Where You Lead, I Will Follow

Are you fully aware of the impact you have on others?  Have you ever done or said anything, or modelled any kind of behaviour, that you later learned had a profound influence on someone else?  Are you living your life in a way that sets a good example?

After leaving my job in early January, I’ve been doing some significant introspection, reflection and self-analysis.  I’m working with a wonderful career/life coach, who is guiding me through the process of redirecting those talents, skills and aptitudes I possess.  I’ve lost track of them over the past several years, as I allowed my life to become dominated by a very stressful work environment.  Slowly, almost unknowingly, the colour leeched out of my life.  Things I once enjoyed and which once brought me great satisfaction, no longer did.  The depression that I have always staved off through sheer force of will, it seemed, settled in like a bad houseguest.

I’ve never intended to treat my blog like an online journal or confessional.  That kind of blog doesn’t interest me either as a reader or a writer.  This blog has languished in direct correlation with all the other activities in my life that I stopped doing.  Its original intent was to offer up my writing for the amusement, entertainment and possibly even enlightenment of others.  Cogito ergo sum has always been, for me, “I think therefore I write.”  Or sometimes, “I write therefore I think.”  The acts of thinking and writing have always been inextricably linked, perhaps causal (although the direction has sometimes varied).  But neither act is solely internally focused:  neither thinking nor writing has ever seemed to me fully or best expressed, unless shared with others.

The name of this blog is Eccentric Muse.  It’s a deliberately ambiguous term.  I both have and am an eccentric muse.  The focus in the early days of this blog was on my own eccentric muse and the wandering paths she led me down.  (As an aside, why are muses always female?  And is that a good or a bad thing?)  These days, as I attempt to clarify and (re)define my purpose, I am necessarily thinking about the impact I’ve had on others.  I’m thinking, then, about my own influence as an eccentric muse–a position much less comfortable for me.  Wandering down crooked, poorly-marked paths is not for everyone, although I find it exhilarating.   Asking others to walk down those paths is far less comfortable but here in the relatively safe virtual world, with material that is intended to be whimsical and inconsequential, the risk is slim.  Even so, I’ve been surprised at the impact I’ve had.

I have often been in positions of influence.  I have been and in some cases still am: an older sister, a friend, a manager, a community organizer, a caretaker.  Heck, even a pet owner.  All of these positions confer upon one authority and power; responsibility and accountability.  The mantle of leadership has not always rested comfortably upon me (and the mantle of followership chafes even more).  I know too much about the perils of following.  I’ve looked at that cloud from both sides now, from up and down … you know the rest.  The all-too human tendency is to accept leadership blindly, especially when it is offered by someone charismatic, persuasive and confident.  In extreme cases, to follow a leader like that is to put your very life and soul into someone else’s hands. One relies on his or her benevolence and purity of motive.  In a corporate setting, such as the one I was in, the chance of running in to a truly destructive, sociopathic leader is relatively rare, and there are usually checks and balances that prevent a leader like that–even on a small scale–from attaining a position of real power.

Usually, but not always.

And so, what do we do when we encounter a leader, or leaders, like that?  Leaders whose lust for power overshadows their capacity to behave with integrity, or who never had the capacity for it in the first place.  This is what I’m asking myself now, and being as clear-sighted and analytical as possible in formulating my response.

I have always led by example; I have tried to lead with authenticity and in good faith.  Whatever success I’ve had in bringing people along on the journey has been because of the honesty and integrity* I tried always to keep at the forefront of my mind as I performed the role. I have tried to be fully conscious of my influence as a leader.  I recognize now, however, that I failed in one central and critical aspect of leadership, and that failure was founded on a dislike of conflict so intense that I sacrificed my common sense and my own values to it.

* as another aside, integrity is such an interesting word and concept.  There is no adjective or adverb.  One’s acts cannot be “integrous”.  One cannot behave “integrously”.  It is a noun and a noun alone–a thing of such substance and import as to occupy physical space .  You must “have it” like you do an organ, like a lung or a pancreas.  You behave “with it”–as intimate but independent as a lover.

Alexander Hamilton said:  “Those who stand for nothing, fall for anything.” One could even say, those who stand for nothing, follow anything.  Faced with a leader who was manipulative, egocentric, a pathological liar and a bully, I decided to stand as a buffer between that malignant force and my team.  Instead of the harder (impossible) task of confronting her or challenging her, I was able to rationalize my enabling behaviour.  I believed, arrogantly but not incorrectly, that I understood her better and therefore could manage her better.  I suppressed my own discomfort and in its place, nurtured an, albeit well-intentioned, ultimately futile belief that I could protect others from her.  I allowed my fear of conflict to triumph over the courage of my convictions–because at some level, I didn’t have any.  My integrity was compromised because–by definition–to behave with integrity is to behave in accordance with ethical principles.

It took me about two years too long to realize that not only was I sacrificing myself, but in fact I was setting an example that I wouldn’t want others to follow.  Regaining some sense of proportion, finally reaching a point where the compromise to my values was causing more anxiety than my fear of the unknown or of the conflict that would inevitably occur were I to take a real stand, I took action.  Instead of standing as a barrier, I fled … which even as I write it sounds like I backed down or gave up or abdicated some responsibility, when in fact I took myself out of an unwinnable fight in order to survive.  I surrendered so I wouldn’t be defeated.

As I watch people leave the department I once led, I realize that–indirectly–I have taken people down another crooked, unmarked path.  Yes, their choice to take the walk and their reasons for doing so are entirely their own, but I provided them with an example that turned into an option.  It reinforces for me the ripple effect our actions and our words have on the world.  Eccentric Muse-The Blog was intended to offer up my random journeys so others could enjoy and experience them vicariously and it will continue to do that.  Now, though, as I contemplate my real-world actions and their real-world meanings and consequences, I am aware that my musings have the potential to offer something more by way of example, and I intend to write with that in mind.

Buttons

(This post was originally written on 7 Jan 2010 and published on Facebook. I’m happy to report that the buttons were successfully secured and attached. ~EM)

I completed a silly Dr. Phil quiz on Facebook a while ago.  One of the questions was: what do you dream about? I answered “searching for something/someone.”

Earlier, I did the “what 80s song are you?” and it came up I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.

Then, last night, I had a dream about searching for a button for a coat I own.

Are you sensing a trend? Me too.

The buttonless coat is years old and represents a very specific time in my life–another time, as now, when I was making some big changes. Because it has no buttons left on it, I have to use one hand to clutch the two sides of the coat together. Because it’s the warmest coat I own, I tend to wear it in the coldest weather (like now) for dog walking and so on, so this means the clutching-to-stay-warm manoeuvre is absolutely critical, and even more awkward. It leaves me but one hand to pick up dog poop, at which I’ve become quite agile, but it also means that I struggle (unnecessarily) to keep myself warm while doing so. When I forget gloves, the situation becomes even more desperate and uncomfortable. I love the coat, and it would be the warmest, most comfortable coat I own, if only I could get my act together to find the right buttons and sew them on. If only I could make one small but important change, a lot of other problems would go away.

The dream was so vivid that when I saw that coat this morning, I said to myself: “now, where did I put those buttons?” intent on finally sewing the buttons on my coat.

Obviously, the dream is highly symbolic for me, especially at this point in my life as I start to reclaim and reassert my own needs for the first time in a long time. So, while wearing the coat and clutching the sides and picking up dog poop this morning — and vowing to buy those damn buttons TONIGHT!! — I started thinking about what I am searching for, and what kinds of things we ALL search for: buttons or transformation? A missing glove or missing love?

Question: what are YOU searching for?

An Uncommon Cat

Leo

(aka The Cowardly Lion)
January (?) 1990 – March 12, 2009

If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much. ~Mark Twain

I let Leo go today. I had been waiting for him to tell me when he was ready, and readied myself for his decision. Not that you are ever really ready, and not that it is ever easy. And not that I don’t think he would have tried to stick it out a bit longer. But I am calm and at peace with the decision that I made and, even though I would have loved to have another day or week, I know that it was inevitable and it was the kindest thing to do.

My vet, and my pet-sitter (who works at my vet) were wonderfully supportive, gentle and compassionate. They made him as comfortable as possible, with a soft blanket and lots of quiet time, gentle hugs and soothing voices. And then, they cried right along with me. They have known Leo for as long as I’ve lived where I do now — so that’s about 8 years, or almost half his life.

I knew Leo for 19 years. Longer than any relationship (save for my immediate family) I’ve ever had. He was with me through several nasty break-ups; a cross-country move (and back); and the deaths of both of my parents. He was endlessly patient and uncomplaining of my sometimes complete lack of attention or even presence, requesting nothing more of me than I was able to give. He was my feline hot-water bottle, always there for warmth, comfort and a gentle head-butt when I was sick, down or just needed a friend who wouldn’t say too much, ask too many questions or provide any unwanted advice. Just listen and offer up an ear or chin to scratch, and velvety coat to stroke.

Even though he was well into middle age at the time, he tolerated with remarkable grace and a complete lack of spite the new fur creature who came into my life: the endlessly exuberant, almost dangerously bouncy Molly. They came to be fast friends, although Leo never gave up the upper hand, err, paw, to Molly. Even though twice her age and half her size, Leo was totally the boss of her. They shared the sofa, the bed, the pull-out couch in the TV room and my affections equally. Leo knew he had the preferred spot curled up at the top of my pillow at night, and Molly curled at my side. Frequently, after a long day at work, I’d come home to find them curled up together. Over the past few years, they certainly have spent more time with each other than I’ve spent with either of them, and for that I feel a not inconsiderable amount of guilt. I was glad, though, that they had each other.

From his humble beginnings caught in a raccoon trap, through to his gradual emergence out from under my bed where he cowered for the first six weeks, through to becoming one of the most sociable cats it’s possible to have, Leo graced my life. As my first cat, he taught me about cats–their subtleties and their charms. How they can speak volumes with a flick of their tail or a backwards glance. The special kind of joy that comes from watching them pounce on a toy, and the unique solace that only a purr can give.

I will miss you, Leo and I thank you for being my friend.

My Christmas Story

Time Is Running Out

This is a story that starts in a shopping mall in Toronto and ends in a small village in Gashora Region, Rwanda. It was a journey I took just yesterday, Christmas Eve day 2008.

Let me start with a blanket statement: I don’t like shopping. People who shop as a hobby mystify me. I find the entire activity distasteful–the endless quest for “things,” the con job advertisers do to get people to buy, buy, buy regardless of necessity and only to spur on the competitive spirit of acquisitiveness that gets people to buy buy buy even more.

At this time of year, I find the challenge of shopping intensifies and everything I hate about it comes to a boil. I leave my Christmas shopping to the very last minute, because I am usually so conflicted about what to buy for people, and how awful the whole experience makes me feel.

Then I feel awful about feeling awful, because after all, these are people that I love and I should be much more generous and thoughtful.

The true spirit of Christmas is not about the gifts, of course. And there are dozens of other ways to express thoughtfulness and generosity that don’t require standing in line with my bank card at the ready. But, despite that, I find it difficult to follow through completely on those principles: I can’t imagine showing up at my brother and sis-in-law’s with nothing in hand but a plate of homemade baked goods and an offer of never-ending babysitting. Hence, my conflict.

I get in a mall at this time of year and I quickly realize that no one I know actually needs anything. In fact, very few of us here in North America need anything. True, this year is different: people have lost their jobs or are worried that they are going to lose them; people are struggling to pay their bills, hold on to their homes, save up money for their kids’ educations … and much worse.

And I feel for the retailers: they too are simply cogs in the great economic engine. If everyone shared my disgust for shopping, they would go out of business and millions more would lose their jobs. Our great capitalist system would grind to a halt and our quality of life would decline considerably.

Despite all my protestations, I enjoy the benefits of our great capitalist system, even when I rage against its inequities.

Here in Canada, and certainly in my circle, the current economic hardships that many are experiencing remain remote. I know that I am among the more privileged. I also know that that privilege is largely a factor of luck. Being born in the right place at the right time to a loving family. I have a good job, I have skills, I have an education. I am in good health.

Lest I experience some devastating mental or physical health crisis, it is unlikely I will lose my home or my livelihood. (Even so, I keep my fear of becoming a bag lady–mumbling and cursing as I push my shopping cart full of empty bottles to and from my cardboard shack under the bridge–close to the surface as a way to ward off its eventuality. That is my own idiosyncratic superstition and way of managing that particular anxiety.)

And I am also always conscious of the even more basic things I enjoy: I can turn on the tap and get clean water. If I am sick, I have easy access to health care, and when I go to the pharmacy, I can be assured that I will get proper medication that will help me get better. I live in a very safe neighbourhood, in a clean, well-maintained building with 24-hour security, and in a comfortable home with all kinds of “stuff” in it–much more “stuff” than one person (and two furchildren) could ever need.

Jean Paul does not have any of those things. He is an eight-year-old boy who lives with his parents in a very poor area of Rwanda, just southeast of the capital city of Kigali. Both of his parents are unemployed and too sick to care for him.

I “met” Jean Paul today in the mall, when I was finishing up my Christmas shopping. I had just spent hundreds of dollars on luxury items–among them, an Aveda gift basket with a $31.00 moisturizer and an $18.50 aromatherapy oil in it; two Lululemon hoodies at close to $100 each; a $22 tin of sugar cookie mix from Williams-Sonoma and a $45 box of Godiva chocolates. Ridiculous, frivolous, decadent things that will provide momentary pleasure, but that “cost” me almost nothing in the grand scheme of things. I didn’t feel guilt buying them, or have any second thoughts about whether I could afford them. I didn’t feel much of anything at all, except a generalized annoyance that here I was on Christmas Eve day buying stupid things that will mean little to the people who receive them, and that mean even less to me.

The things that I bought cost more than Jean Paul’s family would spend on food in an entire year, probably.

This was my state of mind when I passed the World Vision display in the mall. I don’t know why I stopped, except that there’s been a raw emptiness yanking at my sub-conscious for much of this year: a feeling that I am wasting my time here on Earth; that I am not contributing or giving anything back that will have much impact after I’m gone. Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis, maybe it’s the fact that I have no children of my own and thus, no one to live on after me.

Psychoanalyst Erik Erikson coined the term generativity to describe the key developmental stage of individuals in middle adulthood. According to Erikson, people aged 40 to 65 have “a concern for establishing and guiding the next generation; a need to make a difference with one’s life, to give back, to take care of one’s community and planet.” Whether you buy that theory or not, it pretty much sums up how I have been feeling.

World Vision Motto

The World Vision display, with its bright orange backdrop and plethora of tent cards with pictures of children on them demanded that I stop in front of it and strike up a conversation with the two people staffing the booth. During that conversation, I asked whether they were getting much uptake from the shoppers. Sadly, no. “The economy is bad …” said the lovely Indian woman in the booth, her voice trailing off. Clearly, she didn’t believe this was much of an excuse. Nor do I. I plunked down my shopping bags and pulled out my wallet.

I went to the mall, and I ended up shopping for a child. Read that as you will.

This was no impulse purchase. In fact, I have been thinking about doing this for quite some time, but simply hadn’t been prepared to take the leap. I was too busy, had too much to think about, was too unsure of what it would entail–not the financial commitment, but the emotional one.

World Vision is a Christian organization. Another reason for my hesitancy. Historically responsible for horrific oppression in the name of eternal salvation, I have mixed feelings about the Christian mission movement. “You wanna be a missionary? Got that missionary zeal? Let a stranger change your life … how’s that make you feel?” Paul Simon’s lyrics were ringing in my head as I stood by the WV booth, but yesterday, I was hearing something else: There but for the grace of God go I. When I say this, I mean it in as secular a way as possible. Just as, in reading World Vision founder Bob Pierce’s quotation, pictured above, I can share that sentiment without dragging faith and religious belief into it.

And if I’m being really honest, I was a little worried that this is simply an easy way to assuage my white, North American guilt. Natural disaster in Indonesia? Humanitarian crisis in Darfur? Drought in Ethiopia? Genocide in Rwanda? Whip out a chequebook or a credit card, and believe you are doing something to help. And you are.

But it’s not my kind of charitable act if my convictions and commitment last only as long as it takes to recite my credit card number to the helpful operators standing by to take my call.

Sponsoring a child is different: it’s a minimum year long commitment (and I intend to extend that as long as necessary). I will write letters. Jean Paul will, I hope, write back. I will learn what his life is like–really like–there in his tiny village in Rwanda, a country that has been through such a tremendous amount of tragedy and that has one of the highest HIV/AIDS rates in all of Africa. I will be able to help, in some small way, not only him but also his family and his community.

It was disconcertingly similar to the purchases I had made a few minutes earlier. I was asked did I want to sponsor a girl or a boy? From any particular country? Other than knowing I wanted to sponsor a child in Africa (unlike Sarah Palin, I actually know it’s a continent), how could I possibly answer these questions? It seemed too crass, and too difficult a choice to make. The kind lady with whom I was speaking saw my distress–in fact, I became quite emotional during the process. Such a relief–to actually feel something when pulling out my credit card in a mall!

It was recommended that I sponsor a boy (the pretty little girls get more attention; the stoic looking little boys have a tougher time of it). I was asked if I was willing to spend an extra $5 per month to sponsor a “HopeChild”–code for a child whose family is suffering because of HIV/AIDS. Maybe not him (they don’t tell you who, in the family, is affected). Later, when reading the description of Jean Paul’s circumstances, the gentleman in the booth helped me decipher more of the “code.” We can surmise that both of Jean Paul’s parents are sick. His own health is listed as “satisfactory.” That one word contains a world of pain, as do his beautiful brown eyes gazing out at me from his picture. He is not smiling, and his look is one of deep distrust–even challenge. It is as though he is saying, I will stand here for this picture, but while you claim you will help me, I’ll believe it when I see it.

I will meet that challenge, Jean Paul.

Incidentally, World Vision is very careful not to identify who, in a community, has HIV/AIDS–it can be devastating for the entire family, as there is such stigma and fear about the disease. In Africa, AIDS is invariably a death sentence. They can’t get anti-retrovirals to all the people who need them, not only because so few can afford them, but mostly because of poor distribution systems and the shame, stigma and poor education that prevent people from taking them correctly or taking them at all, even if they can get them. HIV/AIDS has and will wipe out entire communities and societies in Africa. It is worse than any genocide could ever be. Standing by and watching it happen, without doing something to help, is as great a crime as any other instance when we in the developed world have refused to intervene in other genocides. End of public service announcement: you probably know all this.

Yes. Yes, let me sponsor a HopeChild and let him be in an area that is most in need of that help. At $40 a month, it is less than I spend on Starbucks. I will spend $480 per year, less than half what I was contemplating spending on a new flat-screen TV that I don’t need.

For the first time in such a long long time, I feel like I’ve put my credit card to good use.

Winter Wonderland

Woman. Dog. Not me or Molly.

Woke up to snow this morning (some yesterday too) and a blistering blue sky that only now has clouded over.  The snow was that powdery early winter stuff–fine as sugar, blown away by the strong winds but still clinging to fence posts and grass.

Molly and I followed a trail of compressed snowprints:  two boots and four paws in front of us, stuck to the paved path where we walk, the warmth and weight of master and pet having been enough to cement their steps to the asphalt while the remaining snow had blown away to reveal a kind of reverse snowtrail.

It inspired a (not very good) haiku:

white winter morning
bootdogpaw embossed footprints
companions in snow

I’ll work on it.  I am reading The Story Of Edgar Sawtelle.  It’s about a boy and a special band of dogs that he and his family breed and care for, so my own and others’ attachments to their dogs is in the forefront of my mind these days.

High Hopes

JFK & Jackie - The Early Years

Don’t let it be forgot
That once there was a spot
For one brief, shining moment that
was known as Camelot.

(from the Broadway play by Lerner & Loewe)

I was conceived somewhere roundabout September 1963, two months prior to JFK’s assassination, and 11 months after the Cuban Missile Crisis.  When sorting through some of my mother’s books after her death in 2000, I found a pamphlet nestled between Dr. Spock’s Baby & Child Care and a book of baby names.  As to the latter, under consideration:  Constance, Judith, Rebecca and Stella, among others.  I ended up a Jennifer, from the Welsh “Gwenhwyfar”, as in Guinevere, the Queen of Camelot.  An interesting coincidence, as Jackie Kennedy didn’t coin the term to describe her husband’s presidency until after his assassination, in an article in Life magazine.

The Holy Grail by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

So while I’d like to think my parents were drawing both a political and literary allusion, they were probably responding less to what was swirling about in the zeitgeist, than to the name’s feminine prettiness and growing popularity (they were actually ahead of the wave on that one…).

The pamphlet, however, was a dramatic juxtaposition to Dr. Spock and the baby names.  As I recall, it was a deep, blood red with somewhat shocking blue and yellow type on the front, probably 8 or 12 pages long.  I think my brother still has the box of books; I must go and try to dig it up.  It was entitled:  “How To Build A Backyard Bomb Shelter.”   It was startling to find it there, and know what must have been going on in my parents’ minds as they started their family.  What those times must have been like for people:  to have had such hope and belief in the future, and then to watch the events unfold as they did–assassinations and riots and the ongoing threat of nuclear annihilation.

High Hopes

I can honestly say that the two forces:  Dr. Spock’s psychoanalytic humanism, applied as diligently as possible by my two loving parents, and the political turmoil of the 60s with the fall-out residue of anxiety, pervaded my formative years and of course made me into who I am today.  Hopeful, but anxious.  As I read around the Internet, it seems many of us are the same.  It was rare to read or see anything about the JFK anniversary without some parallel being drawn to President-Elect Obama, who reminds so many of JFK and of the struggles of that time.

The Kennedy presidency started out with an incredible sense of optimism and hope, and ended so tragically.  Still today, according to a documentary I watched on the History Channel last night called Oswald’s Ghost, more than 70% of Americans believe that there was some kind of conspiracy behind Kennedy’s assassination, and that Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone. What do you think?  (While you’re here, why not take the poll in the sidebar?)

The filmmaker, Robert Stone (no relation to Oliver, I don’t believe) was interviewed by NPR when the film came out last year. You can listen to the entire clip below. Stone has a unique perspective and sums up how I and many others feel, that the Kennedy assassination kicked off a chain of events–political assassinations, protests over the war in Vietnam, Watergate–that made us who we are today, and that caused a deep questioning and a fundamental cynicism about our political and social institutions and leaders.

JFK & Jackie Arriving Dallas 11-22-63

Which is why I think you find, among Obama supporters of about my age, that sense of anxiety, even fear, underlying the hope, optimism and belief in change.  It’s fear that a bullet will put an end to the Obama presidency, yes; but it’s also a less literal fear.  It’s fear that the change it is hoped he will bring will be exterminated before it gets any traction.

Click here for the NPR interview with Robert Stone on the Kennedy assassination, conspiracy theories and the impact of these events on our worldview.

JFK’s campaign song was, if you can believe it, “High Hopes”–a song that my parents must have loved as  I recall it being played a lot in our house.  It brings back a visceral nostalgia in me, even today. I just found a remarkable video on youtube of a Sinatra version done especially for the campaign.  According to the youtuber, polkadotbox2, only 1,000 copies were pressed and they weren’t distributed commercially, but rather in pubs, bars, bowling alleys, etc. around the DC area in 1960.  Enjoy:

And in case you need the comparison driven home literally, here is another youtuber’s video:

Beam Me Up, Obama…

I’ll be damned.  After rewriting my post on the New World Order, juxtaposing Obama’s vision of the future with Gene Roddenberry’s political theories, I find I’ve hit some kind of left-wing, Trekkie vein in the zeitgeist.

I’m not much of a Star Trek freak myself, so this is probably obvious to all but me.  Nonetheless, check out Paul Rosenberg’s Star Trek Socialism on the Open Left blog.

Geeks and lolcatz rule.

Housekeeping

Don't try this at home.

Just tidying up the ole’ blog this afternoon.  Seems when I changed visual themes, the Mindgames page and its sub-pages blew up.  I couldn’t figure out how to fix it.  The irony of that alleviates my annoyance just a tad.

So now, I’ve created two separate pages:  one for the Mensa Brainteasers (now called Mindgames) and another for the Jigsaw Puzzles (now called JigZone).

Those hadn’t been updated in a while, so I’ve added new puzzles to each page in celebration of last week’s historic event.  Enjoy!

New World Order

I promise to get back to writing silly flights of fancy soon, but I’m not quite done processing my thoughts around the momentous events down south yet.  I’ve tried to do a little of both here in this re-written (11/08/08) blog post.

Barack Obama’s 1994 autobiography, Dreams From My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance, has shot to the top of the amazon.com and other bestseller lists. However, if you want to know what Barack himself is reading, you might want to check out Fareed Zakaria’s new book: The Post-American World. Zakaria is the editor of Newsweek International, and I caught an interview with him this a.m. on Nov 6th on CBC Radio 1.

Prior to that, I had an exchange with aurora*raby on gawker about what the next step is for the U.S. (this was Nov 2, before Obama won).  The left-leaning,  educated, predominantly northeast, urban gawker audience was raging against and in some cases vehemently insulted by an article in Germany’s der Spiegel calling the U.S. “a superpower around the globe, but a Third World country at home…” and making a number of other inflammatory (albeit closer to true than false) accusations. In a moment of sanity on a thread that was degenerating in somewhat surprising ways to me given the gawker demographic, aurora*raby commented:

“we prove ourselves to be one big alcoholic family (Bush’s, no doubt) if we lash out at constructive criticism. We are very close to throwing off the yoke. Let’s start thinking about the next step.”

It prompted me to think about the next step.  Also, over the next week, about leadership, globalization and the Starship Enterprise.  To get in the proper frame of mind, I suggest you click on this youtube vid for the soundtrack to the rest of this post.

More, after the jump.

History is Made

Congratulations to the American people for electing Barack Obama the 44th President of the United States.  This landmark event is of significance to all people, all over the world who have fought and will continue to fight for justice and human rights.

Rosa sat,

so Martin could walk,

so Obama could run,

so our children could fly.

author unknown

Fright Night: An EM Hallowe’en Musing

Tea Time With The Coven

I live in a condominium that consists of two 12-story towers, built about a year and a half apart. The original marketing for the first building, where I live, was targeted at empty-nesters and retirees. The marketing for the second was to the young and hip. I fall into neither category, which suits me just fine, ‘coz then I get to observe the goings-on from an outsider’s vantage point, as is my wont.

The nice thing about living on the old people’s side is that the women here have formed quite the little community. (The men, for those women who are not widows, are infrequently seen and even more rarely heard, except during annual general meetings when they attempt to insert themselves as authorities on the ‘business’ of the condo. So it goes.)

The condo ladies do movie nights and bridge tournaments and coffee klatches. Sometimes they arrange bus trips to exotic locales like nearby farmers’ markets and dinner theatre productions. I regularly see them trundling off to the party room in the basement, their homemade bits ‘n bites and tuna casseroles in hand, to chat and gossip; plot and plan.

Photo: Diane Arbus

One of the things they plot and plan at this time of year is the annual Hallowe’en give-away. In a Diane-Arbusian feast for the eyes, they turn, literally, into a coven of witches, a gaggle of fairy godmothers, a belfry of old bats luring the neighbourhood children into the lobby with offers of candy.

I take an inordinate amount of delight in this event every year, solely for the pleasure of seeing them there in the lobby behind the treat bag table, with  their caked-on make-up and slightly-askew false eyelashes, their frothy polyester costumes and gaudy Dollar Store accessories like light-up jack-o’lantern pins and sequinned bat earrings.  In front of them, their handiwork:  hundreds of cellophane bags filled with donated goodies and tied with orange and black ribbons, craft-scissor curls lovingly done with arthritic, age-freckled hands.

These gals do it up right.  And, they are doing what women have been programmed to do from time immemorial…nurturing community.

I’m certain I’m the only one who revels as I do in the weird irony of how they look–my fascination mixed with slight shame (for they are having such fun!  And have worked so hard! I am not mocking them, truly I’m not!).  This year we had a batwoman, a fairy princess and a geisha handing out treats to the toddlers and schoolkids, some dressed so similarly it throws the grotesquerie into stark relief.  There is a macabre return-to-innocence look to them which is oh-so-perfect for Hallowe’en, even more so as it is accidental.

Photo: Xavier Bonghi

“Old fools become babes again,” as Shakespeare wrote, intending it not as criticism or insult, just an observation tinged with empathy, as do I.

Being as non-participatory as I am, I am unlikely to end up like these women.  I will become my very own version of an eccentric old bat, I am sure.  But I know what happens down there in the condo party room. I share the genetic history–”herstory” as the Fems like to say–of the XX-chromosomed.  I can feel how the petty jealousies, the passive-aggressive hostilities, the snap judgements are formed intuitively through auto-cognitive processing of the equation: hair + face + clothes + behaviour = character and virtue.

But I also know about the genuine kindness and compassion.  The natural inclination to consensus and peace-keeping among these women who have landed in Canada from Poland, Ukraine, Chechnya, Germany, Britain and Russia, and for whom even the old wars between their countries feel like recent history, and some of them are still ongoing.  These women could easily dwell isolated by their differences, but instead–compelled by evolutionary psychology to gather and cohere in social groups–smooth over these cultural-bred political and personal antagonisms and life-long resentments with small-talk and seasonal rituals, for the greater good of the community in which they find themselves now.

These women are demonstrating how social groups are formed in every culture, every society. The internal dynamics of their groups are as familiar to me as the back of my own hand, and I have the slight added advantage of understanding the social psychology of it from an academic perspective as well.  They are communicating in precisely the same ways as they have throughout their own personal histories, and throughout time as all women have:  as schoolgirls, as young “housewives,” and now as condo-dwelling retirees. The very set-up of a “condo,” with its joint-ownership and management of community property–Socialism!!  Egads!!–is a petrie dish for growing this kind of instant community and allowing those of us so-inclined to observe it as it evolves.

Also, they all remind me of my mom.  She would have been right at home among them as she was a lifelong “joiner” and never failed to be appalled at my dad and me, who were content to watch and analyze from afar, collaborating from our lone observation posts like forest fire spotters in the great north woods. While I rarely interact with the condo ladies, save to say hello as I pass by in the hallway, I take comfort in the fact they are there, running things efficiently behind the scenes in age-old ways, as only women do. Gathering berries, creating community–it’s built in to our genes.

Canadamerican Politics: Pt II (EM was here first)

Under the category Unlikeliest of Bedmates, here are people who are agreeing with Eccentric Muse (hehehe) since my post of yesterday:

David Frum, journalist, former speechwriter to George W. Bush, bordering-on-incoherent, neoconservative embarrasment-to-Canada (oh, oooops … get a filter, EM), actually provides an analysis that is pretty much spot on and a strategy that makes sense:

From The Washington Post, Oct 26:

There are many ways to lose a presidential election.  John McCain is losing in a way that threatens to take the entire Republican Party down with him. …

[Republican] resources are limited, and our message is failing. We cannot fight on all fronts. We are cannibalizing races that we must win and probably can win in order to help a national campaign that is almost certainly lost. In these final 10 days, our goal should be: senators first. A beaten party needs a base from which to recover. [boldface mine]

Then he gets really paranoid about a Democratic Senate and Congress going on to stifle dissent, muzzle the freedom of the press, and wield unchecked power to advance cronyism through the nationalization of financial institutions.

Ummmm, project much, David?

BUT:  I will give him this.  He’s right that the Republicans are eating their own innards and will have no vital organs left with which to regenerate the body politic when all is said and done.  And he’s right that a sound (the only) Republican strategy left–one that actually DOES put “country first” (you hypocritical, extremist assholes)–will be to give up the race for the Whitehouse, which at this point is virtually unwinnable (4.3% chance as of yesterday, so sayeth Nate Silver, the smartest pollster on the Web). 

The Repubs need to salvage their good, strong, capable, experienced, SANE Senators (yes, there are some)–who can provide the checks-and-balances that will be needed in a Whitehouse, Senate and Congress that is about to be overwhelmingly Democrat. From there, they can maybe, MAYBE, rein in the delusions-of-grandeur of the Palinists (and how freakin’ lovely that that rhymes, and resonates, with “Stalinists”…hmmmm??).

Extremism–on either side–is never a good thing politically or personally.  As my Grandma Flora used to say, “everything in moderation.”

And this, from the Anchorage Daily News in their endorsement today of Barack Obama (which is delicious in and of itself, but there is more deliciousness within).  Enjoy:

Sen. McCain describes himself as a maverick, by which he seems to mean that he spent 25 years trying unsuccessfully to persuade his own party to follow his bipartisan, centrist lead. Sadly, maverick John McCain didn’t show up for the campaign. Instead we have candidate McCain, who embraces the extreme Republican orthodoxy he once resisted and cynically asks Americans to buy for another four years.

…despite [Palin's] formidable gifts, few who have worked closely with the governor would argue she is truly ready to assume command of the most important, powerful nation on earth. To step in and juggle the demands of an economic meltdown, two deadly wars and a deteriorating climate crisis would stretch the governor beyond her range. Like picking Sen. McCain for president, putting her one 72-year-old heartbeat from the leadership of the free world is just too risky at this time.

If I ever read or hear that expression “a heartbeat away from the Presidency” or any variation thereof one more time I’m gonna stab whoever says it in the eye (even, yes, if it’s Anderson Cooper, my sweet). Nonetheless, they too are right. They didn’t actually come out and say that the first, most damning, most conclusive sign that McCain’s opportunism trumped his centrism was picking Palin herself, but they might as well have.

Finally, an international view (drawing heavily on Frum as a source), The London Telegraph’s headline says it all: Republican fears of historic Obama landslide unleash civil war for the future of the party.

Jim Nuzzo, a White House aide to the first President Bush … told The Sunday Telegraph: “There’s going to be a bloodbath. A lot of people are going to be excommunicated. David Brooks and David Frum and Peggy Noonan are dead people in the Republican Party. The litmus test will be: where did you stand on Palin?”

… [Nuzzo] said: “She emerges from this election as the probable frontrunner for the 2012 nomination. Her supporters vastly outnumber her critics. But it will be extremely difficult for her to win the presidency.”

On that last point, it will only be true if there are voices left on the right to challenge her ascendancy. In many circles, she is already being called “Queen Sarah”–and when evangelical zealots say that, you know they mean ‘ordained by God.’ Look at the language Nuzzo uses: this is a holy war, he says it specifically elsewhere in the article.

I’m no Christopher Hitchens, but if the thought of Queen Sarah achieving the Presidency doesn’t make you shudder, the fact that she and her supporters believe she is being led there by Divine Right surely ought to.

Listen to Hitchens on CNN last Thursday.  I was really happy to hear Hitchens come back to the issue of Palin’s scorn for research using fruitflies, which had been summarily dismissed as irrelevant and inconsequential–as “minutia,” said one (hehe)–by the two Republican pundits.  Bloody well right fruit flies are important.  Fruit flies reproduce every 24 hours. Changes in fruit fly physiology as a result of natural selection are therefore highly observable, making the study of genetics and other life sciences feasible in really important ways.  Hitchens gets the last word on the matter, which drew a direct parallel between Palin’s creationist beliefs and what would be, by logical extension, her lack of support for science/technology funding. (And he should have stopped there, but didn’t …. oh, well.) Now if only someone would tell me how to get them out of my house other than sucking them up one by one in the vacuum cleaner, I’d fund a study of that.

Canadamerican Politics: An EM Theory

Photo: Barbara Woodley

Welcome to Saturday, October 25th.  On this day in 1993, Canada held a federal election.  Just four months earlier, Kim Campbell assumed leadership of The Progressive Conservatives, the party that was in power at the time, making her the first female Prime Minister of Canada ever.  Yayyyy!! Uhhh, yayy?

While it could certainly be deemed some sort of feminist victory for a woman to have won the leadership of a federal political party, and a conservative one to boot, Ms Campbell wasn’t actually elected Prime Minister.  We don’t do things that way.  As I said, she assumed the role because her party was in power at the time.  Then, she called a federal election.  And then, just four months later on this day in 1993, the Progressive Conservatives were wiped off the face of the Canadian political map, losing 149 seats of the 151 they held.

What does this have to do with the politics of race and gender, The Garden of Eden and Kurt Vonnegut?  Find out, after the jump.

Colin Powell Endorses Obama: The Photo

This is the photo that (Ret.) General Colin Powell referred to in his endorsement of Barack Obama on today’s Meet The Press. It is more stylized than I imagined, but just as powerful. The entire photo essay from The New Yorker is very moving. See it here.

Elsheba Khan at the grave of her son, Specialist Kareem Rashad Sultan Khan. Photo: Platon, The New Yorker, Sept 29/08.

The Times, They Are A-Changin’

Friends have asked me why I have been so interested in this year’s U.S. election. This is why:

Washington, DC
August 28, 1963

Dr. Martin Luther King was introduced as “the moral leader of our nation” to a crowd of 250,000 civil rights workers on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

I Have A Dream

St. Louis, Missouri
October 18, 2008 (45 years later)

Barack Obama speaks to a crowd of 100,000 by the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Missouri, as the first black Presidential candidate, and very likely the first black President of the United States.

History is being made.  It’s rare that you can watch an event unfold and feel the full weight of its future importance as it is occurring.  Perhaps the moon landing was another time.  I remember gathering with my mom, dad and brother around the black & white TV up in Capreol, Ontario, bunny ears on top and nickel-belt rock under it (for better reception, doncha’ know!), to watch the U.S. put three men on the moon.  And now, 40 years later, I’m hopeful that I’m about to see them put a black man in the White House.

This is one of those times that you can watch and see the events of a generation leading a nation to the cusp of achieving an objective that millions of people fought and died for.  Watching MLK here and thinking about the civil rights movement of the 60s, even at the same time as I watch racist hatred still being spewed during this campaign in 2008, makes me realize that this is one of the hardest-won battles in the history of the U.S., and it has still not been won even if Obama is elected.  Thus, though I do not pray to a God, I pray that in one respect, history is not about to be repeated.