And The Wall Came Tumbling Down

I ran into an old acquaintance last week, someone I hadn't seen since he and his family had moved to Israel a few years ago. I asked about his wife and kids, told him to send my love, and he asked, "Aren't you on Facebook?"

No, I told him. Facebook makes me nervous.  Too many privacy issues.

He snorted.  "Get over it.  Move into the 21st century."

A week later I caved. And don't think I didn't get teased about it.

It wasn't just the encounter with Yoni, though it was certainly the final push over the cliff.  It wasn't a sudden decision, though I did just get up one morning and do it. I had been thinking about it for a few months. Friends had been asking me join for years (in fact, I had four friend requests waiting the minute I showed my face). My main reservation, as I said, was the privacy issues. Facebook is notorious for letting people see information that you would rather keep private, as well as sharing info with advertisers and other third parties. I set my privacy settings to the highest, yet a friend using a fake page was able to see my profile, my interests, everything but my wall, because there are two sets of settings and I only saw one. That bothers me; had I not figured out how to fix it, my e-mail address would have been accessible to strangers and spammers. Canada has insisted that Facebook comply with Canadian privacy standards, but I don't think they really have. And if you truly want to be frightened off Facebook, just read this article at TechRepublic.com.

Yet in spite of my better judgement, there I am.  As one old friend re-connecting wrote on my wall, "Peer pressure does it again!!!"  And it was immediately clear to me what makes Facebook the addictive waste of time it is.

First, you are hit with an enormous number of friend suggestions, at least in the beginning. As I said, there were four people waiting for me to join. The minute I accepted their requests, suggestions poured in.  Current friends, old friends, family... although so far I haven't "friended" anyone I couldn't have found by calling  someone I'm already in touch with. I did search a few people whom I can't find through existing relationships, but either they are not on Facebook, or they have names like John Smith, with hundreds of matches.  You need at least a city of residence to narrow it down.  Still, after the first day, I went to bed with 30 friends (and woke up with 31). That's probably pathetic by FB standards, but it was still kind of cool.

Second, there is an insane amount of information to sift through. The "news feed" shows you everything that's been posted by anyone, even non-friends, to every friend's page-- and whatever your friends have posted everywhere as well. If you have hundreds of friends, that's a lot of shit in one day. And you can unwittingly add to this by putting too much information on your profile. I figured if I'm doing this, I'm doing it right, and listed my favourite books, TV shows, movies, and the only sports team I care about, the Toronto Blue Jays. Suddenly, my news feed is covered in promos for True Blood, In Treatment, and announcements from the Blue Jay’s management, not to mention all the dogs needing foster homes from an animal rescue site. (There's a way to turn that off, I just have to do it.)  All this extraneous unwanted stuff almost made me miss the fact that my friend got a new wig.

Finally, there is the social element (duh).  Facebook is clearly trying to take over all communication on the Web. I have a number of friends who communicate almost exclusively through Facebook. An e-mail sent to one of them might not get answered for days. There's on-line chat to replace MSN, messaging to replace e-mail, and of course, constant status updates on everyone's walls. Plus the games. I'm not going near the games. I waste enough time in my day as it is.

This post took much longer to write than it should have because every minute or two, something happened on Facebook.  I couldn't write; I was too busy discussing a friend's upcoming trip to the bakery with her and three other people (one of whom I don't even know), while messaging someone else at the same time. And don't forget the updates.  "Bozo the Clown has accepted your friend request."  "You are now friends with Bozo the Clown and two other people."  Personal comments on the wall.  Articles in the news feed to pique your interest.  A reminder of a friend's birthday (thank you FB, it's now in my real calendar, so I can remind myself next year).

The public nature of the platform is scary. Obviously I don't care if people know I like the Blue Jays. By all means let's moan about the weather, or share a funny video from YouTube. However, there are certain things I won't be sharing.  You won't see status updates every five minutes. You won't see pictures of my kids. I won't tell you about all the jobs I apply for and don't get.  I won't swear on someone's wall, where everyone can see it (I'll save that for private messaging, e-mail, and real life).  And it won't supplant the long, chatty e-mails to my penpal in London (hmmm, should check to see if she's on Facebook....)

I've never been shy, as my long-time friends will attest (cue "remember when she...?" stories).  I still enjoy public speaking, I still love socializing and being evil and all those fun things. If I was still 20, I bet I'd have a million pictures up, and live my life in the public eye without a second thought.  But I try for a little discretion in my old age (trying doesn't mean succeeding, mind you).  We should all know by now that some things can come back to bite us; just ask Kimberly Swann and Ray Lam. It seems obvious not to tell the world that your job is "boring," or put pictures of yourself being stupid on the Internet, but Facebook gives the illusion that you're just talking to friends.  You think no one's going to tell, but really, you've told on yourself.  Careers have been ruined, or failed to get off the ground; employers now routinely check Facebook pages before calling for an interview. And while I can decide how much I want to show, if my sister elects to put up a naked baby picture of me and tag it with my name, there's not much I can do.

The Spouse has told me, "Just have fun with it!" and I intend to. I'll just assume that everything I put up will be seen by all 500 million users, and act accordingly.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I see I have a message waiting.

Winter Weather

Here's an opinion for you. Winter sucks.

I've lived in northern climes all my life. In fact, I grew up somewhere considerably colder than where I live now.  In my younger years, I could stand outside in -20 without a coat and chat with friends. I started wearing sandals in April, even if there was still snow on the ground.

Now I'm old. Technically I'm middle-aged, but I feel old. When hanging around the dog park, I'm shivering and bundled in a coat, while other people wear sweaters. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" they ask, while I look at them like the grumpy old woman I've become.

It's not just the cold, it's the snow.  Snow removal here sucks, much like winter itself. The city, in its infinite bureaucratic wisdom, clears the one-way street just north of ours before they clean our two-way street.  Complete snow clearance after a major storm can take up to six days.

We just had a major storm, at least two feet of snow, lots of traffic snarl-ups, and the sidewalks are impassable. I get snow in my boots, I can't walk the dog, I feel boxed in, and I get even grumpier. I want to go where's there no snow and the temperature is at least 70.

"Florida," says the Spouse.  We're 20 years from retirement age (and 40 years from retirement), but he's dreaming of Boca. I don't mind Boca, but I hate southern Florida in general. The I-95 from Boca to Miami is the ugliest stretch of highway in America, nothing by jai alai parlours and graffitied warehouses.  A vacation-- great, no problem.  Buying a condo and becoming snowbirds, not so much.  Besides, we're still too young.

So I'm stuck in the cold and the snow. I don't ski. I don't skate. My kids play in the back yard with the dog, but that's the sum total of winter activities. The dog loves the snow. Today he dug up a dead frozen squirrel. Our middle child was traumatised. So was I. Spring can't come soon enough.

Tell the Truth, Pay the Price

Christie Blatchford at
the book signing

Last night I went to a book-signing for Christie Blatchford's Helpless, a book about how the residents of Caledonia, a pretty rural area near Hamilton, Ontario, have lived in a state of near-siege since 2006, perpetuated by aboriginal protesters unhappy about real estate developments they feel encroach on their lands.

Helpless puts forth the thesis that the government of Ontario and the Ontario Provincial Police failed the citizens of Caledonia by pursuing a two-pronged approach to the situation: appeasement of the protesters, and the refusal to protect and uphold the rights of non-aboriginal citizens. The OPP, with the blessing of Queen's Park, seat of the Ontario legislature, stuck to a policy of non-interference even as the natives grew more brazen and aggressive, and the protests spread from the disputed land to town itself.  Citizens and landowners of Caledonia (and others just passing through) were subject to harrassment, intimidation, and acts of vandalism and outright violence, while the OPP stood by and let it happen.  The book details the abandonment of the rule of law, or, more accurately, how the law was unjustly applied to some residents of Caledonia, but not others. Aboriginals protested with impunity and non-natives were arrested for flying the Canadian flag, or anything else the OPP deemed "provocative" or "confrontational."  Blatchford believes that the blame does not lie with the rank-and-file members of the OPP, many of whom were distressed by their inability to act; the hands-off directives came from Commissioners Gwen Boniface and Julian Fantino, who, ironically, is now the member of Parliament for Vaughn, the riding which includes Caledonia.

Blatchford has a no-nonsense, tell-the-facts-exactly-as-they-are style; her loyalty is to the truth, not some bigger political agenda. But by showing the actions of the native protesters to be both violent and illegal,  Blatchford breaks the rules of political correctness; naturally, this ruffles feathers. On November 12, members of the Anti-Racist Association at the University of Waterloo managed to shut down her speech, and organizer Dan Kellar claimed that Blatchford had, in the past, "glorified" neo-Nazi Ernst Zundel, then compared her to Julius Streicher.

I've long been a fan of Blatchford, and I was not very happy to hear her slandered. I wanted to know what Blatchford herself had to say.  So I popped off the following e-mail:

Dear Ms. Blatchford:

I am sitting with a cup of coffee at my kitchen table reading about how a few yahoos with opinions contrary to yours managed to curb free speech at the University of Waterloo. One of these individuals accuses you of anti-Semitism, stating that “older members of the ARA [Anti-Racist Association] remember her ‘glorifying’ neo-Nazi Ernst Zundel” (National Post, page A6, second column).

I will confess that I am not currently a subscriber to the Globe and Mail, but I was many years ago, and I always enjoyed your writing. You didn’t strike me as a racist or Nazi sympathizer, but perhaps I missed something. I was quite annoyed to read about your mistreatment, and would like to know how you will respond to this accusation. I suspect, if anything, you supported Zundel’s right to free speech, which is a legitimate view, rather supporting his actual views, which are repellent. And perhaps this man is just out and out lying. Really, what I would like to know, as a long-time fan of your writing, is, what the hell is he talking about?

I received the following reply, in Blatchford's succinct, to-the-point tone:

He's a liar, period. I'm a Zionist, if anything, and all I ever would have defended about Zundel was his right to speak, and I don't remember even doing that.

Thanks for the note.

C

I thought as much.



Anyone who thinks Blatchford is a racist hasn't read the book.  She openly acknowledges that many injustices, from the glacial pace of aboriginal land claims to the residential school scandal, have plagued Canada's aboriginal community for decades, if not centuries, and that these issues "are one way or another in the background of everything that occurred in Caledonia." In other words, the members of the Six Nations (and other native groups in Canada) have justified grievances. These grievances, however, do not give them free license to terrorize their neighbours; people have a right to live in peace and security, and they rely on the government to provide this protection under the rule of law.  The book is not anti-aboriginal; it is a condemnation of the Orwellian situation in Caledonia, where in principle all are equal in the eyes of the law, but in practice some are more equal than others.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part One

In the world of Potter fans, I'm no Emerson Spartz, Melissa Anelli,, or Steve Vander Ark.  However, I've become known in our circle of friends as the Potter fanatic.  One daughter has a Ravenclaw scarf and hat, knitted by a loving grandmother.  My other daughter had her second annual Harry Potter Sleepover this summer, complete with cauldron cakes, licorice wands, pumpkin pasties, Bernie Botts Every Flavour Beans, and a game or two of quidditch.  The seven-book series, plus its companion books (Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them, Quidditch Through The Ages, The Tales of Beedle the Bard) and even a few books of commentary, occupy a place of honour in my bedroom.  We have multiple copies of each book, softcover, hardcover, adult cover.  I actually won myself a copy of Deathly Hallows by calling into a trivia show.  (I mean, really, "What was the name of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers in each book?"  That's the Potter trivia equivalent of "What is H20 more commonly known as?"  The only trick is remembering that in Book Four it's Barty Crouch Jr. masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody, and not really Mad-Eye himself.)  In a fit of boredom one day, I even wrote my own 43-question trivia quiz on the first six books.  I tried to think up non-plot-related questions, so the answers couldn't be looked up easily.  For example, Cornelius Fudge replaced Millicent Bagnold as Minister for Magic, but even I don't remember which book drops that little tidbit into our laps.

So I'm pretty well-versed in the Harry Potter canon, have the plots down to the minutiae, understand character, motivation, theme, and even the bit of symbolism that Rowling sneaks in here and there.  But, unsurprisingly, I'm not a big fan of the movies.

The Sound of Silence

My husband has background noise going all the time.  He has a cable hookup and PVR in his computer, so he's either watching taped TV or listening to music as he works.  When he gets a phone call, he pauses the song or the show, and restarts it when he's done.

He can't understand how I can work in silence.  "Turn on the radio!" he orders, whenever he comes up and finds me in my quiet kitchen.

"I can't read and concentrate with music going," I tell him, and he shakes his head and goes back to his basement office.

Sometimes a little background sound is necessary.  If I try to cook or clean, I get bored very quickly, and I either pick up the phone to chat with a friend while the mindless tasks get done, or, if my number on call display scares them off, I turn on the radio.  Doing needed but hated chores requires a distraction, and music works.  It's a psychological trick; I'm tidying up while listening to the radio, not listening to the radio while I tidy. After all, you get fidgety if you just sit and listen. This way you get something done while listening to tunes.  (TV is a little harder; if I try to watch TV while cleaning my room, I either rewind over and over, or nothing gets very clean.)

I think, if I was a single woman on my own, I would have more artificial noise around me. In a home with three lively children and a large dog who was born to guard us against any imaginary incursion, I have grown to value silence.  When the children leave for school, and the dog goes to lie down until the doorbell rings again, I sit in the kitchen and listen to nothing.  And it's very very soothing.

Besides, what I told my husband is true; I need silence to read, to write, to think. And I think that anyone who tries to complete an intellectual task with music playing (or worse, the TV on) secretly wants to be doing something other than reading, writing, or thinking. I can't even write a blog post with music going. Interruptions derail me.  I resent the phone for ringing.  I need to work until I reach a natural stop.

Between our computers, our phones, our children, our pets, tweeting, IM'ing, texting, and that little sound the computer makes when an e-mail lands in the inbox, I think we could all use a little sensory deprivation in our lives.  I suggest everyone have "silent time" for a set period every day: at least fifteen minutes when you sit in a quiet spot and listen to the silence.  Make it a bathroom break if you must.  But focus on the silence, on the quiet, on the peace.  You might find yourself addicted.

Lady Lawyers

A few weeks ago we had a young couple to dinner. He is articling at a law firm specializing in real estate law. While discussing his profession, both he and his wife opined that law is really not for women, as being a lawyer goes against a woman's "essential nature." I nearly fell over laughing, and said, "I'll tell Lawyer X (a very well-regarded female attorney) you said that!"

Now, I have studied a lot of psychology, and apart from a few die-hard feminists who still play the victim/blame game, it's pretty well acknowledged that stereotypical gender differences do, in fact, exist. On the whole, women are less aggressive and more nurturing. They often tend this way from childhood, and yes, they are praised for complying with stereotypical gender roles. However, these are tendencies, not rules. If you take 100 women and 100 men, there will be a woman or even three in that group who could slaughter all the men present. Yet unlike the men, their take-no-prisoners approach will not be lauded; rather, they will be tarred with the rather unpleasant epithet "ball-buster." Fortunately, these women don't much care what you call them, as long as you pay your bills and don't double-cross them.

But just for argument's sake, let's say our guests were right: women's essential natures are unsuited to the rough-and-tumble adversarial world of law. Who’s to say that they shouldn't enter it nonetheless? Perhaps less adversarial conduct is exactly what the world of law needs. Maybe if more women were lawyers, "I'll see you in court!" would be replaced by, "I'll see you at negotiations!"

Besides, the legal profession isn't 100% adversarial to begin with. I happened to spend part of yesterday with a lady attorney of my acquaintance. And I use the term "lady" deliberately, because she is one. She became a lawyer in her forties, and describes her profession as "helping people." She closes real estate transactions, drafts wills, and helps people sort out day-to-day legal issues that perhaps a bulldog longing for courtroom antics would find boring. But these things need to be done, and they need to be done by a lawyer. Wills and real estate may not be inherently dramatic, but contested wills and bad property transactions can ruin lives and relationships. These matters call for a calm, sensitive, objective, and diplomatic touch.

Perhaps we should find a new term, similar to "prosecutor" or "defense attorney" to define this non-litigious species of lawyer. Divorce attorneys have already co-opted the term "family law," but I'm sure we can come up with something. In Quebec they are called "notaries," but that term is used elsewhere to denote anyone who can witness passport applications and other such documents. So we need something universal. What we don't need is specious limitations put on who has the right "nature" to practice law. All one needs is a strong mind, and a desire to see order maintained, wrongs righted, and justice upheld. These are not qualities limited by gender.

Discovering Richard Russo

One hot July day last summer, I was browsing through books at a street sale when I found a book called She's Not There: A Life in Two Genders, by Jennifer Finney Boylan.  As I have a transgendered (FTM) cousin, I was interested to read about this woman's struggle with gender issues, so for two bucks I bought it.

She's Not There was well-written, human, and touching.  Boylan told her story in mostly matter-of-fact tones, and I empathized with her struggle to come to terms with her gender identity.  The most intriguing part of the narrative, for me, was how her loved ones coped with her transformation, specifically her wife, Grace, and her best friend, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Richard Russo.  Both stood by her; both came with her to Wisconsin for her reassignment surgery, and legally, as far as I can tell from Boylan's website, she and Grace are even still married.  Talk about quasi-happy endings (happy for Jennifer; I still can't help wondering how Grace really feels).

Happy Birthday, To Kill A Mockingbird

Okay, I'm a few weeks late, but I want to wish my favourite novel of all time a happy 50th birthday.

To Kill A Mockingbird is a literary achievement far beyond scope of more prolific authors.  The solitary output of reclusive (Nelle) Harper Lee of Monroeville, Alabama, the book is one of the most banned books in America.  It shares this distinction with novels such as The Catcher in the Rye, The Grapes of Wrath, and 1984.  You have to bear true meaning, touch a lot of minds and hearts, to engender that much fear in small-minded people.

Several years ago I wrote a little piece called "Five Books for Fiction Writers."  Of course Mockingbird was one of the five.  I can't do better than to reprint what I wrote then:

This is the finest novel ever written in the English language. It executes every element of the novel– plot, theme, setting, characterization, voice, and point-of-view. The plot is easy to follow, yet far from simplistic. The themes, racism and the destruction of innocence (and innocents), are and (sadly) will be relevant forever. The setting perfectly evokes a small Southern town of the 1930s. True social change will not come for three more decades, yet we see the how the seeds of the coming revolution are sown.

Each character is fully-drawn, and none is a stereotype (except perhaps Miss Stephanie Crawford). Aunt Alexandra epitomizes this; just as we come to believe she represents the social standards of the day, we see her humanity in her love for Atticus. But the voice is the crown jewel of Lee’s achievement. The voice of the narrator, Jean Louise “Scout” Finch, changes seamlessly from a child’s to adult’s perspective throughout the book, and the reader always knows who is speaking– the adult or child. It blends perfectly with the point of view of the author, whose biographical details closely match Scout’s. This book is everything a book should be– absorbing, meaningful, witty, readable, intelligent, and technically close to perfection.

For many years I longed to hear that another book was coming from Lee, but alas, it will not be.  At 86, Lee now lives in an assisted living facility after a stroke. I would write her a fan letter, but she prefers anonymity to adulation, and what could I say to her that hasn't been said a thousand times before?  I'm not the only one who sees this book as the novel of the 20th century (and possibly the 21st).  I'm not the only one who puts it at the top of top-ten lists.  Still, gratitude dictates that I say "thank you" for the enjoyment and enlightenment that this work of art has given me.  I will insist that my children read it when they are old enough to appreciate it; I will insist they see the movie too.  Great art inspires thought, and thought inspires change.  As long as this book remains read and in print, people will give consideration to the great themes of good and evil, prejudice and ignorance, innocence and understanding, that are at the heart of this book, and at the heart of the human condition.