To our everlasting shame

 

The brutal legacy of the Indian Residential Schools is Canada's great shame. The recent discovery of the remains of 215 Indigenous children at the site of the former Kamloops Indian Residential School, which closed in 1978, is a horror, but it's not a new horror. It's an old horror, and it's a persistent horror. It's a reminder of decades and decades of white Canadians looking the other way, either out of some passive notion that the schools were "probably for the best," or an active belief that "killing the Indian in the child" as the infamous phrase went, was a good, necessary thing in order to maintain the social order. In either case, it's an example of a collective national sociopathy that has allowed us to disconnect from the unimaginable suffering of thousands of thousands of Native children ripped from their parents, at least 4,100 of whom died in the residential schools to which they were transported. Until we, as a country, come to terms with the cultural genocide that was perpetrated in our name by successive governments, and with the eager, gruesome complicity of the Church, we will never fully attain or embody the ideals we claim as our own, and which we hold dear. The notion that some human beings are disposable because of their colour, or their culture, is an undying obscenity. It's the premise that beats at the dark heart of genocide and slavery, and has done so since time immemorial. Let ours be the first generation not to look away, and let it end with us. 

The Scream by Kent Monkman, Acrylic on canvas,  84” x 126”, Collection of the Denver Art Museum.

Lilacs on a Monday

I found a lilac blossom reaching over a fence this afternoon as if it were trying to touch me. I stopped, put it against my face, and breathed deeply. I was almost delirious at the delicacy and the heady sweetness of the scent. Every once in awhile I'm reminded of what a privilege it is to be some small part of creation, particularly in spring.

Two Helens: a Mother's Day diptych

1.

Helen Hardt Rowe was born in Dunkirk, New York on July 29th, 1930. She had a love for children's theatre and poetry. She studied the former at Fredonia State University and Middlebury College in Vermont; the latter at Bread Loaf, with Robert Frost. It wasn't until after she died that I came upon a folder in a locked box among her things, and discovered what a talented writer she actually was. 

When she met my father, a Canadian broadcaster working in Kingston, Jamaica for the JBC, she was a vacationing American schoolteacher on holiday in Bermuda. They fell in love over three days of riding around the island on my father's mint-green Vespa scooter. 

After they married, the two of them moved to Holland. Dad became an English language announcer at Radio Nederland. As a team, they photographed calendars for KLM and did freelance radio interviews. Alongside my father, she interviewed, among others, Sophia Loren, Eleanor Roosevelt, Dwight Eisenhower, and Jayne Mansfield. 

When they returned to North America so he could do his Master's degree at Northwestern, as part of his plan to enter the foreign service, she supported my father by working as a schoolteacher in Evanston, IL. 

When he did, she became a diplomat's wife, with all the attendant unpaid labour. She didn't particularly care for the rigid protocol that was the heartbeat of international diplomacy, but she learned it cold. She loved travelling, and meeting and entertaining accomplished, interesting people. She relished introducing my brother and I to the wider world, always reminding us that we were just a very small part of it, and to treat it, and its citizens, and their cultures, with the all the respect of guests towards hosts. 

She was an accomplished porcelain painter who did delicate florals. I loved her violets in particular. She adored walking, and nowhere more so than roaming any of the world's beaches. She was simultaneously a woman of her time, and a woman very much ahead of her time—an actively anti-racist member of the Baha'i Faith at a time when a degree of genial social bigotry was often the norm, even in otherwise exalted circles. A woman who chafed at pomposity or smugness in any form. 

She raised two very different children, one of whom—me—presented her with challenges, the meeting of which did not always come naturally. We sometimes clashed, but lack of love was never even a question, and she gave me a lot of space to be the person I was, and became, and am, even though it was sometimes difficult for her to do so. 

Like many ex-children, it took me decades to learn that when she fell short of my expectations, it wasn't because she hadn't tried. There was a useful lesson in humility there for me. 

The night of her funeral, I slept in the guest room of my parents' house on Vancouver Island. In my father's room, the radio was turned way, way up. Listening at his door, I realized that he was trying to muffle the sound of his savage weeping. Whatever clashes my parents had with their children, they were an indissoluble team to us, and with a united face. 

My memories of my mother are set in amber. Closer to sixty than fifty, I remember her love and tenderness with gratitude, and I remember the rest with tenderness of my own, and with an awareness that forgiveness is a mutual prospect, and that I have needed it, and will need it again. One should never ask for something one can't oneself give. 

Love is the embers in life's grate; neglect will put the fire out, but memory, gently applied, can bring in back to full flame

2.

Helen Oliver, who never didn't refer to herself as my "second mum," came into my life sometime in the late 80s, as an adjunct to my then-nascent friendship with her son, Ron. 

A natural mother, she swept me under her wing without a look back. In my mid-twenties, it had not occurred to me that there was room in my life for a second mother, or that I might need one, least of all a glamorous, sun-struck ex-model who, at times, seemed only marginally older than her three children. But we all of us fit together like an esoteric puzzle, and in no time at all I had acquired not only a "second mum," but also three siblings—a relationship that endures to this day. 

She never forgot my birthday, my anniversary, or any other holiday. For my part, I never forgot to reach out on Mother's Day. When my books came out, or I received a literary award of some kind, Helen couldn't have been more of a cheerleader. There was always a call, a message waiting for me on the answering machine, or a card in the mail. She celebrated all her children's achievements, and mine were no different in her eyes. 

She became an indispensable part of our Christmases in California over 30-odd years, first in L.A. and then in Palm Springs. 

Her elegance and her kindness raised the tone of every gathering and, in Palm Springs in particular, onlookers often had the impression that she was perhaps a retired film star whose face they couldn't quite place. More than a few of the leading men Ron's film's were quite taken. 

I can't remember the last time she called me "Michael." I was always "dear," or my nickname, "the Duchess" (except she spelled it “deer” and "the Dutchess" when she wrote it, so that became the official family spelling.) For my part, I nicknamed her "Helen Wheels." 

She was one of the brightest lights in my adult life, and a shining example of the literal currency of maternal love: how loving your children and teaching them that they are wonderful and powerful can make then just that. I rag my deer Ron mercilessly, but he learned all about obstacle slaying at the feet of his mother, to whom he was perfect. 

Helen died while I was at my last NeCon writer's conference in Rhode Island. Distance has never felt crueller or more palpable than it did on the afternoon I heard she was gone. 

That Christmas, in Palm Springs, she was a soignée ghost in black slacks and matching turtleneck, and cherry red blazer. I heard her soft laugh around every corner, and caught the scent of her perfume, and counted myself obscenely blessed to have known her, and known her love. She still haunts my heart, and never more than at Christmas, and on Mother's Day. 

Most people only have one mother. I can't imagine not having had two.

It's been ten years now

Ten years ago today, I was in Austin, Texas at a literary convention. I'd get up in the morning, have breakfast, return to my hotel room to work on Enter, Night, come down for lunch, work on the novel until the evening, then have dinner and socialize with my friends and colleagues at night. Not the idea way to spend three days, but the writing process on that first novel was incredibly hard, and quite fraught. I still managed to leave Texas with some wonderful memories of the conference, but it could have been a hundred years ago as easily as it was ten. This photo is from the book launch that October with my dear friend, novelist Lauren B. Davis, and the legendary Haitian-Canadian writer Dany Lafferière.

Throwback Thursday, magazine edition: 4/22/21

Throwback Thursday, Magazine Edition: In 2007, The Advocate flew me to San Antonio, to interview Marine Staff Sgt. Eric Alva, the first U.S. serviceman casualty of the Iraq war. Alva lost his leg when his unit parked in a minefield for lunch on the first day of the war—a tragic metaphor for the duration, as it would turn out. It was my first time in Texas, and I was struck by the tattered, sun-faded "W" stickers on the backs of pickup trucks. Interviewing Eric Alva about his new war—against "Don't Ask, Don't Tell"—was a profound honour, and it was the cover story of that issue. Later, during the writing, I got into a very, very heated discussion with a senior Pentagon press official regarding the condescending boilerplate statement about the non-role of LGBT servicemen and women in the U.S. military they handed out to every press venue asking them for a comment on "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." It ended with me telling the official that unless they addressed the callous travesty of their official response to "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" in light of the literal first sacrifice of the Iraq war having been made by a gay Marine, I would frame the article harshly in that light, and take it as far as we could go in a magazine that was, at that point, generally accepted as the queer newsmagazine of record, quoted by Time and Newsweek, and elsewhere. As diplomatically as possible under the circumstances, an editor at the magazine suggested that I had perhaps gone too far in that interaction, and that my threat might possibly impact future access. The next day, the Servicemen's Legal Defence Network (SLDN) emailed the magazine that the Pentagon had inexplicably released its first-ever revised version of the boilerplate media response, adding a "promising" sentence stating that gay and lesbian service members "have the opportunity to continue to serve their nation and national security by putting their abilities to use by way of civilian employment with other federal agencies, the Department of Defence, or in the private sector, such as with contractors." In 2007, that passed for compassion. The piece was eventually a co-finalist for a GLAAD Media Award, and 2007 feels like several centuries ago at this point. Eric Alva remains one of my favourite and most memorable interview subjects—and I loved San Antonio.

Magnolias

 

A sudden gust of spring wind blew down the street, scattering magnolia blossoms, and a momentary burst of unearthly fragrance literally stopped me in my tracks. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. It was a momentary bulwark against plague, lockdowns, involuntary solitude, a culture of cruelty and suspicion, and the creeping winter-of-the-soul in which so many of us have been engulfed for more than a year. For a moment, it smelled like love, friendship, hope, possibility, and miraculous renewal. The scent feathered away, but the brightness remained like a warm handprint.

A gift in today's mail

 

In today's mail, a gifted 8-year old artist of my acquaintance sent me this beautiful rendering of Beckett. It's a given that I will treasure it always, and get it properly framed in due course. One of the truest things about homemade gifts from children is how much of the heart they put into things is on display. They haven't yet learned the social artifice of adulthood, so when the love is there—like it is here—it's a bolt of light, straight to the heart.

Ramadan Mubarak

 Alhamdulillah. 

A melodic sort of twitter, for a change

My brilliant godson Michael, who is 16, was born with an instinctive eye for beauty. He is as deft and skilled with a camera as he is with a football. An embarrassment of riches. He sent this to me this morning, and it was exactly the palate cleanser I needed.

For shame

 

Over and over, I've meditated upon the specific connection between anti-mask entitlement, and the sort of xenophobic, anti-Arab tirade displayed in this horrifying video from Florida—both of which are on display here—(complete with central-casting white female victimhood, and ending with a weepy "Please don't do this to me!" plea to the cops when they arrest her for terrorizing an Egyptian woman and her husband, who were just trying to shop.) The best I can come up with, regarding the connection, is a sense of nearly sociopathic entitlement, an expectation that literally everything occurring in their personal space should be pleasing to them—what they see, what they hear, what other people expect of them, where other people are from, what colour those people are, what they wear, what they say, who they are. When it's not pleasing to them, they've been taught, by politicians and churches, that their "rights" are being infringed upon, and they're entitled to act out in any way they see fit, and that doing so is wholesome and patriotic, even noble. And if it comes down to it, that they'll be acclaimed as justified for this obscene behaviour, and/or forgiven, whether it's murdering an unarmed person of colour in the street, or terrorizing one in a Walgreens. If that's "overthinking" on my part, so be it. It's a way of counting down from 100 until the craving for retributive violence eventually dissipates, because that's no way to be in the world either.

Throwback Thursday, magazine edition: 4/8/21

Interviewing 1984 Olympic gold medallist Alex Baumann in Sudbury, Ontario, in 1985, for Close-Up magazine. It was an almost-five-mile drive each way, and the pool area at Laurentian University was so steamy that day that the photographer's flash barely worked. Still, he got this gorgeous portrait for magazine, and I got my interview. A very long winter day, ultimately counted as win.

Throwback Thursday, web edition 4/1/21

"For his part, Harper’s age was a massive, inescapable truth told through the lens of the Nikon. The perfect coffee-colored eyes were filmy, set deep beneath heavy lids. His coat looked white in the sun. Still, Harper never looked more beautiful to me than he did at that moment. The entire history of eleven summers was there in his face, a face of vast kindness and dignity, and the pure essential sweetness that is peculiar to very old dogs.

"In one frame in particular, my favourite in fact, he’s standing on the edge of the dock with his back to me, staring out across the lake, caught between the water and the sky. Harper body is slightly bent, but still proud and upright. In that photograph, he resembles a very old lighthouse keeper on his final rounds, the last watch of the night."

—From "Life, Measured Out in Labradors," first published on 𝑆𝑎𝑙𝑡 𝑊𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑁𝑒𝑤 𝐸𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑 in January, 2017

Throwback Thursday, magazine edition 3/25/21

My 2006 on-set interview with SAW III director Darren Lynn Bousman—the cover story of Fangoria #258. What I most remember about that assignment, besides how much I liked Bousman, was that it was around this time that I started to realize that the directors I was now interviewing were, as likely as not, younger than I was. After 17-odd years of interviews with the likes of John Carpenter, David Cronenberg, George A. Romero, Craig R. Baxley, 𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑙, it was an odd feeling. I can't say I was fond of it. 

Rewatching The Devil's Advocate

 

I alway forget what a masterpiece of social commentary is Taylor Hackford's The Devil's Advocate (1997) on top of everything else that makes it a first-tier Satanic thriller that deftly skewers the "me-first" greed and conspicuous consumption that defined the 1980s, and the fetishization of lawyers, in the same way that Wall Street levelled the cult of insider trading. There are some tour-de-force performances, most notably by Judith Ivey as Keanu Reeves' fundamentalist Christian mother (the only person who seems to understand what's going on) and a heartbreaking one by Charlize Theron as his unsuspecting wife, slowly being driven insane by the supernatural happenings targeting her. There is a chillingly prescient turn by Craig T. Nelson as a Donald Trump figure accused of murder (ever the egotist, Trump allowed the production to film inside his Trump Tower penthouse.) I am not universally a fan of Al Pacino, who's occasionally struck me as a bit of a scenery chewer, but aside from Robert De Niro in Angel Heart, it was difficult for me to imagine any other actor as Satan after The Devil's Advocate. The film is also judiciously—and elegantly—sprinkled with Biblical imagery ("Walk with me," Pacino's Milton invites Reeves' rawboned Florida lawyer, just before offering him Manhattan, literally laid out at his feet) but never in any proselytizing way. It never, ever forgets that it's a blue-chip horror film. In my mind, it's the natural successor to Rosemary's Baby as the perfect New York demonicum.

My father would have been ninety today

 “At sixteen, you still think you can escape from your father. You aren't listening to his voice speaking through your mouth, you don't see how your gestures already mirror his; you don't see him in the way you hold your body, in the way you sign your name. You don't hear his whisper in your blood.”

― Salman Rushdie, East, West

Today would have been my father's 90th birthday. It's not a day for sympathy, or "thoughts and prayers," or "birthday in heaven" platitudes. As memories mellow and deepen, and as they run to amber, it becomes easier and easier to see the totality of the people we've loved lost and to measure their triumphs and failures as human beings, knowing that we are also human beings with our own flaws, and to leaven those memories with that very love. He's everywhere. His portrait by the Cornish artist John Cabell hangs in the dining room. I have his Italian burled walnut valet stand in my bedroom. I wear his old Omega watch with the faded burgundy and navy grosgrain band, and it's warm on my wrist. As both a veteran journalist and a veteran diplomat, my father was well-versed in the vagaries of human nature. While there were several exceptionally cruel moments in the last fifteen months—moments when every fibre of my being ached for his wise counsel, and comfort—I already knew what he'd say about strength, integrity, decency, being true to yourself, and doing the right thing, even when that's the most uncomfortable, even painful, option. There was, and is, comfort in that. The best of him is with me always, and the rest fades away. Like Rushdie wrote, I hear his whisper in my blood.