess the quality of, and funding for, their school dinners prior to Jamie's campaign to deal with the problem in Greenwich. Lewisham also uses the company Scholarest, which was criticized widely by Jamie Oliver, to provide their school dinners. As a former resident of Lewisham and as a former teacher in both boroughs, I strongly commend both Jamie and Lewisham Council's recognition of the need to improve the nutrition of children. Many of the children in both these boroughs live in poverty. Though there is a great deal of discrepancy between different wards in the Lewisham borough, some startling statistics were disclosed in 2001 in a study done by the Lewisham Primary Care Trust (under the NHS). Some of these can be found below:
- Life expectancy in Lewisham is significantly lower than the London average. Women's average life expectancy in Lewisham is the lowest in all of London.
- Infant mortality rates in Lewisham are higher than the average rates for the rest of London. This is especially true for children of African mothers living in Lewisham.
- Hospital admission rates for asthma amongst Lewisham children aged 0-14 are more than double those of the rest of London.
- Lewisham has the 8th highest level of deprivation of all Primary Care Trusts/Local Authorities in the United Kingdom. The New Cross and Lewisham central wards were amongst the most deprived of all the Lewisham wards.
The Canadian Government
Earlier this month, the Canadian Senate voted to pass Bill C-38, making Canada the fourth country to legally allow and embrace same-sex marriage, along with Belgium, the Netherlands and Spain.
Mayor Ken Livingstone and the People of London
The staunch determination of Londoners to disallow the recent terrorist bombings to change the fabric of their city is inspiring. Although London will never be the same, there appears to be a definite resolve that the terrible events of July will not divide this incredibly diverse, vibrant city, but rather unite them further.
07.21.05 - review
"We have pride and confidence in Africa and Africans and believe in the inalienable right of Africans in Africa to shape their own destinies."
- AFFORD UK
I want to be positive. I really do. The fact that global attention has once again been turned toward the continent of Africa and the issue of extreme poverty is, in general, a very positive thing. After all, it would be more than a bit hypocritical of me to dismiss the Live 8 phenomenon as my site hosts a banner informing the public about the Make Poverty History Movement. And, along with millions of others, I watched the television broadcast of Live 8 in Hyde Park, cheering with the crowd as Bono advocated the concept of "the long walk of justice", nervously watching Pete Doherty of Babyshambles stumble his way around the stage, and impatiently (and futilely) waiting for coverage of the Johannesburg concert and Nelson Mandela's appearance onstage there.
Yet I couldn't help feeling a deep-seated uneasiness in the days and weeks leading up to the momentous concerts of July 2nd. It wasn't difficult to pinpoint the origins of my unease. A few weeks ago when I was a guest author at a well-known, Toronto reading series, I met a man about my age who had immigrated to Canada about a year ago. He was born in Rwanda to Tutsi parents and lived his early adult life in Kenya. From Kenya he immigrated to Canada. His first point of landing was in Nova Scotia. He said that people were very welcoming, but that the time he spent there was off-putting. For one thing, he relayed how everyone immediately began giving him bags of really old, really rubbish clothing; clothing that was misshapen with age and from another era (Nova Scotia is not known for being fashion-forward at the best of times, but.). Secondly, they would point out the most mundane things to him as though he were completely clueless. One example he gave was how people said things like, "See. That's what we call a car. Or this is called a washing machine. It's where we clean our clothes." The entire experience left him with the realization that many Canadians' perception of Africa is extremely simplified. Numerous people are only familiar with the image of Africa they've seen projected at them via the media (television being the most prevalent form). This very narrow and limited image of Africa is unfortunately all too often, as Ken Wawa aptly describes it, "a child with a bloated face, too weak to swat the flies buzzing around his or her face."1
This man's story serves to reinforce the problems with Live 8 and much of the Western world's approach to, and understanding of, Africa. As Madeline Bunting of the Guardian newspaper in London says, she hoped that this year's political focus on Africa would "shatter the myth of Africans as powerless victims at the mercy of western generosity and do-goodery…finally drawing a line under the colonial themes of "saving" and "civilising" the continent."2 This point in history could present the perfect opportunity to shatter the pervasive stereotype of all Africans as passive recipients of white, Western aid, as a people that need "help" to develop infrastructure and institutions that are remotely "modern". It might also be a time during which meaningful discourse concerning precisely why these stereotypes still exist could take place, so that the reality and diversity of the situation in Africa can be explored. To do so in any truly meaningful way would mean taking an honest look at the benefits the West derives from the perpetuation of these stereotypes.
One definite benefit to the West in disallowing Africans the opportunity to determine and shape their own future is the continuation of the African diaspora. No one ever seems to discuss the benefits the West has derived from drain of talent and skill that has been effectively garnered from the African diaspora since it began in the late 15th century, though evidence of African contributions to science, medicine, the arts and literature is ubiquitous. In London, England, black and ethnic minority businesses contribute forty billion pounds to the city's economy and employ approximately 800 000 people.2 Considering the fact that pre-colonial Africa was a sophisticated and diverse continent, statistics such as these should come as no surprise.
There have been many articles written in the Canadian media in the past few weeks that chastise those who expressed concern or criticism of the Live 8 concerts. It is dangerous for Western society not to reflect on events such as these. There is no harm in saying there are attitudes and deep-seated ideas that we need to carefully examine, deconstruct, contemplate and change. The fact that the wealthy, industrialized nations of the West continue to refuse any sense of agency to many of the world's people is causing massive problems in the global political landscape. Africa is a diverse place in terms of religion, culture and ethnicity. To place a simplified version of it on a platter for Western consumption is problematic. To a degree, Live 8 did just this. As Bunting says, "The hope was that…we would get to hear about Africans much like ourselves- with the same hopes, fears and aspirations; we would, finally, begin to identify with them as human beings."
1- Ken Wiwa, "Listen to the Real Africa," The Guardian Unlimited. July 3, 2005.
Ken Wiwa is the son of writer and political activist, Ken Saro-Wiwa, who was killed by the Nigerian military regime in 1995.
2- Madeline Bunting, "Humiliated Once More," The Guardian. July 4, 2005.
3- www.afford.uk.org
07.08.05 - article
"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."
- Samuel Johnson
Yesterday I was nearly late for work because I was watching live news footage from London. The announcement by the IOC granting the 2012 summer games to London over Paris came as a surprise to many and the jubilation in the streets of Britain's capital, particularly in the packed area around Trafalgar Square reflected this. The city was in a celebratory mood.
This morning I unexpectedly found myself once again watching live news broadcasts from London. I think everyone knew that an attack of this sort was inevitable; however, when it happens, it is still unthinkable. As a former resident of London, I felt sickened and immensely saddened to see the innocent civilians, the working people of the city, targeted in such a barbaric way. Before I left for work, I attempted to get in touch with many of my friends. London is perhaps the most diverse city in the world, (I know that I had a somewhat embarrassingly public debate with a certain Guardian journalist about this earlier this year), and my friends and colleagues living there reflect this diversity. They are actors, investment bankers, journalists, teachers, scientists, writers. They are racially, culturally and religiously diverse. As in other cities such as Madrid and New York, the terrorist attacks that occurred today in London did not discriminate in terms of their victims. People from all races, cultures and religions were equally targeted, injured and killed today. These attacks are a political, not religious statement. Despite rhetoric from people like American President Bush, the enlightened world must continue to recognize that this is no modern crusade.
The resilience and determination of Londoners is globally renowned. In the spring of 1999, whilst I was living in London, there were a series of nail bombs set off almost weekly. The city was on high alert during that time. Yet people carried on with their normal activities, unwilling to allow anyone to disrupt their lives. Londoners know the meaning of empowerment. They are unwilling to allow fear to dominate their lives. That time helped me reshape my own values and approach to life.
I have no doubt that Londoners will demonstrate to the world their determination, pride and resilience in the days and weeks following these atrocities. One email I received from a good friend of mine who is a headteacher in South London informed me of friends who were on standby at hospitals and others stranded at work in Central London. She ended the email by describing how the children at her school were convinced that the bombings were the work of disgruntled French Olympic hopefuls! To me, that email exemplifies the British spirit, one that can find a glimmer of wry humour in the direst of circumstances. I look forward to my time in London next month and seeing everyone.
My condolences go out to everyone affected by the bombings today, particularly the friends and families of those who were injured and killed.
06.13.05 - article
White Privilege
On March 23rd of this year I flew back into London's Gatwick airport after having enjoyed a few hedonistic, sunshine and tulip-filled days in Amsterdam. I was feeling good, having taken advantage of my time abroad by consuming expensive glasses of champagne, shopping for funky spring clothing, eating delicious food and catching up with a friend I hadn't seen in over a decade.
Our flight arrived back into London in the early evening. Gatwick was an absolute zoo. I've flown in and out of that airport at least three dozen times in my life and have never witnessed the type of crowding that was occurring at the passport checks that evening. The room was heaving with bodies. I politely elbowed and squeezed my way across the width of the room and joined the queue for non-EU citizens. As I was traveling alone I didn't have to worry for once that all of my friends would be left waiting around for me to arrive on the other side of customs.
I arrived at the queue at about the same time as a group of passengers who'd disembarked a flight from Ghana. Slipping into the line, I dug a book out of my carry-on bag and prepared for an excruciating wait. Any hope of getting back to South London before seven-thirty was dashed.
A few minutes later I noticed a second queue forming parallel to the one I was in. People were actually walking alongside our queue and up to the front as though we were invisible. Since many of these same people had their passports in hand and ready to show to the authorities, I did a quick survey of some of those passport covers and noted that, indeed, they were also non-EU nationals.
Not surprisingly, this second queue began to move along much more quickly than the one I was in. I will admit being tempted for a moment to move into the other queue. If I moved to the other queue, I'd get back to South London at a decent time. However, in doing so, I'd also be taking advantage of white privilege. White privilege, as defined by Peggy McIntosh, is "an invisible package of unearned assets that I can count on cashing in each day, but about which I am "meant" to remain oblivious." 1 By remaining in a queue that was composed of mainly black men and entirely of African passengers, I was certain to wait far longer than those passengers in the other line. I also knew that the people lining up beside me in the opposite queue were also aware of this, though they certainly wouldn't admit to it if asked. They were not being purposefully racist, they were simply taking advantage of one of the many ways in which their skin colour gives them daily, unearned privileges. However, by failing to acknowledge that this was precisely what they were doing, these passengers were reinforcing racial dominance and ensuring that power remains "in the hands of the same groups that have most of it already."2
If we are ever to truly attain systemic change and create a society that is remotely equitable, white people need to realize that racism will not end simply because they "change their attitudes" and/or openly disapprove of systems that reinforce inequitable power structures.3 They need to stop participating in the advantages that these systems bestow on them simply because of their skin colour. As Don Cheadle said in a recent interview for NOW magazine, "The whole PC ideology is fake, a watering down of what we're feeling and thinking."4 It is precisely this climate of political correctness that makes it too easy for whites to continue to take advantage of white privilege whilst maintaining their "obliviousness" to it. Another problem with political correctness is that it hinders meaningful discourse and makes it difficult for those outside the dominant culture to challenge or question the systemic power imbalance. A friend of mine once commented on this. She likened prejudice and racism in Canada to a large marshmallow. "You know it's there," she said. "But you can't question or confront it as your hand just keeps sinking further into the stickiness, unable to grasp at anything concrete."
When I finally got near the front of the queue at Gatwick, I listened to the way in which the passengers in front of me were being aggressively questioned by the customs' staff. Again, not surprisingly, it was as if the passengers, by virtue of their place of origin, were guilty and needed to prove their innocence before being allowed to gain entry into England. Finally, after a two hour wait, it was my turn to clear customs. The officer didn't bother to conceal his surprise.
"You were on the flight from Amsterdam? That got in hours ago," he smiled. "I guess you got into the wrong queue."
I found this interesting. I had joined a non-EU queue. Yet, here was this custom's officer, covertly admitting that the lines might as well have been officially racially segregated. It was something that had not gone unnoticed in my queue. Several passengers had commented on the fact that authorities might as well have put up signs. Except not only would that have been un-PC, it would've been illegal.
"This was the non-EU queue that I originally joined," I said, informing him that I had questioned a Gatwick employee about the second line shortly after it was created. That employee had eventually gotten brusque with me and told me to join the other one if I wasn't happy with the wait. "I don't believe in taking advantage of white privilege," I added.
That did it. His smile dissolved faster than an antacid tablet in warm water.
"This is interesting," he murmured, staring at his computer screen. He didn't say anything more.
I knew what he was doing. I decided to play along. After all, because of my race, I could be confident that there was only so much of this he would pull with me. He was doing this because I was somehow now an aberration in his eyes. I'd been though this type of rubbish before when I'd been in mixed relationships. I knew the drill.
"What's interesting?" I asked.
"There was someone on the Ghana flight with your exact name, just a slightly different birth date." He raised an eyebrow at me.
"That is interesting," I said, an edge creeping into my voice. I was tired and beginning to get pissed off. "It's interesting considering my name is extremely Irish Catholic and fairly local to the Dublin area in origins. I can't imagine too many Africans with the name Mary Jennifer Payne."
I was pushing the packet, but that is one of the privileges I have, being part of the dominant culture. I can question authority without much worry. However, I did fear mentioning my Irish Catholic heritage might've been taking one step too far. I'd forgotten for a moment that I was on UK soil.
He switched gears. "You're a writer?" he asked, looking at my landing card.
"And a teacher," I added, knowing I'd put both down.
"What do you write?" he asked.
"I'm a journalist," I lied.
That was the clincher. He let me through with a glare and a nod.
1- McIntosh, Peggy (1990) White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack Independent School. Winter 1990, pp. 31-36
2- ibid
3- ibid
4- Glenn Sumi, Cover Story on Don Cheadle. NOW magazine: Vol. 24. No.36. May 5-11, 2005.
06.06.05 - review
Curiosity Kills the ...Dog?
(This review originally appeared in the March 24th edition of The Canada Free Press online)
Once a year, if I am so lucky, I come across a book that is simply too engaging, innovative and well written to put down. Such books hypnotically draw the reader into the world of the protagonist, and if they are truly effective, allow us to step into the hearts and minds of its characters and laugh, cry and live with them for the duration of the narrative.
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by first-time novelist, Mark Haddon, both is and isn't one of these books. On the one hand, I found this moving novel incredibly difficult to put down and my fondness for its protagonist and narrator, fifteen-year old Christopher John Francis Boone, was absolute by the time I'd finished reading the fourth page. The thing is, Christopher is not a character whose mind the reader can step into and share experiences with, at least not in the traditional sense of a first-person narrative. Christopher, who lives with his father in Swindon, a town in the South of England, is an extremely intelligent, gifted teenager who is able to calculate difficult mathematical formulas with the speed and efficiency of a computer, but is unable to eat foods that touch each other on his dinner plate or interpret the most basic social cues. He can't comprehend metaphors, the purpose of fiction or why people lie. For instance, he doesn't understand what his father means when he tells him to "Stay out of other people's business" because, as he explains, "I do lots of things with other people, at school and in the shop and on the bus….and all these things are other people's business." In short, Christopher has autism, a condition that the Autism Society of America defines as "a complex developmental disorder that affects the functioning of the brain." There's no known cause, aside from the strong likelihood of a genetic link, this suspicion being furthered by the fact that boys with the disorder outnumber girls 3:1.
The novel opens with Christopher's world of logic, structure and routine being turned upside down. The impetus for this change begins with the "curious incident" which occurs when Christopher looks out his window at "7 minutes after midnight" and sees his neighbour's dog, Wellington, lying on the lawn, impaled by a garden fork. One of the charms of this novel is Christopher's narrative minimalism, for even though he tells the readers that he likes Wellington, he is unwaveringly logical about the dog's death. As he says, "I decided the dog was probably killed with the fork because I could not see any other wounds in the dog and I do not think you would stick a garden fork into a dog after it had died for some other reason, like cancer, for example, or a road accident." His inability to sentimentalize traumatic events such as the dog's death is chilling, but also compelling. Christopher's is a refreshing narrative voice that allows readers to view the world in a way that is impossible for the majority of us.
Following in the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes-- a character Christopher identifies with because of his ability to "detach his mind at will"-- he immediately goes about trying to solve the dog's death. This detective work becomes the topic of a story-writing project Christopher is writing at school. At his insistence, the story will be a factual recount of everything that happens during his search for Wellington's killer, as Christopher "always tells the truth", therefore rendering it impossible for him to write fiction.
Christopher's investigation begins innocently enough with a round of interviews with his neighbours. Through one neighbour's revelation, Christopher suddenly stumbles upon a much bigger secret, one that threatens to tear apart his close relationship with his father and unravel the sense of security that he so desperately needs to function. And so, determined to find out the truth about his family, Christopher embarks on a new round of sleuthing, one that eventually leads him on a terrifying trip to London with only his pet rat, Toby, for company.
The brilliance of this story lies in the authenticity that Haddon instills in Christopher's voice and character. Having worked with children and adults with mental and physical challenges, Haddon refuses to condescend or sentimentalize Christopher's situation. And it works extremely well. I was sad to leave Christopher and his world as I turned the final page of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. I cannot recommend this novel highly enough: it made me laugh, it made me cry, and it made me hold my breath in anticipation of what was to happen next. Haddon is definitely a writer to watch.