A Day Illuminated by the Globe Focus Section

I had a great day on Saturday, filled with events of no particular import, but satisfying in each detail. After breakfast Mark and I drove out to the Leslie St Spit; for you non-Torontonians, the spit is a peninsula of land jutting out from the eastern Toronto waterfront created by the dumping of excavated materials and soils from sites in Toronto over the past decades. Over time nature has claimed the area, filling it with flora of all descriptions as well as the distinct fauna that follow along. It has been given definition by the judicious arrangement of pebble-stone trails as well as a central asphalt road for bicyclists. We walked for about an hour and a half along the lovely side trails lined with common summer road flowers and “weeds.” A mature bunny leapt out of one path and darted quickly into the undergrowth. We had spectacular views of the lake. Neither of us had visited this storied site and we found it wondrous.

Next, a visit to the Loblaw’s on the Queen’s Quay. Loblaw’s have upgraded their stores in the past couple of years and they really are a delight to the eyes and to the palate. We picked up several staple items as well as some salmon and veggies for our supper. Back at home we got ourselves organized for lunch on the deck with the Saturday papers – the Globe and Mail and the Toronto Star. Some fluff but lots of content as well – but more about that later.

In the early afternoon we walked along Bloor St to our local documentary theatre, the Bloor Hot Docs, to see a recommended film (by the Globe and the Toronto Now), called The Dog. The Dog was a nick-name assumed by John Wojtowicz after his six year term in prison for a 1972 failed bank robbery in Brooklyn, undertaken to pay for the sex change longed for by his male lover, Ernie. While Wojtowicz was imprisoned, the story of the robbery was made into the feature A Dog Day Afternoon, starring Al Pacino. I remembered the film very well; it was one of Pacino’s earliest and best films, but I had not known the origin of its story line. The Dog laid out the events through interviews with Wojtowicz (who died of cancer in 2006), his mother, Terry (who was an interesting Brooklyn/Italian character in her own right), his wife Carmen, the lover, Ernie (who was enabled to have his/her sex change through moneys received through Wojtowicz agreement with the producers of the feature film), another, post-prison lover, as well as with witnesses, police, and a reporter who had had direct telephone access with Wojtowicz and his accomplice Sal, during the robbery and the subsequent hostage period. Post prison Wojtowicz, always a flamboyant person, seemed to inhabit the persona created through the feature film chronicling his odyssey toward incarceration. He enjoyed and profited from the notoriety that the exposure had brought to his experiences. An interesting element that stands behind the story itself: one can clearly see the gulf between the manner in which gay and transgendered people were viewed and treated four decades ago in contrast to where they stand now within our somewhat more inclusive society. Ernie, Wojtowicz’ lover, who had attempted suicide in his desperation for a sex change, was placed in a mental hospital with no foreseeable opportunity for release, not because he was suicidal, but as one official delicately put it, “because he wants to cut off his dick.”

And so out onto the street, a walk along post-raining Bloor St, the air lovely and soft, people bustling along in all their many varieties; I love it all. Home for an afternoon nap, more newspaper perusal, followed by dinner put together by the expert endeavours of my in-home chef. The cap on this very enjoyable day, was the win by the Blue Jays over the Chicago White Socks, snapping an unfortunate seven-game losing streak.

And now to Sunday morning and to the Focus section of the Globe, a piece that I have always reserved for Sunday AM reading. I suspect that I do so as the Focus is chock-a-block with items of true significance, well-written pieces about issues that provoke thought and internal comment. Yesterday’s was consistent with this pattern. I will point out just three of the several articles that I read closely as they are of particular interest to me. The first is a long essay by novelist Michael Crummey about a relatively new divide in his home province of Newfoundland, now oil wealthy and with money-engendered sophistication, a hit spot for worldly tourists. The benefits of this transformation of Newfoundland from a “have not” to a “have” province have not trickled down to the out-port communities that dot its circumference, however. Crummey envisions the loss of much of the essence of Newfoundland life as lived by its fishing villages over the next decades. Few of these will be able to weather the imperative of relocation to areas where roads allow the transportation of the necessities of life, in other words, to the interior. The provincial government while not requiring communities or individuals to relocate, is offering sweet incentives to do so.

A second long essay by Nathan VanderKlippe outlines the increasing pressures upon the Uighur (pronounced We-gurr) people in the north-western province of Xinjaing in China. As in Tibet, the Chinese government has sponsored the colonization of this area by Han Chinese, giving them preference in locations, jobs, and in positions of governance and policing. The Uighurs, resident for centuries in this section of the fabled Silk Road, are Islamic in religion and have their own language and customs. Governments may trumpet multi-culturalism in festivals, but the truth remains that the organization and control of a diverse population is considerably more difficult than of one that is homogeneous in language, values, and religion. We have only to look at the responses of our own government over the past two centuries to the differences between the Metis’ way of life and its project of settlement by Europeans. The government’s inability or unwillingness to grasp and to respect the human condition of the Metis (as well as that of our native indigenous peoples), and to work in good faith with all concerned for compromises that would allow for a “commonweal,” a system of governance that would nurture the purposed development of each component group. Our Canadian experience continues into the present, littered with tragedies that stem directly from “rational” decisions made from Ottawa to “deal with” those pesky groups that don’t fit into the easy norm.

In China the government does not exactly forbid religion. Rather, it denies an expression of religion that in any fashion might cause public disturbance. This approach disallows the wearing of veils except for a marriage ceremony, and the growth of any kind of beard. Traditional practices like these are viewed not as ethnic or cultural symbols but as politically provoking activities, punishable by imprisonment with beatings, sometimes with absolute disappearance. Religious instruction to children under 18 is forbidden and education, euphemistically entitled “bilingual,” is in reality conducted in the Chinese language. The squeezing of the Uighur people over the past few decades has led, as in Tibet, to progressive radicalization. Protest of any nature is used to substantiate the government’s proclaimed “war on terror,” a war prosecuted with incredible violence.

In 2005 Mark and I travelled by train across Kazakhstan and into China, traversing Xinjiang. We disembarked in Urumqi, Xinjiang’s capital and were taken by van to Turfan, an ancient town in the desert, a few hundred feet below sea level. There we spent a couple of days at the Grand Turfan Hotel, not terribly grand in fact, but our opening into Uighur culture. We dined in restaurants owned and operated by Uighurs; these were entirely family-run operations – the cooking, the serving, the taking of money. Young children played about our feet; one young maiden of about eight years was persuaded by her mother to do a traditional dance for us, their only patrons. One evening I went by taxi with another women from our tour to the main square. We had no Uighur and our driver certainly had no English. We communicated entirely by gestures; we all laughed a great deal at the silliness of our efforts, but we did get there. Families were enjoying the evening air; there were toy machines available for the children; an open air film was playing. A student from Urumqi came up to speak with us. He was studying English and Russian and planned to work as an interpreter. He dreamed of plying his trade In Germany and marrying a German girl. He said that my companion look German (some flirtation there) and that I looked like a Russian ballet teacher. He was funny and very cute. Other young people approached us and despite the language barriers, we had some lively exchanges with them. All of us on the tour enjoyed the friendliness and hospitality of the Uighur people whom we met. I am saddened to realize how their condition has deteriorated since our visit.

The third article which caught my attention this morning is about psychopathy, a topic which has been of interest to me for decades. As this post is already very long, however, I will write about that piece at a later date. You can hardly wait. One last word: Alas, the Jays lost again on Sunday.