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Grief, Love and Politics: Jack Layton’s Last Letter Calls Forth the Best in Us September 1, 2011

Posted by rogerhollander in Canada.
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Published on Thursday, September 1, 2011 by Rabble.ca

 

I don’t think anyone could have fathomed the scale of the remarkable outpouring of emotion and grieving that has swept across Canada since last week’s announcement of the death of Jack Layton.

 

What explains this extraordinary week, in which one person’s death seems to have become such a significant moment in the life of this country?

In part, it is Jack’s story and the themes it contains with which we are hardwired to connect. The love story with Olivia; the story of a political underdog exceeding all expectations; and, of course, the story of a heroic journey cut short just as the improbable victory came within sight. The astute John Doyle noted the echoes of Terry Fox — a tale of daring and selfless virtue absorbed by Canadians from childhood — and his tragic, premature end.

There are other reasons Jack Layton’s death hit so hard and impacted such a breadth of people. One factor was that last letter from Jack, written just two days before he died, which appeared in the inboxes and social media feeds of a country right in the midst of our grief and shock on the day he passed away. Reading Jack’s last testament — simple, yet profound and eloquent — multiplied the impact on both our hearts and minds.

The letter made a series of very deliberate, political points, wrapped up in a personal and emotional appeal for readers to take action for a better world motivated by hope, optimism and love.

Jack’s final message and the reaction to his death rankled some conservatives; unsurprisingly it was Christie Blatchford who spewed bile in the National Post, openly expressing what some others on the Right had the good sense merely to whisper amongst themselves.

Essentially, her objections were that Jack’s letter contained political content and purpose; that the media and other public figures were showing respect and expressing fondness for him on the day that he died; and, most of all, that the public response was so big and overwhelming. (Andrew Coyne, the ubiquitous conservative pundit, subtly implied his own, similar critique of the letter on CBC’s The National on Monday, later tweeting that he felt Blatchford made some valid points: “@acoyne I don’t disagree with a lot of what Christie Blatchford wrote. I’m just not inclined to judge things quite so harshly…”)

That Jack’s letter was political cannot really be any surprise whatsoever. He lived politics something pretty close to 24/7. Besides, surely just about everyone has the right to the last words of their own choosing — even jurisdictions that still practice the barbarism of capital punishment routinely offer the damned a choice over their last meal and the freedom to express a final message.

Progressive or radical political leaders, quite naturally, tend to feel the need to rally their forces one last time. After all, almost by definition the committed reformer or revolutionary leaves this life with work still left unfinished. Dying members of the wealthy elite, or political defenders of the status quo, probably feel less urgency to use their last breaths to issue manifestos. (On our side, perhaps the simplest and most famous final injunction came from labour radical Joe Hill — “Don’t mourn, organize!”)

Jack’s final letter was no call to the barricades, but it did feature more stirring and idealistic language than any widely read Canadian political tract in recent memory. I hope that’s part of why it has resonated. That would give reactionaries like Blatchford good cause to be worried. The spread of a politics that calls forth the best in all of us, and that dares to imagine changing the world, would greatly devalue her rhetorical currency of fear and loathing.

Blatchford’s other complaint — that people were being respectful, or even reverential, on the day of Jack’s death — is laughable. It amounts to lamenting that her fellow humans were acting human when they could have been joining her unseemly grave dance. (It’s also utterly contemptible for the sheer hypocrisy, given the endless maudlin “tributes” to fallen Canadian soldiers — and never Afghan civilians — Blatchford has written to buttress her pro-war positions.)

Personally, whether it’s a family member or a friend or just a prominent public person, I reserve the absolute right to remember and celebrate the best of someone when they pass away (exceptions made for outright moral or political monsters). You know, because life is short, we are all flawed and contradictory, never send to know for whom the bell tolls… and so forth.

That’s why these past few days I’ve been thinking about and sharing my memories of the good political fights that Jack Layton fought and the movements for social justice to which he contributed.

I’ve disagreed with plenty of things said — or, as often, not said — and done by the NDP under Layton’s leadership, including serious recent disappointments. This is not the time to dwell on and rehash these matters, though of course in the longer-term full and critical analyses of Layton’s tenure as NDP leader should be made and debated.

These criticisms were not so much about an individual and his choices, but rather about a political system stacked in favour of the interests of the rich and powerful. It’s a system with tools aplenty to take the edge off of sincere reformers, and in which frank talk of anti-capitalism, Canadian imperialism or genuine systemic change is almost entirely verboten.

The mainstream media acts as a limiter of possibilities in our current political set-up. Witness, for instance, the Globe and Mail editorial on Jack’s death. While respectful and even laudatory, the editors take pains to praise his “moderate” approach in recent years as federal NDP leader, supposedly in contrast to his “fairly hard-left” stance while a Toronto city councillor.

Now, I’ve seen the amazing pictures of the messages chalked outside Toronto’s City Hall. And I’m not in Toronto to check each and every one of them, but I’m guessing no one has kneeled down to scrawl in orange, “Thanks for being a political moderate.”

Who says we should be moderate in sharing our love, hope and optimism? Who says we should be moderate in fighting oppression, bigotry and injustice? There would be a lot less mourning this week if Jack Layton had been moderate in advocating for AIDS victims, moderate in demanding action on homelessness, or moderate in pushing ahead for gay marriage and equal rights for all.

I dare say that much of the impact of Jack’s death is a result of a public perception that he was in fact bordering on immoderate when it came to advocating for social justice, and that despite the political system he worked within he remained an authentic and sincere person.

To take just two more contemporary examples, it makes absolutely no sense to advocate moderation in curtailing the tar sands to fight climate change or in working to stop the wars being fought over control of energy and other resources.

What it will take to tackle these and other dire problems is passion, determination and political courage — hopefully some of this can manifest within the NDP in the years ahead, but much of it will by necessity be driven by social movement activists outside the fetters of the current electoral set-up.

If we are going to tackle the crises of inequality and environmental destruction caused by global capitalism, I submit that our politics really must be a collective expression of our better selves — solidarity, infused with heavy doses of hope, optimism and love.

Across this land, as the tears dry up, Jack’s letter and the best of his legacy should help point us to new horizons and inspire new generations of activists to step forward.

For that we can only say: thank you and farewell, Jack.

© 2011 Rabble.ca

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Derrick O'Keefe

Derrick O’Keefe is a writer, editor and social justice activist in Vancouver, BC. Derrick is the co-chair of the Vancouver StopWar Coalition and the Canadian Peace Alliance, the country’s largest network of anti-war groups. He is the co-writer of Afghan MP Malalai Joya’s political memoir, A Woman Among Warlords: The Extraordinary Story of an Afghan Who Dared to Raise Her Voice, and the author of a forthcoming Verso book on Michael Ignatieff. Derrick served as rabble.ca’s editor from 2007 to 2009. Topics covered on this blog will include the war in Afghanistan and foreign policy, Canadian politics, media analysis, climate justice and ecology. You can follow him at http://twitter.com/derrickokeefe.

Honoring Jack Layton August 24, 2011

Posted by rogerhollander in Canada.
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My friend and colleague, Jack Layton, lost a battle with cancer at the young age of 61, only months after taking the New Democratic Party (NDP) into official opposition in the Canadian Parliament for the first time in history.  His tragic death has been mourned across the country.  The picture above is the huge patio in front of Toronto’s City Hall, known as Nathan Phillips Square.  What you see is the square entirely filled with messages from those who knew and/or admired him.  Jack was a professor of political science at Ryerson University before becoming a Toronto City and Metro Councillor; from there he went on to become the head of the Canadian Association of Municipalities and leader of the NDP.  As opposed to the leaders of the other political parties, Jack stood out as a man of supreme honor and transparency; and for this he was admired and will be sorely missed.

Canadian Progressive Leader Jack Layton’s Final Letter August 22, 2011

Posted by rogerhollander in Canada.
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Roger’s note:

To Olivia, Mike and Sarah I offer my deepest condolences on your and our incalculable loss.  I had
the privilege of knowing, befriending and working side by side with Jack for several decades.  He was one of the most
kind hearted, generous, and dedicated individuals I have ever known.  He leaves behind a legacy of which we can all
be proud.  He was not only a great Canadian, but a great Human Being.   It is hard to believe he is no longer with us. 
He will be greatly missed, but thousands who were inspired by his spirit and courage will continue the struggle for social justice that was so dear to
his heart.

I first knew of Jackback in the 1980s when I heard him giving lectures on the radio (CJRT, Ryerson, if I remember correctly) on municipal government.

 

Jack was, among other things, a polished auctioneer, and both before and during his life in
government, was the major attraction at the 519 Church Street Community
Centre’s annual fundraising auction. We had this shtick, I would enter the back
of the auditorium, raise my hand and say, “Hi, Jack,” and he would
respond with “Sold!,” and I was stuck with whatever was on the block
at that moment.

 

We served together on both City and Metro Council, and it was Jack’s Health Department report on the
deadly emissions from the Commissioner Street Incinerator that was crucial in
my first campaign in Toronto’s Ward 7. Jack seconded my motion on Council that
effected the closure of that enormous polluter within six months of my being elected.

 

I have known over the years many individuals like Jack, who went from community activism to electoral
politics and government. The vast majority, I am sorry to say, get seduced by
the power and prestige, enjoy the privileges and ego polishing of being a
member of the Club (which includes all three political parties), and gradually
lose their community roots and commitments. This was not so for Jack. I was far
to the left of Jack Layton and didn’t always agree with his compromises, but I
can honestly say that he never lost sight of the community to which he owed his
support, and for that he always had my trust and respect as he did of the communities that elected him with huge majorities.

 

Jack Layton, the man,was one of the most decent, generous, dedicated, transparent, and hard working
individuals that I have had the privilege to know in my lifetime.  He will be sadly missed
both as a leader and a human being.

 

In thinking of our loss of Jack, I am reminded of the last words of that great humanitarian and
activist, Joe Hill: “don’t mourn, organize.” I am mourning the loss
of Jack as a friend, but I thing that Jack’s deepest desire for us now would be
to continue with the work ahead of us to bring social justice to Canada.

Published on Monday, August 22, 2011 by CommonDreams.org

“Let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.”

TORONTO — The leader of Canada’s socialist New Democratic Party, Jack Layton, died Monday of cancer at his Toronto home, his family said. He was 61.

“We deeply regret to inform you that the Honorable Jack Layton, leader of the New Democratic Party of Canada, passed away at 4:45 a.m. today,” a statement from his wife, Olivia Chow, and his children, Sarah and Michael said.

It was known he had undergone treatment for prostate cancer last year, but on July 25, a pale, drawn and thin-voiced Layton announced the cancer had metastasized and he was temporarily stepping away from the party’s leadership while he underwent treatment.

Layton was born in Montreal on July 18, 1950, to a political family whose history dates back to Canada’s founding in 1867.

TORONTO — Text of a letter from Jack Layton to Canadians:

August 20, 2011

Toronto, Ontario

Dear Friends,

Tens of thousands of Canadians have written to me in recent weeks to wish me well. I want to thank each and every one of you for your thoughtful, inspiring and often beautiful notes, cards and gifts. Your spirit and love have lit up my home, my spirit, and my determination.

Unfortunately my treatment has not worked out as I hoped. So I am giving this letter to my partner Olivia to share with you in the circumstance in which I cannot continue.

I recommend that Hull-Aylmer MP Nycole Turmel continue her work as our interim leader until a permanent successor is elected.

I recommend the party hold a leadership vote as early as possible in the New Year, on approximately the same timelines as in 2003, so that our new leader has ample time to reconsolidate our team, renew our party and our program, and move forward towards the next election.

A few additional thoughts:

To other Canadians who are on journeys to defeat cancer and to live their lives, I say this: please don’t be discouraged that my own journey hasn’t gone as well as I had hoped. You must not lose your own hope. Treatments and therapies have never been better in the face of this disease. You have every reason to be optimistic, determined, and focused on the future. My only other advice is to cherish every moment with those you love at every stage of your journey, as I have done this summer.

To the members of my party: we’ve done remarkable things together in the past eight years. It has been a privilege to lead the New Democratic Party and I am most grateful for your confidence, your support, and the endless hours of volunteer commitment you have devoted to our cause. There will be those who will try to persuade you to give up our cause. But that cause is much bigger than any one leader. Answer them by recommitting with energy and determination to our work. Remember our proud history of social justice, universal health care, public pensions and making sure no one is left behind. Let’s continue to move forward. Let’s demonstrate in everything we do in the four years before us that we are ready to serve our beloved Canada as its next government.

To the members of our parliamentary caucus: I have been privileged to work with each and every one of you. Our caucus meetings were always the highlight of my week. It has been my role to ask a great deal from you. And now I am going to do so again. Canadians will be closely watching you in the months to come. Colleagues, I know you will make the tens of thousands of members of our party proud of you by demonstrating the same seamless teamwork and solidarity that has earned us the confidence of millions of Canadians in the recent election.

To my fellow Quebecers: On May 2nd, you made an historic decision. You decided that the way to replace Canada’s Conservative federal government with something better was by working together in partnership with progressive-minded Canadians across the country. You made the right decision then; it is still the right decision today; and it will be the right decision right through to the next election, when we will succeed, together. You have elected a superb team of New Democrats to Parliament. They are going to be doing remarkable things in the years to come to make this country better for us all.

To young Canadians: All my life I have worked to make things better. Hope and optimism have defined my political career, and I continue to be hopeful and optimistic about Canada. Young people have been a great source of inspiration for me. I have met and talked with so many of you about your dreams, your frustrations, and your ideas for change. More and more, you are engaging in politics because you want to change things for the better. Many of you have placed your trust in our party. As my time in political life draws to a close I want to share with you my belief in your power to change this country and this world. There are great challenges before you, from the overwhelming nature of climate change to the unfairness of an economy that excludes so many from our collective wealth, and the changes necessary to build a more inclusive and generous Canada. I believe in you. Your energy, your vision, your passion for justice are exactly what this country needs today. You need to be at the heart of our economy, our political life, and our plans for the present and the future.

And finally, to all Canadians: Canada is a great country, one of the hopes of the world. We can be a better one — a country of greater equality, justice, and opportunity. We can build a prosperous economy and a society that shares its benefits more fairly. We can look after our seniors. We can offer better futures for our children. We can do our part to save the world’s environment. We can restore our good name in the world. We can do all of these things because we finally have a party system at the national level where there are real choices; where your vote matters; where working for change can actually bring about change. In the months and years to come, New Democrats will put a compelling new alternative to you. My colleagues in our party are an impressive, committed team. Give them a careful hearing; consider the alternatives; and consider that we can be a better, fairer, more equal country by working together. Don’t let them tell you it can’t be done.

My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.

All my very best,

Jack Layton

Canada Turns Hard Right, to Israel’s Benefit May 8, 2011

Posted by rogerhollander in Canada, Democracy, Right Wing.
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Roger’s note: as the article below points out in contradiction to its title, Canada itself did not turn right; rather, 40% of those who voted, and 24% of those eligible to vote, cast their ballot for the ultra-right Harper Conservatives.  60% of those who voted cast their ballots for one of the four other parties (NDP, Liberal, Bloc Quebec, or Green).  Such is the nature of Canadian “democracy” that the corporate dominated war-mongering, worker hating Tories have a carte blanche do destroy what is left of the social safety net, allow for the continued deterioration of the environment, and support war-mongering dictatorial governments around the world.  It is a (literally) dying SHAME.

The letter that follows the article, from Council of Canadians Chairperson, Maude Barlow, outlines the damage the Tories are set to wreak with their new won “majority” government.

 
Saturday 7 May 2011
by: Jim Miles, The Palestine Chronicle

On May 02, 2011, Canadian electors voted in a majority government for the former minority government of Stephen Harper and the Conservative Party. The Conservatives won 167 out of 308 possible seats, although statistically, because of Canada’s “first past the post” system of electing representatives, they did not receive a majority of the “popular” vote. With a voter turnout of 61 per cent, and the popular vote of 40 per cent for the Conservatives, only 24 per cent of Canadians elected the new government.

The main issue turned out to be “stability” – not economic stability, not world stability, not peaceful stability, but stability in that Canadians did not want to have to another election for as long as the mandate lasted, which in Canada is four years.

The opposition for the first time ever is the New Democratic Party, a left wing party that made huge gains in the province of Quebec and smaller gains in other areas. And for the first time ever, the Green party leader, Elizabeth May, was elected in her riding, a singular counterpoint to what will become the Conservative government’s ignoring issues concerning the environment.

Policies

There are significant differences in domestic policy that do not have an impact on the rest of the world. The main thrust is similar to the U.S. policies of less government, more privatization of health care and education (mainly under provincial control, but funded in part by the federal government.)

Canada’s foreign policy will be affected, as the Conservatives will now turn hard to the right and follow if not increase the rhetoric and actions used by the U.S. in its foreign policy. Canada has generally followed the U.S. lead with some minor diversionary arguments to help Canadians feel that they are an independent country. However, most of Canada’s economy is tied to the U.S. economy, and most of its foreign policy reflects that of the U.S.

Environment

Canada advertises itself as a green country, the great outdoors to come and explore, with vast regions of wilderness and adventure. On environmental issues the government is distinctly on the side of the large corporations, meaning there may be some lip service paid to the environment, but the real thrust will be towards resource extraction for other countries and corporations profit and benefit. The Harper Conservatives have argued that they are “aligning” our policies with those of the U.S., essentially meaning that any current environmental laws will tend to be ignored, removed, or watered down.

The Alberta tar sands are the biggest most obvious issue. Requiring huge amounts of water and other energy (natural gas) in order to extract the oil residues, the tar sands have become the oil corporations best ‘safe’ reserves. After the lengthy sand scrubbing process, much of the tar sands by-products are then transported to the U.S. after being reconstituted into a form of crude. Under the NAFTA agreement (free trade between Mexico, the U.S. and Canada) the U.S. government has first rights to the oil before Canada gets any remaining share under circumstances of oil shortages. Mexico at least was smart enough to protect its oil resources.

Foreign Policy Militarization

Foreign policy for Canada, as witnessed by the tar sands and NAFTA, is very much in line with U.S. foreign policy. In the first part of the Twentieth Century, Canada followed Great Britain’s global imperial lead, following on their imperial history of creating Canada to protect its own interests at the expense of the French, the nascent U.S. empire, and of course the indigenous population of Canada. As the U.S. became Canada’s lead trading partner and the global imperial leader, Canada followed, often projecting an image of the peaceable kingdom, but more frequently acting in full support of U.S. initiatives. (see Yves Engler, The Black Book of Canadian Foreign Policy, Fernwood/RED Publishing, 2009)

Currently Canada’s military supports U.S. actions in the Indian Ocean, Afghanistan, Haiti, more recently in Libya, and in Palestine/Israel. The Harper government is intent on purchasing sixty five of the Lockheed Martin F-35 joint strike fighter plane. Canada has no need of this plane unless it intends to support U.S. actions overseas, as there is nobody in the world capable of attacking Canada in a manner requiring Canada’s use of the F-35. Its main beneficiary, apart from the support given to U.S. foreign policy actions, is to the corporate businesses that make the fighter. Many Canadian companies are complicit with U.S. companies in the manufacture of armaments and technological items used for warfare. These companies will benefit financially from the government largesse in purchasing these weapons.

The price is huge, especially when considered against the squabbling about the mere hundreds of millions of dollars accounted for health care and education. The original sticker price of $75 million per plane is indicated to really be much greater, as “Kevin Page, the parliamentary budget officer…estimated in March that the sticker price for the radar-evading plane would be more like $148 million apiece.” To maintain the planes, a “new Pentagon report suggests Canada could pay up to $24 billion over 30 years to maintain 65 planes.” (CBC.ca, April 26, 2011). The total cost – and these costs as witnessed by U.S. experience always tend to increase even more significantly than projected – of $33 billion is a wonder when the government is calling for fiscal restraint.

What it really amounts to is the slow militarization of the Canadian economy in line with the U.S. economy, as that is where the major manufacturing profits are made in this era of market financialization. It also suits Harper’s agenda of creating “courageous warriors” for projecting Canada’s power on the international scene.

Palestine/Israel

That power is fully aligned with U.S. power and initiatives. Canada has always supported Israel in its fight against the Palestinians, even more so at times than the U.S. government. Canada was the first, before the U.S., to denounce the democratic election of Hamas in Palestinian elections in 2006. Canadian ignorance refuses to recognize that by drawing the ‘extremists’ into power, there is a necessity to moderate and accommodate policies in order to both retain power and to provide services for the citizens. This has been well evidenced by situations in Ireland, and South Africa as the best examples, but also is show with the rise of Hezbollah in Lebanon, who have never attacked another country.

The Canadian government creates the same fear of terrorism as the U.S. The Palestinians are considered intruders into their own land, while the Israeli’s are granted their supposed god-given right to inhabit the land regardless of who resided there most recently and over a long historical period. Canada supports the Israeli line of “we are the victims” while the Palestinians are the ‘perpetrators’ of all the violence.

The world can expect, now that the government has a majority, more policies that support both U.S. and Israeli initiatives around the world, economically and militarily – recognizing that the two are well entwined. They may not be broadcast as such, but worded in more carefully phrased rhetoric or rhetoric disguised in a similar manner as the U.S. freedom and democracy agendas are phrased in the U.S.

Generally, the trend for Canadian foreign policy will be a strengthening of its supposedly independent hard line approach to ‘terror’ in support of U.S. policies. Canada is not strictly a sycophantic follower of the U.S. as it inherited a great deal of its underlying ethos from the British imperial system. Canadians pretend to be much more worldly and compassionate, but with the Conservatives receiving only 24 per cent of the actual voting populations support, what is really reflected is a comfortable complacency with the status quo combined with an underlying willful ignorance of some of the main global problems of today.

- Jim Miles is a Canadian educator and a regular contributor/columnist of opinion pieces and book reviews for The Palestine Chronicle. Miles’ work is also presented globally through other alternative websites and news publications.

LETTER FROM MAUDE BARLOW, COUNCIL OF CANADIANS CHAIRPERSON


Friends,

The 2011 federal election was historic in many ways and most of us are still trying to process the outcome. It is crucial that we pause to reflect on its meaning and think carefully about the next steps we must take.

While it is true that the remarkable surge in support for the NDP means a more dependable progressive voice in the House of Commons than we have had for years, it is equally true that the most socially and economically right-wing government perhaps in Canadian history has just won a substantial majority in the House and – along with their control of the Senate – is now free to implement its agenda even if every member of every other party votes against it.

The Harper Conservatives are now free to:

- cut corporate taxes and transfer payments;

- go after public services, public sector workers and public pensions;

- allow the growth of private health services to undermine Medicare in the lead-up to the expiry of the Canada Health Accord in 2014;

- vigorously promote more unregulated free trade agreements like the Canada–European Union CETA, that will drastically curtail the democratic rights of local governments to promote local economic development, local resource sovereignty, or local food production;

- kill the Canadian Wheat Board;

- fast track the security perimeter deal with the United States that will violate the civil liberties of Canadians and give away crucial pieces of our sovereignty;

- kill the long-gun registry;

- continue to decimate environmental regulations, under fund source water protection, promote dirty energy projects such as the tar sands, gas fracking and Arctic oil and gas drilling, while ignoring the rights of nature;

- and spend our money on military equipment and prisons we don’t need and don’t want.

This means we at the Council of Canadians and civil society in general have our work cut out for us as never before.

However, there are important signs of hope. The Harper Conservatives do not have the support of the majority of Canadians. Almost 40% of eligible Canadian voters did not cast a ballot in the election and of those who did, fully 60% voted for parties other than the Conservatives. This means that over two-thirds of Canadians who were eligible to vote did not cast a vote for the Harper agenda.

As well, the presence of an opposition with a clear progressive agenda on trade, social and environmental justice and public services will create the opportunity for unparalleled (until now) collaboration between Members of Parliament and progressive civil society. While we have had good working relationships with some Liberal MPs on some issues, how frustrating it was to see the Liberals side with the Conservatives on signing trade deals with corrupt and criminal regimes in Peru and Colombia. Further, the election of the first Green Party member, Elizabeth May, will open the door for an environmental debate and dialogue too long missing from the House of Commons.

And, as Council of Canadians trade campaigner Stuart Trew reminds us, we have fought battles against both majority and minority governments before and won. Unfair deals such as the Multilateral Agreement on Investment and the Security and Prosperity Partnership were defeated by popular protest. Unfair trade deals are fought and won outside Parliament, in the court of public opinion, he points out. It was also public pressure that stopped Canadian troops from being sent to Iraq. Similarly, no matter how much Stephen Harper dislikes public health care (and is on record in his preference for private health services), he can go only so far in his dismantling of Medicare, so deeply loved and fiercely protected is this most important of Canadian social programs. And let Harper try to open the doors for commercial export of our water and see how far he gets!

In other words, this country and its values still belongs to the people. As our director of development, Jamian Logue, says, “Neither our democratic responsibilities nor our democratic opportunities ended on May 2. Democracy is a 24/7 pursuit. We have the right and responsibility to act beyond the ballot box.”

What is needed now is a coming together of progressive forces in civil society and the labour movement as never before in our country’s history. Social and trade justice groups, First Nations people, labour unions, women, environmentalists, faith-based organizations, the cultural community, farmers, public health care coalitions, front line public sector workers, and many others must come together to protect and promote the values that the majority of Canadians hold dear. And we must work with, and demand the active representation of, the opposition forces in the House of Commons. In particular, the NDP must oppose the Harper agenda with the full weight of its new power and the Liberals must redeem themselves by working alongside the NDP in defending the interests of the people of Canada.

As the old union saying goes, “Don’t mourn – organize!”. The Harper majority is unfortunately really due to our “first past the post” system. (An American friend writes that he and his colleagues are having trouble understanding how Stephen Harper is Prime Minister with way less than half the votes in Canada. This reminds us of the urgency to promote proportional representation.)

But support for the Harper agenda is paper-thin, as most Canadians do not share the values of this agenda. This then is our task: to work hard over the next four years to protect the laws, rights and services that generations of Canadians have fought for from being dismantled; fight the corporate-friendly, anti-environmental, security obsessed agenda that will come at us; and prepare the way for the kind of government in four years that does in fact, express the will of the people – one with an agenda of justice and respect, of care for the earth, of the more equitable sharing of our incredible bounty.

This will be hard work and will take a great deal of courage and commitment. But really, what more important thing do we have to do?

Maude Barlow

Chairperson

The Council of Canadians

Siddiqui: Layton to the rescue April 28, 2011

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Liberal Leader Michael Ignatieff, right, gestures to Prime Minister Stephen Harper as New Democratic Party Leader Jack Layton looks on during the English language federal election debate in Ottawa on Tuesday, April 12, 2011.

Liberal Leader Michael Ignatieff, right, gestures to Prime Minister Stephen Harper as New Democratic Party Leader Jack Layton looks on during the English language federal election debate in Ottawa on Tuesday, April 12, 2011.

The list of Stephen Harper’s sins is long. Yet Michael Ignatieff has failed to convince enough Canadians to switch to the Liberals. This means either that Harper is not as bad as he is made out to be, or that he is but fewer and fewer Canadians are thinking of Ignatieff and/or his platform as a persuasive alternative.

The anti-Harper vote is coalescing around Jack Layton and the NDP. He has run a good campaign. His platform is no less credible than those of others. Indeed, its ideas on the environment, seniors’ pensions, social housing, immigrant integration and a federal infrastructure program, especially urban transit, are progressive and eminently doable. His budget projections are no more irresponsible than the Conservative promise of doing away with the deficit without any pain.

Ignatieff’s failure is all the more stunning given how vulnerable Harper has been on a range of issues, including his disdain for democracy and abuse of power.

We’ve had good debates on Harper’s Republican-style policies on the environment, corporate giveaways (that added to profits but not jobs), fighter jets of questionable value and unknown costs ($24 billion, as per a Pentagon report), and mega-jails when crime is, in fact, going down. Be afraid, very afraid, especially if you are a senior citizen — that’s been Harper’s message. It’s the Canadian equivalent of George W. Bush’s politics of fear, played with the astronomically expensive and ultimately failed war on terror.

But let’s also not forget that:

  Harper is the first prime minister in our history to have been found in contempt of Parliament, to have failed to get Canada elected to the UN Security Council, and to have been our most profligate PM ever (record $40 billion deficit and a record $519 billion debt).

  He has broken a string of promises. He flip-flopped on Afghanistan. He decried the appointed Senate but made a record number of appointments to it and had it overturn the will of the elected Commons. He deplored patronage but stuffed federal bodies with partisans. He passed the Federal Accountability Act, only to squash disclosure and transparency. He opposed taxing income tax trusts, only to tax them. He passed a law on fixed election dates, only to break it.

  He has been an autocratic leader given to compulsive control (meddling in every aspect of the administration, from cabinet to the civil service and independent agencies), excessive secrecy (to the point of rendering Canada’s excellent diplomats mute), vindictive rule (firing a dozen senior mandarins and cutting off funding to 25 groups for not toeing the line).

  He used the treasury for partisan purposes, funnelling funds into ridings and groups to help his party.

  He defended ministers who tampered with documents, attacked federal judges and meddled in independent agencies.

Yet Ignatieff failed to develop a coherent critique of this sordid record.

On foreign policy, there’s little to distinguish between him and Harper. Both have been in broad agreement on the most defining issues of our age — post-9/11 Canada-U.S. relations (including a possible harmonization of immigration and customs) and also Iraq, Afghanistan, indefinite detention and coercive interrogation, Israel and, lately, Libya.

On Arab Awakening, if Harper embarrassed Canadians — saying of Egypt’s transition from 30 years of autocracy toward democracy, that “they’re not going to put the toothpaste back in the tube” — Ignatieff had nothing profound to say, either. One would have thought that this former professor of human rights would have rushed to address this historic dawn of democracy in a region suffocated by authoritarian rule.

With Layton surging, the Conservatives and Liberals are lashing out.

But Layton is no doctrinaire socialist. No one who has served successfully on Toronto City Council — which, sans political party caucuses, works on pragmatic individual give and take — can be.

His appeal to Quebec nationalists constitutes no more pandering than Brian Mulroney’s in the 1980s, or even Harper’s in the past, including his 2004 plotting, in writing, with the Bloc Québécois to bring down the Paul Martin government.

Layton is the first NDP leader born in Quebec. He speaks their lingo. If he does as well there as polls suggest, he’d have made more inroads into separatist turf than Harper, Stéphane Dion or perhaps even Jean Chrétien. Not bad for a guy accused of being soft on separatists.

hsiddiqui@thestar.ca

Canada wanted Afghan prisoners tortured: lawyer March 6, 2010

Posted by rogerhollander in Canada, Iraq and Afghanistan, Torture.
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(Roger’s note: Conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper, with the collusion of the Governor General, earlier this year shut down Parliament in order to avoid dealing with Canada’s alleged complicity in the reign of torture.  Now that Parliament has reconvened, it remains to be seen if the opposition can find a way to force the government to reveal the truth.  But what also remains to be seen is if Canada has sunk to the level of the United States, where the government under both Bush and Obama has committed and condoned the perpetration of war crimes, and allowed the perpetrators to do so with impunity.)

Source: CBC News

Posted: 03/05/10 11:17PM

University of Ottawa law professor Amir Attaran says Canadian officials intentionally handed over Afghan detainees to be tortured in order to gather intelligence.

Federal government documents on Afghan detainees suggest that Canadian officials intended some prisoners to be tortured in order to gather intelligence, according to a legal expert.

If the allegation is true, such actions would constitute a war crime, said University of Ottawa law professor Amir Attaran, who has been digging deep into the issue and told CBC News he has seen uncensored versions of government documents released last year.

“If these documents were released [in full], what they will show is that Canada partnered deliberately with the torturers in Afghanistan for the interrogation of detainees,” he said.

“There would be a question of rendition and a question of war crimes on the part of certain Canadian officials. That’s what’s in these documents, and that’s why the government is covering up as hard as it can.”

Detainee abuse became the subject of national debate last year after heavily redacted versions of the documents were made public after Attaran filed an access to information request. They revealed the Canadian military was not monitoring detainees who had been transferred from Canadian to Afghan custody. It was later alleged that some of those detainees were being mistreated.

Until now, the controversy has centred on whether the government turned a blind eye to abuse of Afghan detainees.

However, Attaran said the full versions of the documents show that Canada went even further in intentionally handing over prisoners to torturers.

“And it wasn’t accidental; it was done for a reason,” he said. “It was done so that they could be interrogated using harsher methods.”

The government maintains that nothing improper happened.

“The Canadian Forces have conducted themselves with the highest performance of all countries,” Prime Minister Stephen Harper told the House of Commons Thursday.

But many facets of the issue remain top secret, such as the role of Canada’s elite Joint Task Force 2, or JTF2. There have been hints that JTF2 might be handling so-called high-value prisoners.

“High-value targets would be detained under a completely different mechanism that involved special forces and targeted, intelligence-driven operations,” Richard Colvin, a former senior diplomat with Canada’s mission in Afghanistan, told a parliamentary committee last November.

Colvin claimed that all detainees transferred by Canadians to Afghan prisons were likely tortured by Afghan officials. He also said that his concerns were ignored by top government officials and that the government might have tried to cover up the issue.

Opposition parties have been trying to get the Conservative government to release the uncensored versions of the documents pertaining to the handling of Afghan detainees.

The Conservatives insist that releasing uncensored files on the issue would damage national security. On Friday, Justice Minister Rob Nicholson asked former Supreme Court of Canada Justice Frank Iacobucci to review whether there would be “injurious” effects if some Afghan detainee documents were made public.

Nicholson did not give full details on Iacobucci’s assignment or a timetable for when the review might be completed.

However, opposition parties said Parliament is entitled to those documents regardless of what Iacobucci decides.

“Parliament is supreme,” said Ontario NDP MP Paul Dewar. “What this is, is a skate around Parliament.”

Liberal MP Ujjal Dosanjh said the government still has many questions to answer on the subject of detainees.

“Who knew what and when, and who allowed the continuing saga of Afghan detainees being sent to a potential risk of torture?” Dosanjh said.

It’s not clear whether the government will make Iacobucci’s advice public. Moreover, he is not a sitting judge and can’t legally rule or force the government to do anything.

Coalition government still a good idea January 29, 2009

Posted by rogerhollander in Canada, Canadan Coalition, Economic Crisis.
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When Michael Ignatieff opted yesterday to support the Conservative government and its new budget, he was making what may be the most critical decision of his career as Liberal leader, regardless of how long he holds the job.

By siding with Prime Minister Stephen Harper, Ignatieff was rejecting calls to join the New Democrats and Bloc Québécois in defeating the budget, thus bringing down the Tory government and paving the way for an election or a coalition government.

Ignatieff based his decision to a good extent on internal Liberal politics. Basically, the party is broke, disorganized and still licking its wounds from last fall’s disastrous election under former leader Stéphane Dion.

But rather than propping up Harper’s government, Ignatieff should have seriously considered voting down the budget and forming a coalition with the NDP, as Dion proposed last December.

Despite the earlier tepid response, especially in Western Canada, to the coalition touted by Dion, there are many reasons why a Liberal-NDP coalition, with the unofficial backing of the Bloc Québécois, is still a good idea.

First, a coalition that guarantees two years of continuing government, as the Liberals and NDP did in their accord signed in December, would be a stabilizing element for the country during this financial crisis. Stable governments are essential for businesses and financial markets to start recovering.

Without a coalition, Canada will be under constant threat of another election. That vote likely would result in another minority government and more instability.

Second, coalitions are appropriate in a time of national crisis, such as Canada is experiencing.

In Canada, the only federal coalition was the Union government of World War I, which saw the Conservatives led by Robert Borden join with some Liberals and independents to deal with the controversial issue of conscription.

In other countries, similar coalitions have been formed during a national crisis, such as in Britain during the Great Depression when Labour and Conservatives joined forces to tackle the economy.

Third, a coalition of Liberals and the NDP could bring a combination of fiscal responsibility and an economic stimulus package that could better address the needs of Canada than the Harper budget.

Last December, the proposed coalition promised to pump much-needed money into infrastructure projects, such as housing, roads and public transit. It also vowed to improve social benefits and provide help to troubled industries.

The program was so good that Harper stole many of the ideas and put them into Tuesday’s budget.

Fourth, Harper has shown himself to be unqualified to deal with the economic mess. The best example of that was the mini-budget last November, which was devoid of any sense of the crisis the country was in, despite massive job layoffs, a weakening dollar and rising bankruptcies.

Also, top economists are criticizing Harper for pushing massive tax cuts. They argue it is folly to slash taxes while increasing government spending by record levels.

Fifth, and most important for Ignatieff, the Liberals will reinforce their image established under Dion as a party of wimps afraid to face Harper in an election.

By forming a coalition, Ignatieff would signal he is ready to govern.

By refusing, he ends up being outmanoeuvred politically by Harper, who in a year or two will claim credit for what will then be an improving Canadian economy.

That would be a powerful campaign theme that could ensure Harper wins the next election and bring an abrupt end to Ignatieff’s reign as Liberal leader.

Bob Hepburn’s column appears Thursdays. bhepburn@thestar.ca

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up December 31, 2008

Posted by rogerhollander in What I Want to Be When I Grow Up.
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(My father wanted to be a lawyer and so did I.  After graduating from Mercer Beasley School of Law in Newark, my father failed in his first attempt to pass the New Jersey Bar; and he never again pursued law as a career.  I, too, thought that law would be a good profession for me, and I seriously considered enrolling in law school upon graduation from U.C. Berkeley with a B.A. in Political Science.   But my “big brother” at the Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity, Garold Raff, urged me to spend ten years out in the real world before consider going back to school.  I took his advice, and, apart from doing one graduate year at Princeton Theology Seminary when I was wrapped up in Christianity, I never pursued further studies towards a profession or career.  I am 67 years old as I write this, and it may be too late for me to enter law school.  Of course, you can never be sure.)

What I want to be when I grow up.

 

I wish I knew.

 

There were two small grocery stores in the neighborhood where I grew up.  In between Saturday family forays into the supermarket, we picked up odds and ends at Babbitt’s, which was on the corner of Lyons Avenue and Ball Street.  The other grocery, Benny’s, was just two or three doors further down, but to my memory, it wasn’t “location, location, location” that motivated us to patronize Mr. Babbitt (and his sidekick, Karl) exclusively.  Not only was Mr. Babbitt friendlier, but he didn’t have the detested habit that characterized Benny’s marketing approach.  When you finished telling Benny what you wanted and he pulled it down off the shelf or from a display case, he would proceed to ask if you needed any cigarettes, bread, milk, butter, etcetera, ad nauseum.  This drove our family crazy and into the less aggressive arms of Mr. Babbitt (and his sidekick Karl).

 

(To this day I cannot abide pushy salespeople.  This is an occupational [habitational?] hazard of living in a third world country.  People are desperate, really desperate for a sale.  If you show any interest in a particular item at all, perhaps only a mild curiosity about the price, in the mind of the sales person you have made a commitment to purchase; and getting away hands free often can be most unpleasant.  Ten years ago, and I am not exaggerating, I bought some chunks of giant squid from a man in the Playas mercado.  Once.  We did not really like it and have had no desire to try it again.  Nevertheless, every time I run into him he comes up to me expecting to make a sale and goes away angry when I decline. 

 

(I rush to add that I sympathize with such people, who live on the economic edge and for whom each and every sale can make a big difference in their daily lives; and I confess that occasionally the strategy works on me.  Either to get someone off my back – the lottery people are the worst – I might break down and make a purchase, or I often do so out of pity for a young child or an elderly person who appears particularly desperate.)

 

Back to Babbitt’s.  Or rather, back to Benny’s.  I believe it was a neighbor who was a regular patron of pushy Benny who told my family that he was looking for a delivery boy and recommended me for the job.  It was at this time that my father told me the “parable” of the Devil and the Angel.  On one of my shoulders was a Devil telling me to steal when no one is looking.  On the other shoulder was an Angel telling me – you guessed it – to be a good boy and not yield to temptation.  I was urged, to say the least, to give favorable consideration to the counsel of the latter.

 

Which I did.  I would have been about ten years old at the time, and my sense of moral values was in the embryonic stage.  I will not deny that the fear of being caught wasn’t the chief, if not the determining factor, in my decision to do the right thing.  But the job was a total bore.  Delivering groceries turned out to be only an occasional (if lucrative, tip-wise) oasis in a desert that consisted of sweeping floors and dusting shelves.  And listening to Benny’s annoying attempts to try to sell that extra pack of cigarettes.  I don’t remember how long I lasted – weeks or months at most – and if I had been fired I surely would have remembered that, so I conclude that I must have just up and quit at some point.

 

On to bigger and better things.  Somehow I got word that good dough could be made delivering the Newark Star Ledger and that our neighborhood route was up for grabs.  It was a small and dark office in downtown Irvington where the old and decrepit male human being who coordinated distribution held court.  He was overjoyed to see me, but he gave me the chills, calling to mind Hansel’s relationship with the old witch.  He spoke too fast for me to understand everything, but I left with a pretty accurate idea of what was going to happen: to wit, a bundle of papers was to be dropped off in front of our apartment building every morning, and I had a list of addresses to which they needed to be delivered, once I had folded them and packed them into the bag which I would attach to the handle bar of my bicycle.  Then, once a week I was to make the round of my customers and collect for the delivery.

 

The delivering of the papers, despite the requirement for very early morning rising, turned out to be by far the easiest part of the deal.  Collection was another matter.  People either were not home, and you had to keep going back, or when you caught them they didn’t have what they owed and promised to pay double the following week. 

 

At the end of the first week I made my pilgrimage to the old warlock’s office, handed the meager proceeds from my collection to same, and asked for my salary.  No, no, no, I was told.  That is not how it works.  Again, I didn’t understand and had to go home and get my father to accompany me to find out why I had worked my butt off for an entire week, and the old man told me that I owed him some money!

 

Well, it turns out that unbeknownst to me, and the term was never used, but it turns out that I was an “independent contractor.”  I purchased the newspapers from the Newark Star Ledger at forty cents for a week’s supply and “sold” them to my customers for forty five cents.  That meant a nickel “profit” per week per customer, which amounted to about $2.50 since I had about fifty customers.  Not bad money actually for a kid my age.  But the Newark Star Ledger took no responsibility whatsoever for the honesty or the capacity of my customers to pay up.  But what had happened in my first week of work was that I had collected from my clients less that what I owed the newspaper for the purchase of the papers.

 

I was thoroughly disillusioned when my father explained all this to me, and was ready right then and there to throw in the towel.  But my father urged me not to quit, and so reluctantly I continued to wake in the wee hours of the morning to make my deliveries before going to school, then spent a good part of my Friday afternoons and Saturday mornings doing my best to leverage that precious forty five cents out of each of my customers.

 

It turned out to be a wise decision.  In time I got to know when to catch people at home and eventually became the beneficiary of my persistence and reliability.  My customers had become tired of inconsistent delivery service and constant paper boy turnover; and they gradually came to appreciate my diligence.  This began to translate itself into tips and an average total weekly take of about $3.50 (plus a sizable bonus at Christmastime!).  To put this in perspective and give you an idea of what this meant to a ten or eleven year old, my father at the time was earning fifty dollars a month selling commercial real estate.

 

If I recall correctly, I continued the paper route pretty much until our family moved out to California.  As the route expanded due to my diligent efforts at recruiting new customers (for which there was a bonus), I brought my older brother Neil into the business, and we shared the route.  The winter was the hardest.  When it snowed there were days when we had to make the rounds on foot as bicycling was out of the question.  When the weather was really bad, we woke up good old Charlie (my father), and he drove us around.  He later claimed that we made him climb the stairs of apartment buildings to deliver papers for us.  This story, I believe, was Apocryphal. 

 

Our move to California interrupted my career in daily newspaper distribution and left the Newark Star Ledger bereft of its star paper boy.  Somehow, although it is beyond my ken to understand, the enterprise did not go belly up.

 

Other minor entrepreneurial activities before leaving New Jersey including selling candy bars to raise money for baseball uniforms (Teddy Goldberg’s father who was in the wholesale candy business, provided the merchandise), which turnout to be a disaster when most of the money “disappeared,” something I never understood.  There was also a stint selling jams, jellies and peanut butter to raise money for the PTA.

 

In California I was too lonely and depressed at first to think of remunerable occupation.  Not that I couldn’t have used the money.  But my father had a good job, and I could walk to Northridge Junior High School with adequate lunch money in my pocket.

 

Neil’s high school friend, Chuck Henriksen, somehow had a connection with an egg rancher in Simi Valley.  Chuck, a CPA who lives in Bakersfield and does our taxes for us, recently told me that he met his wife, Sue, selling eggs door to door.  I had no such luck when I tried my hand at it.  Ironically, although my father had spent much of his adult life as a salesman, hawking everything from cookies to Mack trucks to commercial real estate, I never had the gift.  Even when I believed in the product.  They were really good and fresh ranch eggs.

 

My first big economic break came via “Aunt Sally,” who was not my aunt at all, but my father’s cousin.  She and her daughter, Kathy, a year younger than me, had lived in the same apartment building as we did in Irvington, and then they moved out to California and settled a couple of blocks from where we lived in Reseda.  Sally was the kind of person who did wild and daring things, like “going out for dinner.”  One evening we accompanied her to the Golden Bull Steak House in Chatsworth.  Sally brazenly asked the owner/manager, Mr. Nesbitt, if he could use some good help: me.  To my surprise I was offered the job of bus boy on the spot.

 

Old man Nesbitt was a skin flint and a womanizer, but he treated me more or less like a son; especially when he realized that in hiring me he had solved the bus boy turnover problem.  The Golden Bull was a whole new world for me.  Example: the only salad dressing I have ever tasted in my life was vinegar (not oil and vinegar, just plain vinegar, which was what my mother habitually served with ice berg lettuce).  At the Golden Bull there was Blue Cheese, Thousand Island, and French dressing to go on mixed green salads.  Although my title was bus boy, I did the dual function of bussing tables and kitchen pantry work.  I made salads, sundaes, and strawberry shortcakes; and when Nesbitt wasn’t looking, I actually got to sample them.  Baked potatoes were served either with melted cheese or sour cream and chives.  I had never realized how deprived I had been, at least from a culinary perspective when it came to American style food (I am not complaining, my mother was a good cook, in spite of the vinegary salads and dry roast beef; and she more than made up for any deficiencies with her ethnic dishes – pierogies and stuffed cabbage, to mention only a few – and her delicious pies and other baked goods).

 

Then there were the shrimp cocktails.  I got hooked on them at the Golden Bull and remain a hopeless addict to this day.  And I learned that as delicious as cold cooked shrimp can be when served with the traditional cocktail sauce of ketchup and horse radish, there is nothing like those indescribably scrumptious shrimp cocktail bathed in Thousand Island dressing.  Try it. You’ll be pleasantly surprised.

 

I worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings all through my last two years of high school.  I earned something like a dollar and a bit per hour, but with the tips my earnings were well above the minimum wage.  On a good weekend I might pull in as much as fifteen or twenty dollars; and holidays were a gold mine.  There was nothing to compare with Mother’s Day.  We served both lunch and dinner (normally it was only a dinner restaurant, serving from about six to eleven); there were huge line ups of families waiting to treat Mom to her favorite steak or pork chop.  I would arrive before noon, have a bite to eat (we were only allowed hamburger or the cheapest steak, the Delmonico, but that wasn’t so bad), and then start to prepare by setting tables and chopping lettuce.  From noon to maybe twelve or one in the morning, I would literally be running non-stop.  It was exhausting but rewarding work.  And it was topped off in the wee hours of the morning with a meal prepared by our Philippine cooks which consisted of hamburger, green pepper, and a seasoning I would kill for today.

 

When I got to Berkeley for my freshman year, thanks to savings and a small scholarship, I had barely enough to get by.  But joining a fraternity upped my housing cost, so that I had to work to make ends meet.  I did that by working in the kitchen of the fraternity; official title: hasher.  My responsibilities included setting the table, serving, clearing the table and other sundry kitchen duties.  I did this for three of the four years of my undergraduate tenure; and, as with my stint at the Golden Bull, my real life education in the “real world” of the kitchen was in many ways superior to that of the class room.

 

Summer jobs.  After my freshman year at Cal, thanks to his buddy in “human resources,” Norm White, my father was able to get me a job working on the “Hill” for Rocketdyne.  The “Hill” was a site tucked into the Santa Susana Mountains that border the San Fernando Valley.  It was where they tested rocket engines.  I worked on the Mercury project and the F-1 rocket that sent the first men to the moon.  I’m not saying they wouldn’t have got there without me.  I had the all important job of working in the mail room helping to sort and deliver inter-office communications.  This job did not require security clearance so I could only handle documents up to the “confidential” level of security classification.  Those marked “secret” or “top secret” would start screaming if I even looked at them.  When no one was looking, my co-worker and I had a good laugh about what we considered the absurdity of the security system.

 

Every once in a while I got to watch a test firing.  This was an amazing experience.  The engines were attached to structures embedded in god knows how may thousands of tons of concrete at the bottom of various canyons.  You stood in a glass enclosed observation room to view the firing.  Think of enough thrust to get a rocket into outer space and on its way to the moon.  The sound it made was ear-splitting.  One had the sense that the entire mountain was about to come apart and fly off into outer space.  The test firings would last for about a minute, and then tons of water came gushing down the mountain side to cool everything off.

 

My memories of that summer include getting up at an ungodly (or unathiestically, if you will) hour of the morning to be picked up by a car pool and having to fight all the way during the half hour drive to work to avoid throwing up as a result of the most sickening perfume that was worn by one of my fellow car poolers.  It smelled like the cross between a fart and the odor of a skunk.  I believe it may have been called Polecat Flatulence.  The other memory was lunchtime outside of the building I worked in overlooking a scenic valley.  What I will never forget is the size of the squirrels, who were the beneficiaries of our largesse.  They were the size of overfed raccoons.

 

Just recently while spending time in Los Angeles, I read in the newspaper about residents of the area suing Rocketdyne for contaminating the area with radioactive waste.  Apparently there was a spill the very summer I worked there.  Rocketdyne was at the time a division of North American Aviation, and its partner division was called “Atomics International (AI).”  Despite that name, it had never occurred to me that anything related to radioactivity was going on.  I cannot be sure, but this may explain why my ears seem to glow at night.

 

The summer following my sophomore year proved to be interesting, to say the least, but not remunerative.  During the school year I had fallen in love with our fraternity’s “Queen,” Colleen Young, and we were actually “pinned,” a sort of engagement (involving a ceremony in which both my fraternity and her sorority are involved and whereby she receives and wears my fraternity pin).  In any case, toward the end of the school year I had begun applying for jobs and received an offer to work in a hotel at Big Sur.  What an experience that would have been if I hadn’t been too stupid and love struck.  For Colleen had invited me to spend the first weeks of the summer with her family at their cottage on Lake Tahoe; and like a dope I accepted.  This necessitated my turning down the Big Sur job.

 

The weeks at Lake Tahoe were divine, but they turned out to be my last hurrah, Colleen-wise.  Somewhere toward the middle of the summer I received my Dear John letter.  Following an unsuccessful trip to the northern border of the State of California where Colleen lived, in an unsuccessful attempt to win her back, I had the great fortune to be able to attend the Democratic Party National Convention at the Los Angeles Sports Arena and see John Kennedy nominated to run for the presidency.  I followed that with a two week stint at the Campus Crusade for Christ camp somewhere on a lake near Minneapolis, where I learned how to reap souls for Jesus and to hate Communism.  As I say, it was an interesting summer.

 

There was no summer job either after my junior year for that was the summer of my “deputation” in Ecuador with the Wycliffe Bible Translator missionaries.  I came home that summer with a nice case of malaria, of which I experienced four “attacks” over a one year period.  When I graduated from Cal in June of 1962, I was engaged to Linda, who had one year left before graduating from Mills College.  So I had a year to “kill” before the two of us got hitched and headed off to Princeton.

 

Linda did a year of graduate study at Princeton University and was then able to finish her Ph.D. from a distance.  I did a year at Princeton Theological Seminary and then became a seminary drop-out.  The year in Princeton was sandwiched between two years teaching at the First Lutheran School in Northridge, where I taught math, history and social science to grades 7-9 and Spanish to sixth graders.  I left First Lutheran in the Spring of 1965, and exactly 40 years later, I returned to teaching (in the conventional sense) in Ecuador for the Catholic University of Guayaquil, which sponsors a high school in Playas (for you science buffs in the audience, I can report the two major technological advances I noticed over that 40 year period: to wit, the use of non-indelible markers on white “blackboards” – but with the same old felt erasers; and liquid paper – pronounced “lickypaper” in Spanish – or what I used to know as “white-out,” instead of ink erasers.  The latter coming in the shape of pens that you squeeze as you “write” with the liquid paper over what you wish to erase).

 

My next job was integrated with my need to do civilian service in lieu of military service as a result of my conscientious objector draft status.  I was taking an adult ed. course at U.C.L.A. in writing and came across an ad in the student newspaper, which I answered.  It was to do Syphilis epidemiology for the United States Public Health Service (USPHS) division of the Center for Disease Control (CDC), assigned to the Los Angeles County Health Department.  I did this for a year before I go myself fired for insubordination, during which time I worked in the communities of Watts (in the year following the 1965 Watts Rebellion), West Hollywood (a gay Mecca), and the San Fernando Valley (my home town).

 

Out of a job and living the life of a Hippie, while at the same time participating with a passion in the political movements of the 1960s, for a short while I teamed up with Pete Flint in establishing and running the “I-Thou University of Young People” (which gets my vote for “most pretentious name for a do-it-yourself project”).  We modeled ourselves after A.S. Neill’s “free school,” Summerhill (Pete’s kids had been involved with a Summerhill knock-off somewhere in the Valley), and I believe we had all of five or six students, two of whom were Pete’s children.  We did a lot of political stuff, we had a kiln and did pottery; and I still have somewhere a vase that I made at that time.

 

My stint as a non-traditional teacher/administrator ended abruptly when I was arrested by the F.B.I. for violation of the Selective Service Act (failure to perform civilian service in lieu of military service) and flew the coop for Canada.

 

I had the best of luck in landing a job almost immediately upon arriving in Montreal.  I was hired by Julian Wedgwood, of the Wedgwood China family, to assist him in running the Montreal Paperback Book Store, which was located in Notre Dame de Grace (NDG), a largely English speaking western suburb of Montreal.  Working in a book store is a common fantasy amongst writers and intellectuals, and I would say that for the most part the experience lived up to its promise.  I got to read a lot and meet and shoot the shit with a lot of interesting people, including “regulars” who would come by periodically to chat about politics or literature.  Of course there was both the business side and periods of boredom which were much less romantic than the fantasy.

 

In spite of the fact that Julian Wedgwood came from enormous wealth, he had gone off to the colonies to seek his fortune based upon his wits rather than the lucre; and he was no great businessman.  The biggest problem was that the business was undercapitalized.  We never had enough stock and were always in debt to publishers, who would sometimes cut us off.  To make up for the inadequate retail sales, Julian got us into wholesaling paperbacks to local high schools.  The problem with this is that we gave up a full half of the 40% discount we got from the publishers, and there wasn’t enough volume to make it worthwhile.

 

After about a year Wedgwood decided to go back to England, from whence he shipped us huge supplies of certain cheaper paperbacks published by Penguin, which had no publishing rights in Canada.  We were selling contraband to the schools!  This helped a bit, but it was our used book business that kept our heads above water.  On the sidewalk in front of the store we had a huge paper mache bear and portable book cases that contained used paperbacks that we sold for either ten cents or a quarter (mostly the former).  We would buy any paperback in reasonable condition for a nickel and sell most of them for a dime.  Mysteries, Harlequin romances, science fiction and popular novels were the mainstay of this trade; the volume was enormous, and we invariable had higher sales in this “sideline” than we did with our retail paperbacks.  The fact that we often sold paperbacks at a quarter that were worth many times that amount was counterbalanced by our purchasing for a nickel books that too were worth a lot more.  It was a formula that worked for us, and I am convinced that in the right neighborhood it has the potential of a gold mine.

 

When Julian went back to England, our old friend, Linda’s former student and my former draft counselee, Jim Falconi, aka Giacomo Falconi, joined with me to co-manage the store (he had moved to Montreal from Vancouver and was working in Classics Book Store, one of Canada’s major chains).  For some reason, Julian wanted us to move downtown, so we abandoned our NDG cubbyhole of a store and rented a much larger step-down on the same street as Sir George Williams University (which today is known as Concordia).  Julian, who eccentricities knew no limits, had found an old barn, had it torn down, and use the old weathered wood to line the walls of the store.  As for sales, it was déjà vu all over again.  We did a landfall business the first week of school selling required reading to the Sir George students.  After that, our non-academic stock in its usual state of depletion, sales slowed to a trickle.  Given that we were paying triple the rent downtown that we had paid in NDG, it wasn’t long before the business went kaputsky.

 

Another one of Wedgwood’s eccentricities was his ability to make the strangest contacts.  There was a massive dam project in Churchill Falls, Labrador, and the catering company that provided meals and sundries to the workers contracted with us to send them paperback books for their company store.  What they really wanted was soft core porno, which we were able to supply for a while, until those publishers cut us off when our accounts went unpaid for months.  Then we had to look for books from our regular stock that had “suggestive” covers, including classics by such authors as Charlotte Bronte, Jane Austin and George Eliot.  What a worker thought or did when he opened his copy of “Wuthering Heights” only to be disappointed for its failure to deliver more than its cover of bulging 19th century bodices, I’ll never know.  There is always the hope that we contributed to the cultural refinement of macho working class mercenaries.  In the end, though, the caterers wanted the real thing, which we couldn’t deliver, and we lost that contract too.

 

At one point, however, I had been sent flying up to Churchill Falls to get a first hand look at our “market.”  It is a trip I’ll never forget.  That part of Labrador is almost literally at the end of the world.  For hours we flew over the most god-forsaken dreary tundra before reaching the dam (damn?) site.  It gave me a whole new perspective on the notion of “barren.”  It was April, and spring had just begun to show signs of arrival in Montreal.   At Churchill Falls I encountered the most wicked weather imaginable.  The wind-chill factor must have been a hundred degrees below zero.  I remember that crossing the fifty or so meters that separated the barracks where I slept from the dining and commissary area was so treacherous that I did it only when absolutely necessary.  I don’t know how the workers were able to survive there, and I had a new appreciation of their desire for pornography.

 

After the demise of the Montreal Paperback, a year or more of unemployment followed.  We were living in our commune at the time, and I spent most of my time at our “vacation” chalet in the Laurentians until we up and moved to Knowlton, which is located in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, about 50 miles southeast of Montreal.

 

From there I made the decision to return to the United States, and this involved negotiations with the government since this was about a year before amnesty was granted to Vietnam War resisters.  Ken Cloke, my Reseda High School and Berkeley comrade, is a lawyer and former president of the lefty National Lawyers Guild.  He negotiated a deal with the U.S. Attorney that included my obligation to complete the civilian service in lieu of military service, which I had abandoned.  There was no question of my getting my old job back with the U.S. Public Health Service, so I had to look for something else.

 

I ended up spending the next three years at the Los Angeles Free Clinic as the Administrator of the Medical Department (which was the core of the Clinic’s services, which also included dental care and psychological and job search counseling).  When the clinic received additional federal funding, I also served as Family Planning Coordinator.  I took over those responsibilities just as the clinic was getting well established and expanding its services.  In addition to managing the Medical Department’s core primary care services (one third each, venereal disease, women’s health care, general family medicine), I tried to concentrate on prevention and health education (including family planning and pregnancy counseling); and, although I faced considerable resistance, I was able to slowly introduce continuity of care to supplement the clinic’s emergency orientation.

 

After three years at the LAFC, I headed back to Canada (Green River, just outside of Toronto), where there was a year of house husbanding, where I tried unsuccessfully to establish myself as a free lance writer.  When Barbara and I separated and she returned to California, I moved into bachelor quarters in Toronto (with space, of course for Malika and Chantal) and did a series of patch work jobs before landing my position at the 519 Church Street Community Centre.  These included selling advertising for theatre programs, working the box office at the Music Hall Theatre on the Danforth, and working in the kitchen that catered film companies (the one movie I remember working on was “Circle of Two.” which starred Richard Burton and Tatum O’Neal).  The cook for this catering operation was German, and he had a recipe for beef in a creamy horse radish sauce that I would give anything to be able to reproduce.

 

The most interesting and long lasting of these short-term employments was the work I did as the field representative for the Province of Ontario’s (Ontario Educational Communications Authority – OECA) Educational television station, T.V. Ontario.  I visited four remote northern communities (Owen Sound, Geraldton, Marathon, and Manitouwadge) to promote participation in experimental satellite educational programming.  I also wrote a successful grant application for T.V. Ontario, a project called “Art is Real,” which was implemented in Thunder Bay (one community organization refused to participate because they wanted nothing to do with Jewish art; they had misinterpreted the name of the project to be “Art Israel.!”).

 

When my application for permanent employment with OECA was rejected, I began a serious search for stable work in Toronto and was short listed for two community organizations.  I had two interviews with the South Riverdale Community Health Centre, but the job went to Liz Feltes (who retired from it a couple of years ago).  My future wife, Cathy Crowe, was working there at the time, and who knows what would have happened if I had landed that position.

 

At the 519 Church Street Community Centre, I was one of 200 applicants for the position of Executive Director.  In the covering letter to my application I had used the phrase, “method to my madness.”  Two of the five hiring committee members, both of an extraordinary literary bent (writer, editor, Rick Archbold, and Judy Salamon, with her PhD in Literature) thought they had a Shakespeare scholar as well as an administrator within their grasp; and I was offered the job.

 

I spent seven supremely happy and fulfilling years at the 519.  If there was any problem it was that once I had mastered the basics of the centre’s operation and had competent staff in place, it became clear to me that there simply wasn’t enough to do to keep a full-time Executive Director busy.  Involvement in the broader community centre movement and fighting to stem cutbacks in funding did fill much of this gap.  But I admit that toward the end I was beginning to feel bored and unchallenged.  It doesn’t follow that I therefore jumped at the opportunity to run for political office.  To the contrary I resisted it strongly at first, and then gave in reluctantly.  Yet I cannot deny that, to some extent I felt that it might be time to move on.  My immediate successor as Executive Director, Kyle Rae, soon followed in my footsteps and became the City of Toronto’s first openly gay City Councillor (the political footsteps, not gay ones).  His successor, Allison Kemper, has kept on for years, and, as far as I know, she is still steering the ship.  The last time I visited the centre (summer 2005) they were in the midst of a major building expansion project.

 

(Well, I was almost an openly gay City Councillor. I explain.  At Metro Council we were debating a measure, one that we actually passed, to give full spousal benefits to same sex partners of our employees.  During the course of the debate I got carried away with my human rights zeal and compared myself with John Kennedy, when he made the famous speech in Berlin when it was under siege, including the unforgettable words: “Ich bein ein Berliner.”  At my quoting myself saying “Ich bein gay” [I am gay], the press corps, which was in its usual state of bored semi stupor up in the press gallery, came to life and descended on me en masse.  “Councillor Hollander, did we just hear you coming out of the closet?”  I quickly put things in context for them)

 

My seven years on Toronto Metro Council were not the happiest years of my life.  Like a salmon on its way to spawn, I was all swimming against the current all the way.  I refused to play the old boys’ game, refused to trade votes or compromise basic principles.  Perhaps one can go that route and be effective, but it didn’t work that well for me.  I was pretty much marginalized by my peers and the media.  Many considered me to be “the conscience of Council.”  Whoopee.

 

I concentrated on supporting community activity with whatever resources my office could provide.  I won enough small battles but lost too many big ones.  Our office was able to help hundreds if not thousands over a seven year period with problems of welfare eligibility, housing, racial discrimination, etc.  Community services (hostels for the homeless, child care, homes for the aged, social housing, etc.) and police watch dogging were my bailiwick.  It is hard for me to know if I was effective, and, if so, to what degree.  There was enough positive feedback to make it feel worthwhile, but I did not have the impact on the overall running of the municipality that I would have liked to have.

 

When I was originally drafted by the New Democratic Party (NDP) to run in the by-election, I committed myself to one additional term if elected.  I ended up being re-elected a second time; and by the end of that three year term there was not question in my mind that I wanted out.  I simply chose not to run for re-election

 

During the course of my seven year stint on Metro Council I availed myself only twice of the oft abused privilege of traveling at the City’s expense.  In both instances, they were serious and legitimate endeavors (unlike many “junkets” taken by my colleagues, such as the flower show in Amsterdam attended by a member of our Parks Committee or the Taxi conference in Las Vegas attended by that same member, who was also on the Licensing Committee).

 

In 1989 I attended a National Aids Conference in San Francisco, and upon return wrote an extensive report, which was well received.  Not that I didn’t take advantage of the trip for considerable personal enjoyment.  Cathy traveled with me, at her own expense.  San Francisco is one of my all-time favorite cities, and while there we enjoyed such delights as North Beach, Fisherman’s Wharf, Haight-Ashbury, and the Castro District (the Gay Ghetto).  We also took in a Cal football game at Berkeley, the Bears beat San Jose State, and that was certainly a trip down memory lane for me.  We sat in the stands after the sweet victory and listened to the celebrated Cal Marching Band play all those nostalgic school tunes.

 

In 1994, my last year on Council, I had occasion to participate in an angry demonstration organized by the Ecuadorian-Canadian community in protest of the killing of a young Ecuadorian, Tony Vega.  Tony had mental health problems, was causing a disturbance at home, and his family phoned the Metro Police for help.  When Tony threatened the police with a baseball bat, they shot him dead.  This brought me into contact with Marcelo Ruiz, the president of the Ecuadorian-Canadian organization in Toronto.

 

Some months after the Vega shooting, Marcelo phoned me and invited me to meet two Ecuadorian politicians, who were on a dual purpose mission to Toronto, which included promoting a pilot project sponsored by a Commission of the Ecuadorian Congress.  The Congressman who headed that commission, with whom I met and lunched, was Juan José Costelló, an educator, and a member of a left wing political party that was more or less the political arm of the teachers’ union.  Along with Marcelo, Carlos Castro Vaca, Mayor of the Andes town of Riobamba and of the same political stripe as Juan José, and Metro’s Works Commissioner, Bob Ferguson, we lunched at the restaurant on top of the CN Tower, the latter picking up the tab.

 

This meeting led an official invitation from the Education and Culture Commission of the Ecuadorian Congress for Ferguson and me to visit Ecuador in order to observe the Commission sponsored pilot project on recycling in elementary schools that was being administered by the teachers’ union (UNE).  Thus, accompanied by Marcelo Ruiz, Bob and I spent ten days visiting schools in Quito, Riobamba and Guayaquil in the fall of 1994 (and upon returning to Toronto, I worked to get local support for the project and got Metro Council to sponsor a return visit by Carlos Castro and Juan José’s brother, Francisco; unfortunately this effort yielded miniscule results, and the project petered out for lack of funding).

 

The project was called (English translation) “Paper to Recycle, Notebooks to Study.” It was a simple yet brilliant idea.  Students were asked to bring to school old newspapers, which they were to collect from their families and neighbors.  Each student created his or her own decorative cardboard box in which to transport their collect newspapers.  Each classroom in turn had its own larger container, and each participating school had an even larger bin to store the newspapers accumulated from all the classrooms.  There were competitions amongst classrooms and between schools to see who could collect the most.  Ideally, the collected newspapers would have been recycled into usable notebooks.  But Ecuador doesn’t have an industry with that capacity, so the papers were sold to toilet paper manufacturers (we visited a toilet paper factory outside of Guayaquil and saw how the recycled newspaper was made into serviceable T.P.).  With the revenues from these sales, notebooks were purchased and distributed to the students.

 

There was a strong pedagogical component to the project as well.  Students learned about the environment and the need for ecological protection.  As we toured various schools we witnessed songs, dramas, and posters on the theme of environmental protection.

 

There were forty three years between my first and second visits to Ecuador.  After the first visit, I promised myself that I would one day return, and it was beginning to look as if that were never going to be fulfilled. 

 

Having made the decision not to run for re-election to Metro Council in the November 1994 city elections, I had to decide what to do with my life.  I gave myself three options: stay in Toronto and look for a new job; move to Albuquerque, New Mexico, which I had come to love from my visits to Liz Canfield over the years; or head south to live for a while in Ecuador.  I had Liz doing some ground work for me on Albuquerque, and had been short listed for the job of Executive Director of a statewide A.I.D.S. program, when I made the decision in favor of Ecuador.

 

Before finalizing my decision, however, I consulted with each of my daughters, my brother, and my parents. This was where my mother told me she believed that one should do one’s own thing, and when I told her she sounded like a Hippie, she responded by saying, “I am a Hippie!”  Everyone supported my decision.  I then consulted with Marcelo Ruiz, who has contacts all over the country.  He asked me if I wanted to settle in the mountains, the coast or the jungle.  Without hesitation I chose the coast.  The idea was that he would put me in touch with his political contacts there and together we would look for a project or projects in which I could become involved.

 

Marcelo had told me that he had been a student activist during the time of the Ecuadorian dictatorship (1970s). His closest ties are with the MPD (Movement for Popular Democracy).  The MPD is made up largely of members of the Ecuadorian teachers’ union, UNE (National Union of Educators).  It is considered one of the far left parties on the Ecuadorian political spectrum and my have ties with the outlawed PCMLE (Marxist-Leninist Communist Party of Ecuador).  The people involved with the recycling project in Ecuador were all connected with the MPD and/or UNE.

 

When I got to Ecuador, I was put in contact with Aracelly Moreno and her husband, Marcelo Moncayo.  Aracelly is a former teacher, union activist, and, at the time, was an MPD congresswoman.  Marcelo is an engineer, professor, and Marxist intellectual.  They are both extremely decent people, and the treated me kindly.  Aracelly, in particular is someone for whom I have a great deal of respect.  She is a true fighter, and she stays the battle in spite of the misogyny she encounters within her own movement (she jokingly refers to “Machista Leninistas”).  Marcelo arranged for me to rent a large bungalow near the beach in a resort complex about a two hour drive from Guayaquil.  From there I was going to look for involvement with projects having to do with organizing fishermen.

 

Before taking possession of the bungalow, I spent a couple of weeks there with a large group of their friends, all MPDers (emepedistas in Spanish).  All very nice people, but one thing really set me back: the ubiquity of the RSH virus (Racist/Sexist/Homophobic).  The racism and homophobia came out mostly in efforts at humor (it was recommended to me, for example, that I could cure my back problems by sleeping with a big black woman).  The sexism, on the other hand, was palpable in every day living.  At meal time, the women, having spent hours laboring over a hot stove, would serve first the men, then the children; then they would sit down to have a bite to eat themselves before getting up to do the dishes and clean up the kitchen (while the men drank Cuba Libres on the veranda).  Marcelo took pride in teaching his adolescent son to whistle at the females on the beach.  Homosexuality was illegal in Ecuador at the time, and the term maricón (fag) was used with impunity.

 

This was a real turn off.  It was like being in a time warp that transformed me back to the 1950s.  Such overt racism, sexism and homophobia is, thank the goddess, virtually nonexistent amongst the left in North America.  This was not the only factor that ended up changing my course.  Meeting Carmen and getting involved with the cultural community (which is much more broad minded than the politicos) probably had more to do than anything else with veering from my original plans.

 

I ended up, after about two months in the country, giving up my beach bungalow and moving in with Carmen in her two by four apartment in Playas.  Which takes me to my next career adventure: retail clothing salesman.  Carmen’s youngest brother, Manuel, had an import business, centered mostly in importing clothing and accessories from Panama.  Carmen was making her living (about a hundred dollars a month) by selling clothing to friends and contacts in Playas.  I put new energies into the “business,” including but not limited to modernizing her bookkeeping and accounting system, which had consisted of loose pieces of paper, randomly arranged.  When I got into drawing, we added my line of “Playa Gringo” silk-screened T-shirts to our inventory.  It was thankless work.  We had some of our merchandise in the local version of a department store, but on consignment, and the revenue trickled in.  The biggest problem was that, in order to sell, we had to give credit (nobody has ready cash, it seems, in Ecuador); and then we had to pull teeth in order to collect (shades of my old newspaper delivery days).  This was most unpleasant; and when I decided to do art full time and my Canadian pension kicked in, we were able to go out of the retail clothing business.

 

But before becoming an artiste, I had one more fling on the retail side of things.  Playas is a beach resort, and it is inundated with tourists, virtually one hundred percent Ecuadorian, on weekends and holidays, during the vacations season, which is roughly New Years until Easter.  It occurred to me that we could get rich selling something novel on the beach, where vendors plied beer and soft drinks along with typical Ecuadorian fare.  We experimented with friends, and what was best received were my pancakes, which I made by adding the ripe platano (plantain), which gave them a rich banana flavor.

 

So on the first big weekend of the season, early Saturday morning I cooked up about fifty pancakes, placed them attractively in flat baskets, and sent them out to the beach with five local kids we had rounded up.  In about an hour all five came back with nary a pancake missing from their baskets.  This was disheartening

 

“Give me those pancakes,” I said, as we dismissed the kids and sent them home with some spending money for their efforts.  I remembered an experience I had had several weeks ago at a beach in Salinas before I had met Carmen.  A man came up to us selling these brown rounded candies that didn’t appeal to me on sight.  He insisted, however, that I try a sample.  They turned out to be made of coconut, one of my very favorite flavors, and I consequently made a purchase.

 

So I took a fork along with me, with which I cut up a pancake into small pieces for chumming.  I would approach a group on the beach and offer my pancakes.  They would politely shake there heads no, at which time I would proceed to insist that they take a sample of my “Canadian pancakes,” which I had made with my own two little hands.  No obligation to purchase.  I returned to the house in about a half hour with my basket empty.

 

We sold over 2000 pancakes that “season.”  At first I made the batter and fried the flapjacks, and then went out onto the beach to sell them.  This soon became untenable, so I gave my secret recipe to Carmen, and she stayed home and fried while I went out and hawked.  We worked only on weekends and holidays.  Our pancakes sold at two for 1000 sucres (about 20 cents each).  The wonders of multiple pricing: rarely would someone ask timidly if they might be allowed to buy only one pancake at 500 sucres.  Most bought two or four, and I sold as many as ten at a time to large families.  Occasionally someone would know what a North American pancake is and ask if I had any maple syrup to go along.  I explained that the sweet banana flavor made up for the lack of a sweet syrup, and I pointed out that our pancakes has a taste similar to the popular Ecuadorian maduro lampriado (ripe plantain fried in batter) but with only a small percentage of the grease.

 

Alas, it turned out to be extremely exhausting work for relatively little return (with a 100% mark-up, we were making about ten cents per pancake, which meant a total net income of only about $200 for all that effort.  Carmen vowed never again to slave over a hot stove making pancakes, and thus ended the enterprise.  The item was so popular that if we had been more enthusiastic and competent entrepreneurs we probably could have set up shop somewhere in Playas and a made a go of it.  But Carmen’s career as a poet and mine in the plastic arts were too important for us to give up to the full time retail pancake business.

 

Probably, no not probably, rather certainly, the most unlikely career that either I or anyone who knows me well ever would have foreseen for myself is that of a career in the plastic arts.  I am one of those people who cannot draw maturely and realistically.  It has always amazed me how those who indeed are able to draw realistically can get things to look like they really are, that is, with shading, shadowing, nuances, textures, perspective, etc.  It always has been and still remains beyond my ken.  Nevertheless, the fact that I have sold more artwork in the short period I have been at it than say, someone like Vincent van Gogh in his entire life, cannot be denied.  I may not be a very good artist – that is not for me to say – but having achieved a degree of earnings from my work, it follows that it is a profession and not a hobby.

 

How then did I come to dedicate a large amount of time an effort doing art?  It begins with my addiction to crossword puzzles, something with which Carmen could not abide.  Even though I considered it to be a worthwhile endeavor in that it keeps your mind sharp and helps expand vocabulary, I have to admit that an addiction is an addiction, the nature of which isolates one from his or her immediate social reality and demands increasing dosages of the drug.  When Carmen insisted I drop doing crosswords and take up something creative and productive, I answered that I have no creative skills.  Her response was the Spanish equivalent of “phooey.”

 

To get her off my back, I made what I thought would be a humorous and infantile drawing.  In it I showed a crossword puzzle book opened up, I added human characteristics (arms and legs), and had it crucified on a cross.  I called the drawing, “Crucigrama Crucificada,” (Crossword Crucified), which I thought had a nice ring to it in Spanish.  The reaction I got from her was the opposite of what I expected.  Instead of her saying that it was pretty bad art, she commented that it indeed showed a lot of creativity and that I should continue drawing.

 

Now I always have been an inveterate doodler.  At interminable Metro Council meetings, to avoid being bored to death, I would doodle on the margins of the book length agendas with which we worked.  I sat next to Howard Moscoe, a former art teacher, and looked at his much more sophisticated doodles with envy.  Nevertheless, I do get a pleasant sensation from holding a writing instrument in my hand and marking on paper.  So I began drawing crude figures then dividing them into smaller random shapes and filling in the spaces.  I found this almost therapeutic, and the designs that emerged were sometimes pleasant to my eyes.

 

So I made a number of pen and ink drawings, and had three or four which I liked the best framed and hung in our living room (our living room was then and is now a virtual art gallery; at the time it was filled with art work given to Carmen by friends, and I thought it would be nice to see something I had done hanging on our walls).  I thought not much more about it, although I continued my doodle/drawing with considerable enjoyment.  Until one fine day came to visit us Jimmy Saltos, a friend of Carmen and an established painter.  He singled out my drawings on the wall and asked who did them.  He felt they would make excellent designs for T-shirts, so we bought a couple hundred of blank T-shirts and took them along with four of my drawings to a silk-screener in Guayaquil. 

 

As with my hotcakes, they sold like hotcakes; but after exhausting the market that consisted of friends and relatives, it became clear that a huge investment would have to be made to mass produce them for a commercial market, and we lacked the financial resources for either production or marketing.  However, in the process of looking for a silk-screen workshop for the T-shirts, we showed my drawings to another artist friend of Carmen, Walter Paéz, who at the time was in charge of a silk-screen workshop for fine art at the Municipal Museum in Guayaquil.  He invited me to participate in the workshop, where the two silk-screen prints that I produced were selected for exhibition at the Museum.  Believe it or not, I said to myself, I am on my way as an artist.  An artist!

 

I next participated in an etching workshop with Arnold Sicles from Quito, and my two etchings were exhibited as well.  From there I worked with Walter Paéz with additional techniques of print art: woodcut, linoleum, and colography.  This meant spending a lot of time in Guayaquil since there are no printing presses in Playas, and spending time in Guayaquil has always been a problem for me because of its oppressive climate, pollution, noise and traffic.  One weekend while I was home alone in Playas I discovered some oil painting supplies of Carmen’s, and I started to experiment.  Painting, I soon discovered, was not only something I could enjoy doing, but it was also possible to do it in my own backyard.  Since then I have dedicated all my efforts at painting, mostly in oil and a bit in acrylic.

 

My artwork has been used for the covers of a novel and four volumes of poetry, including Carmen’s “Aguaje,” which also contained my illustrations.  My work has been exhibited in Ecuador and Canada, and although I don’t expect to ever be able to make a full time living doing art, it pays the utilities.

 

I’ve already mentioned the three months I spent replacing the English who had resigned teacher at the high school in Playas that was operated by the Catholic University in Guayaquil.  Although I enjoyed especially being around and able to corrupt those fun loving, curious, and hormone charged teen-agers and was offered the position of Chairman of the English Department (which would have consisted of myself and two other non-native speaking teachers), I declined.  The school administration was careless and corrupt, I was underpaid and cheated out of part of my salary, and I didn’t want to commit myself to full time work in any case.

 

Since then (late 2005, early 2006), I have had the opportunity to do some short-term contract work in Toronto.  I lobbied the Toronto City Council on behalf of the Toronto Disaster Relief Committee to increase its commitment to heat reduction services in the blistering summer months; and I served as the Accreditation Coordinator for the Adler School of Professional Studies.

 

For the former I reluctantly agreed to the proposal put to me by my third ex-wife, Cathy Crowe.  At my very first Metro Council meeting in the fall of 1987 I introduced a motion whereby the Council would ask the senior levels of government to declare homelessness a national disaster and provide resources required to meet the crisis.  The motion was not taken seriously at the time.  Cathy was later to co-found the Toronto Disaster Relief Committee (TDRC), and not only did she stick-handle a similar resolution through the Toronto Council, but was able to achieve its adoption by municipal councils across Canada.

 

Cathy wanted me to meet with selected members of the contemporary Council, many of whom had been my colleagues back then.  The subject was the deepening public health crisis engendered by the increasingly oppressively hot summer weather.  Because we are still friends, and because I have such a high degree of respect for what she has achieved as a perhaps Canada’s most influential anti-poverty activist, I was not able to refuse, notwithstanding that I had little desire to return to City Hall on any kind of official business.

 

The upshot was that I was pleasantly surprised to have enjoyed the assignment.  Not only were the great majority of the Councillors with whom I spoke receptive to the TDRC’s indicatives, but I was received with more respect and warmth than I would have expected, and not only by Councillors but as well by other City employees with whom I had worked all those years ago.  I was later told by Cathy that my “lobbying” efforts yielded results, and that many of the measures that TDRC had proposed were adopted by the Council for summers to come.

 

I did more substantial work for Linda Page, my first ex-wife and the mother of my children both in 2006 and 2007.  Linda owns and operates the Adler School of Professional studies, with which she has been associated in various roles since the late 1970s.  The school’s main program is one that offers a Master’s degree in Psychology, a program oriented toward mature students and those who are considering a change of career.  Courses are given on week nights and weekends.  The degree had previously been recognized by the government by way of the school’s association with the Adler Institute in Chicago.  Now it is submitting an application to the government to be accredited to confer the degree in its own right.  The application ran to several thousand pages and covered every imaginable aspect of post-graduate education, from the academic to the financial.  It was several years in the works, and I was hired to coordinate the final phase of compiling the application and preparing it for submission.

 

The application consists of three major parts: A Review of the Organization, the Academic Aspect, and Compliance with Legal Requirements.  Each part contained numerous sections.  It was my job to ensure that each section was completed, that it met the guidelines put forth by the government, and that it was consistent and contained no technical errors.  It was submitted in the fall of 2007, and the final outcome will not be known for several months.

 

I should mention as well the work I did in 2007 as a volunteer for the project which as directed by my wife, Carmen Váscones.  The Circles of Recreation and Learning Project is financed by the Ecuadorian government and delivered in Playas through a grant given to the municipal government.  It provides enrichment activities (education, play, nutrition and health promotion) for pre-school children in marginal neighborhoods.  It is somewhat similar to the long-standing Headstart program in the States.  In Playas, the project serves nearly eleven hundred children, ages 3-5, in some forty centers in Playas and the surrounding area.

 

Carmen had been hired to rescue the project, when it was about to lose funding due to a dismal beginning.  She stayed for 18 months, and supervised three assistants, a comptroller, and eighteen “facilitators” (teachers), all women.  She provided inspired leadership and got the project back on its feet, but she was able only to achieve this by working 80 hour weeks, often seven days a week; and she had to put up with shoddy administration by the City officials in charge of the overall project.

 

She also would not have been able to achieve what she did without my taking on two jobs: full time house husband and full time project volunteer.  For the latter, I served as her personal secretary, and I was the project’s unofficial chauffer and photographer.  I also helped out with administration and the development of graphic materials.

 

Well, there you have it.  I think I have covered all of the various jobs and careers in which it has for the most part been my privilege to serve.  I suppose I should add that all through these years I have done a fair amount of writing, everything from grant applications to administrative reports to oped opinion articles.  In the last few years I have tried to make a break-through as a free lance writer, with some small success.  I have had opinion pieces published in the Los Angeles Times, the Toronto Star, Guayaquil’s El Universo, and Podium, the publication of Guayaquil’s Universidad del Espirtu Santo; and I have written several articles for the Marxist-Humanist periodical, News and Letters.  I have proof edited an intellectual biography of the Philosopher-Activist, Raya Dunayevskaya for its author, Eugene Gogol.

 

When I was in my senior year at UC Berkeley, most of my friends who were graduating were going onto graduate studies.  My religious fervor at the time lead me to a single graduate year at the Princeton Theological Seminary; but when I think of the career that had most attracted me, it would have been Law.  My “big brother” at the time, Garold Raff, advised me strongly to go out into the world and get some real life experience, then come back and do law school.  I took the first part of his advice, but I never came back.  I think Law would have been a compatible career for me, but I have no regrets with respect to the roads I have taken.

 

When people ask me what I do for a living I usually say that I do artwork, since that has been the most consistent activity for me over the past dozen or so years.  But to answer the question posed in the title of this essay, “what do I want to be when I grow up?” I suggest two possibilities.  One is that I may never grow up.  The other is that I have still not conducted a major symphony orchestra or practiced brain surgery, so there is still the possibility that new and interesting career horizons loom in my future.

Charlie and Me December 29, 2008

Posted by rogerhollander in Autobiographical Essays (Roger), Charlie and Me.
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(I think I can say honestly that I loved both my parents equally, and I believe that their influence on my life and character was equal as well.  However it was Charlie, intellectually and politically oriented like myself, who could both inspire me and get under my skin.  He was clearly a less secure individual than my mother, and I don’t think I ever achieved anything of any significance whatsoever without thinking about how it would please my father.  I cannot vouch for all the historical facts in the “story” that follows, especially with reference to the year 1941.  What I know about the events of January 26/27, 1941 are all hearsay, my having been minus one day old at the time; but I was young then and had a good ear.) 

 

1941

 

Hitler’s armies are in control of most of Western Europe, and the Japanese military is cooking up a secret plan to attack the main US naval base in Hawaii, which will represent a daring move to demolish in a single blow America’s capacity to wage war in the Pacific.  It is January 26, 1941, and it has just begun to snow in Newark, New Jersey.

 

At about 8:30 PM, Charles Hollander leaves the grocery store that is owned and operated by his cousin Morris where he earns the ten dollars a week that supports him, his wife, Anne, and their two year old son Neil.  He steps out onto Springfield Avenue and decides that the storm is not so bad that he cannot save five cents by walking to their Jacob Street flat instead of taking the bus.  Then he stops for a moment for a second thought.  He gives himself a mental kick in the pants for thinking of saving a nickel when his wife is in her ninth month and due at any moment.  He catches the first number five that passes going east and heads for home.

 

Charlie, as he is known to just about everyone, was “political” in his youth.  He presided over a reform-oriented Democratic “Club” whose political hero and inspiration was Jersey’s own Woodrow Wilson.  With his quick mind and law school background Charlie was considered by many to be an up and comer.  Instead, he chose to buck the party establishment by joining a reform ticket that opposed the party bosses in a primary election for the State Assembly.  To the injury of a losing campaign was added the insult of being blackballed from the party’s patronage (including WPA jobs).  For good.

 

Despite the sudden and rude termination of his dream for a career in party politics, Charlie had no lasting regrets.  For it was through his political involvement that he became good buddies with Max Korabiak, the husky son of a Ukrainian immigrant, who drove a truck making deliveries for his father’s burgeoning ice and coal business.  Ice boxes (before refrigerators could be found in most homes) demanded to be kept ice cold in the summer, and furnaces consumed tons of coal in the winter. Max was proud and ambitious, and a later business failure was to lead to what in those enlightened times was called a “nervous breakdown.”  Max ended up spending the rest of his adult life wheeling and dealing and outliving several generations of attendant staff at the same State Hospital for the Mentally Ill in upstate Overbrook, where he also was able to look after the well-being of his mother, Sadie, who had been confined several years before with the same amorphous diagnosis and where she also made her home until her very last days.

 

At one of their Democratic Club’s annual dances, Max had introduced Charlie to his younger sister, Anne; and though both Anne and Charlie had arrived at the dance with their own dates, they left together.  It was but a few weeks later, on New Year’s Eve, 1933, that Charlie borrowed his friend S. Donald “Red” Rappaport’s Model A Ford and eloped with Anne to the poor man’s Niagara Falls: Elkton, Maryland.  Red came along as a witness.

 

Whether Anne’s hard working old world style tyrannical father, William “Bill” (neé Vasily) Korabiak, had no use for Charlie because he was poor or because he was Jewish is hard to say.  Probably a little of both.  Upon their return from Elkton – it had been an overnight trip and they were back in time for the New Year’s Day party at the Korabiak home cum ice dock cum coal bin on Hunterdon Street, with no one being any the wiser about their new marital status – Anne continued to keep house and raise her three younger brothers (as she had done since she had “dropped out” of the sixth grade when her mother left the home for good) until Charlie could save up enough cash to rent the Jacob Street flat.  When months later she finally broke the news to her father and took leave for good, old Mister Korabiak now had another reason to hate Charlie, one that hit much closer to home.  Charlie had, in effect, signed Anne’s Emancipation Proclamation, thereby causing Bill the net loss of one full time domestic indentured servant.

 

Charlie arrives at the Jacob Street flat shortly after 9:00 PM.  He is exhausted, for his day at the grocery store is long and tedious, and the walk from the bus stop to the house is all uphill, but he is relieved to find everything ship shape.  Little Neil is crying, but what else is new. After grabbing a quick supper – Anne had already eaten – Charlie will now have to take over the seemingly endless task of getting the baby to sleep so that Anne can rest.  He says a silent and secular – for the religious part of his Judaism really never took root – prayer that the new baby will be a quieter one.  The law of averages, he thinks to himself, has got to be in our side on that score.  Charlie tries to put out of his mind the fact that once the recalcitrant Neil decides to trade weep for sleep, his kitchen duties – in the form of a sink full of dirty dishes and a hamper full of soiled diapers – await his attention.  His responsibility for these kinds of chores goes back beyond Anne’s pregnancy.   Having escaped from one slave master, she was not about to replace him with another, albeit a younger and more handsome one.  She was a grade six drop out, and the new wave of feminism was decades away from raising its unruly head, but Anne was ahead of her time.  Charlie was expected to pull some of the domestic weight.

 

As he sleepwalks through the dishes, Charlie’s mind drifts back to that last visit to Dr. Hautman’s office.  Hautman, a tall, dark haired handsome man, a half-generation older than Charlie, was a general practitioner, that’s about all there was in those days.  He charged only what you could afford, gave you all the time you needed, both in the examining room and with making payment.  He never sent a bill, and he never considered making house calls anything other than part of his job.

 

While Anne would be getting dressed in the doctor’s examining room, he and Charlie are talking about the war that day in the front office.  Two peace loving Jewish men agonizing over what seemed to be the inevitability despite Roosevelt’s apparent hesitancy of their country once again getting sucked into the middle of another European conflagration.  Although Hitler’s attitude toward Jews was well known by then, no one could have imagined the atrocities that were to follow, so it was not that unusual that many American Jews were blasé about getting involved.   Neither Charlie nor the good doctor would have considered themselves “isolationists,” yet both men were cynical about what would be achieved by fighting another World War.

 

“They said the last one was the ‘war to end all wars,’” the doctor reminded Charlie who had mentioned that he was starting to see no way the U.S. could not get involved again, “I don’t know about you, Charlie, but why is it that the big shots always call the tune, and it’s the young kids that go over and get shot at?  Sure Hitler’s a maniac, but who drove the Germans into his arms with the impossible reparations debt from the war?  Wilson tried with the League of Nations and where did it get him?  I’ve got two boys a lot closer to fighting age than your little Neil.  Those boys mean everything to me and Sarah, and I’ll be damned if I want to see them sent five thousand miles to die on foreign soil.”

 

Charlie nodded agreement.  “When will the fools that run this world ever learn, when will they ever learn?” he added, shaking his head.

 

Charlie had completed training with the Civilian Military Training Corps (CMTC), a sort of non-academic R.O.T.C. for civilians, and when called up would enter the army as a second lieutenant (unbeknownst to him at the time, however, he would never see active duty due to a bone deformity that caused him to fail his physical when he finally tried to enlist).

 

“Charlie, I want you to know something.  If somehow we get dragged into this thing, and when you are called up, I don’t want you to be worried about Anne and the kids.  I will take care to make sure they are in fine health when you get back, and you can take that to the bank.  And don’t worry about money, O.K.?  Right now everything is as it should be with Anne.  The baby’s gong to be as big and healthy as the last one.  She could be popping out any day now.  You understand what I’m telling you?  I’m counting on it being a girl.”

 

 

 

1987

 

Here is how I became a city councilor.

 

For years I had resisted the temptation to run for political office in Toronto.  I was in my seventh year as Executive Director of the now legendary 519 Church Street Community Center, and I won’t deny that I wasn’t at times restless for a change.  But I had plenty to keep me happy right where I was.  I had had the opportunity to take a lead role in the development of City of Toronto policy toward city funded but independently run community centers, and therefore to a certain extent I knew my way around City Hall.  Of late, in reaction to the Mulroney Conservative government’s cuts and privatization of the student summer employment programs that had been initiated in the Trudeau era, which had a profoundly negative effect on the ability of non-profit organizations to provide a wide range of community and social services over the summer, I had helped to organize and was national coordinator of the Save our Summer Coalition (S.OS.).

 

Since emigrating to Canada in the summer of 1968 to avoid up to five years in a federal prison for my anti-Vietnam war activities, I had slowly gotten my feet back into the waters of political activism; and, since 1980 when I took the position at The 519, I was even drawing a decent salary, thanks in part to my friend Anna Furstenberg’s having convinced me that it is possible “to do well while doing good.”  It was not quite the same as the street level political activism I had known in Southern California. There I had been involved in helping to support the United Farm Workers, under Cesar Chavez, by organizing boycotts of non-union grapes and wine; I had gotten involved with the Black community in various Civil Right demonstrations and projects; and, of course, was involved in a wide range of anti-Vietnam War activities, including the picketing of local draft boards and military installations, demonstrating against Dow Chemical, the maker of the horrendous napalm bombs that was eating flesh of thousands of innocent Vietnamese civilians, and organizing and participating in teach-in and sit-ins at various campuses.

 

I had spent several frustrating years involved with the Democratic Party.  Although my inclination, which had taken root in my student years at Berkeley (1958-1962), was for direct action of the street variety, until the revolutionary gusts that swept the nation beginning in the mid-sixties, it seemed as if the Democrats were the only game in town for progressive political activists.  The final straw for me, however, came shortly after the 1964 presidential elections, where I had poured heart and soul into the campaign to elect “peace candidate” Lyndon Johnson in an Armageddon like battle against the war-mongering Barry Goldwater.  It was Johnson, of course, who, once elected, proceeded to escalate US involvement in Vietnam that lead eventually to the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives on both sides and expansion of the conflict into Cambodia and Laos.

 

After leaving the Democratic Party, I had studied, adopted, then rejected anarchism and was beginning to become interested in the Marxist-Humanist movement founded by Raya Dunayevskaya.  When I got to Canada and learned that there was a third party — a socialist party! – I thought I had died and gone to heaven.  It wasn’t long, however, before I discovered that the New Democratic Party (NDP) had pretty much abandoned its socialist CCF roots.  It was socialist in name only, it was no longer looking to transform but rather to reform.  I soon saw the logic of whoever it was who had characterized the NDP as nothing more than “Liberals in a hurry” — that is, reformers with no desire to remake a system that was structurally flawed.

 

So, although I was under no illusions, and although I did not choose to join the Party, I could not deny, especially since I was directly involved via my work at the community center with city government, that on neighborhood-based issues, it was generally the NDP that could be counted on for support, both with respect to policy and practical assistance.  I therefore was quite willing to actively back NDP candidates in the old Ward 6 where I worked and especially in Ward 7 where I lived.  In so doing, I got to know, became friendly with, and worked side by side with a number of NDP grass roots activists as well as elected city councillors.

 

Nevertheless, when John Piper jogged into my office at The 519 at lunchtime one afternoon, and those who know John will know that I mean that literally, I outright rejected his suggestion that I seek to become the NDP candidate in the Ward 7 by-election to replace Joanne Campbell, who had resigned to accept an appointment from the Provincial Liberal government.  Joanne, a life-long New Democrat representing a Ward with a twenty year tradition of sending hard-working progressives to City Hall, had become somewhat of a controversial figure several months prior to her resignation when she announced that she would no longer participate in the NDP caucus at City Council but rather would sit as an “independent”.  Many Torontonians are under the illusion that party politics do not apply at the city level since the Liberals and Conservatives do not run under the party banner but rather call themselves “independents.”  However, a true independent at city council is as rare as a true idealist, and the same Liberal and Conservative organizations that support provincial and federal candidates are mobilized for the city level campaigns (in fact, city council has always served as the “minor leagues” for many a future Liberal and Conservative member of the provincial and federal parliaments).  The NDP, on the other hand, openly and formally nominates candidates who, when elected, participate in a caucus, albeit without the discipline that is exercised at the senior levels of government.

 

A couple of weeks before John’s appearance at my office, I had received a phone call from Joanne’s assistant at City Hall, Jeff Evanson, to inform me that Joanne would be resigning the next day, that he would be running in the by-election to fill the vacancy, and could he count on my support.  He neglected to mention to me that he would be running as an “independent” with the active, if clandestine, backing of the Liberal Party (who found him a Provincial job after losing the election).  Oblivious to the impossible to conceive of at the time fact that I would be Jeff’s opponent in that election, and although I assumed he would probably win the NDP nomination and get my eventual support, I told him (assuming that he was asking for my support for the NDP nomination) that I could not offer my public support until I knew who all the candidates were.  It had always bugged the hell out of me that so many people gave their public endorsements based upon the first person to ask for it; and I later came to find out as a city councilor that this was also the case amongst councilors when lobbying their colleagues for support for a particular council vote or appointment.  So much for principle in politics.

 

In any case, since I had long ago decided that it would be against my principles to be an NDP candidate for anything, it didn’t take any real consideration on my part to reject Piper’s suggestion.  John Piper is that unusual combination of intellectual and jock.  He is one of the most persistent and persuasive persons you will ever want to meet, or not want to, as the case may be.  He filled me in on what an Evanson victory would mean for Ward 7, that is, nothing less than a Liberal coup d’etat.  He told me that the NDP needed to come up with a strong candidate fast (this was June and the by-election was to be held in November), and that he was only asking me to participate as a candidate in the nominating process to help develop a strong field of candidates.  He showed me a list of people who were considering entering the race for the nomination, including the Labor Council’s Linda Torney, a person for whom I had and have tremendous respect.

 

Our meeting ended up with my withdrawal of an outright rejection in favor of my agreeing to at least consider the possibility.  This was a major step for me, one that showed that I was not immune to setting principle aside when it came to realizing a practical strategic objective, in this case, not letting the Liberals get away with the sleazy and dishonest attempt to “steal” Ward 7 with their “independent” candidate.

 

After consulting with family, friends and confidants, I decided I would take the plunge.  Since I would be running, if nominated, not simply to carry the NDP banner but rather to stop Jeff Evanson, i.e., actually to win; once I made the fateful decision, I put every ounce of my energy into it.  When it became finally known who would be seeking the NDP nomination, it became clear both to me and to the Ward 7 NDP executive, that because of my history of community involvement I was the only one with a chance, albeit an outside one (given Evanson’s virtual “incumbency” and head start), to actually win the seat (Linda Torney had decided not to seek the nomination).

 

Although I freely admit, and did so at the time, that my decision to join the NDP and run for a city council seat as an NDP candidate was a compromise with a previously held principled position, I was determined that when it came to issues and matters of policy, the NDP was going to have to live with my political radicalism and independence of thought, which was not negotiable.  Since there is no policy “platform” and no disciplined caucus at the city level, it seemed to me that I could do this without deceiving either the Party, the electorate or myself.  But could the NDP live with me?

 

I met with the members of the local executive informally.  Piper had been their emissary, and although they were prevented from making a formal endorsement, they wanted to give behind the scenes encouragement to the person they considered to be the strongest candidate for the nomination.  A couple of the members of the executive were excited to have an unabashedly “left” candidate, others were glad just to find someone who had a bit more than a hope in hell to beat Jeff Evanson.  Everyone was worried about my past radicalism, especially since I made it, as that intellectual giant Richard Nixon would say, “perfectly clear” that I did not intend to move one inch closer to the NDP mainstream from where I stood about six and a half miles to its left.  “Is it true that you were a draft dodger,” I was asked.  “No,” I replied – sighs of relief all around – “actually I was more like a deserter.” 

 

Largely through the efforts of a few dedicated friends and associates and the amazing organizational efforts of my then wife, Cathy Crowe, I won the nomination with a comfortable margin, even though one of the other candidates, University of Toronto campus chaplain Eilert Freirichs, gave a speech at the nominating meeting that was ten times better than my own.  With the nomination in hand, in the general by-election it was me against Jeff Evanson and a handful of fringe candidates with no organizational backing (including an ex-landlord of mine and a drag queen).

 

The campaign was one of the most salient experiences of my life.  I don’t think I ever worker harder over a sustained period of time.  Because of what Jeff had done in using his NDP job as a springboard to running as an “independent”, secretly supported by the Liberals, against an NDP nominated candidate, the race took on the aura of internecine warfare.  Many NDP supporters had no idea of what Jeff had done and gave him their support believing that he was going to be like Joanne, a more independent minded NDP’er.  Although I had years of community organizing and he had basically done only party work, Jeff was now the “community” candidate and I was the “party hack.”  Oh, sweet irony.  Former NDP allies were now on opposite sides of the fence, and life long friendships were strained (Piper, for example, had grown up with Joanne Campbell and is best friends with her and her husband, ex-NDP councilor Gordon Cressy; the friendship weathered the storm; the first thing I did when I won the election was to work to mend fences; Ron Kaplansky, a graphic designer who did Evanson’s campaign sign and literature designs, is now a good friend of mine; Jeff, however, did not give me the traditional courtesy of conceding defeat on election night).

 

We had a hell of a lot of ground to make up.  We spent tons of money to hire the best NDP organizers available (the debt incurred remains unpaid to this day).  Piper served as interim Campaign Manager until we were able to bring on the incomparable Sherril Game; a future Provincial Consumer Affairs Minister in the Rae government, Marilyn Churley, was the campaign secretary.  Piper, who was later to become Ontario Premier Bob Rae’s public relations director and was subsequently forced to resign in disgrace when he made a serious tactical error in an attempt to protect a Cabinet Minister who had been falsely accused of sexual abuse, designed an unbeatable campaign strategy, but one that would only work if there was enough time.

 

I won by 222 votes.  If the campaign had lasted another week, I think I would have won by 2000.  We had a lot to overcome, but we had all the momentum.  Victory, to use a cliché, was sweet.  The first thing I did, of course, upon being confirmed as the winner, was to phone my dad with the good news.

 

You know, my father had been in politics for a short time in his youth.  He too was something of a maverick.  He had been President of a Democratic Party “Club” and had unsuccessfully bucked the Party establishment, which cost him any chance of further advancement.  He was never nearly as radical in his beliefs as I am, but much of what I have learned about principled behavior in politics I have learned from him, more from his actions than his stated beliefs.  It’s funny for me to say this, because my father is always preaching pragmatism to me.  “You have to stoop to conquer,” is one of his favorite sayings.

 

My father graduated from Mercer Beasley School of Law in Newark (long since, I believe, absorbed into Rutgers University) but never practiced law.  For some reason, after his first unsuccessful attempt at passing the New Jersey bar, he lost heart.  He had lost both his parents before he was twenty, and in his teens took off riding the rails hobo style to California, where, had he been a little more shrewd, would have landed a bit part in a John Wayne movie.  His ultimate destination was Japan, which he never made.  After losing his one and only election and his betrayal of the party bosses, he dropped out of political activism never to return.  He remains more or less progressive in his outlook, and I am sure he never voted Republican.  Maybe because of being so seriously burned when he ventured outside the boundaries of the established order of the world where he thought he saw his future (i.e., the New Jersey Democratic Party), he became a strong advocate of “working within the system.”  He could never fully endorse my decisions to work outside the system, although at some level I know he understands my uncompromising idealism and my “impractical” obsession with principle.

 

Although my Dad left politics for good after his defeat, he kept in touch with some of his old buddies, one of whom, Isaiah “Ike” Turner, was the first Black elected to Newark’s city council.  How many times has he told me the (possibly Apocryphal) following story about Ike’s first council meeting: It would goes without saying that the white incumbents were not apt to give a cordial welcome to this “uppity Nigger” who dared to think he had a right to elected office.  So how does old Ike deal with the cold shoulder he receives when he takes his place at his very first council meeting?  He introduces a motion to give members of council a significant raise in pay (something that almost all politicians lust after but have to be careful about proposing).  The motion passes unanimously, and from that day forward Isaiah “Ike” Turner is one of the boys.

 

Would you like to know what I did at my first council meeting?

 

In Council procedures there is something called an “Order Paper motion” which any member of Council can put on the Council agenda in order to get an issue directly before the Council.  It is used when there is no time to follow the normal laborious committee process on a particular matter of urgency; or – and this is what I often found advantageous — when there would be no hope to get a recommendation passed by a committee and put before the Council (Council committees are notorious for killing controversial initiatives before they can reach the Council as a whole for debate).

 

At my first Council meeting I put a motion on the Order Paper to the effect that the Council declare Toronto a “disaster area” with respect to the problem of homelessness and request immediate emergency assistance from the provincial and federal governments.  Order Paper motions are debated after the Council has disposed with all its committee vetted business, so that it was late in the evening when it came up, and the members were tired and grouchy.  Those who did not consider my motion a scandal treated it as a joke.  I was made fun of and ridiculed – who is this rookie councilor with this screwball motion?  Nevertheless, the Council was forced to take its collective head out of the sand, and a two-hour debate, the first of its kind, took place in Council chambers on the city’s crisis in housing.  Needless to say, the motion did not carry.  The vote was something like 35-4.  Not even all my NDP colleagues voted for it.

 

The Ghost of Ike Turner was not pleased, and I never became one of the boys.

 

(Twelve years later, in response to the tireless organizing and lobbying by Cathy Crowe and the Toronto Disaster Relief Committee, the Toronto City Council, and then municipal council’s across Canada, passed similar motions, calling for federal intervention in the housing crisis.)

 

And yet, despite the fact I was not prone to follow in the hallowed footprints left by Ike Turner’s fancy footwork in the council chambers of Newark, New Jersey, no one was more proud of me for my seven years as perpetual outsider and a constant thorn in the side of Toronto Council …than my dad.

 

 

 

 

1968

 

I first became seriously aware of the US involvement in Vietnam while I spent the summer months of 1964 as an intern at the National Council of Churches’ (NCC) Washington, D.C. office on Maryland Avenue, a hop, skip and jump from the Capitol building.  In many ways it was an idyllic summer for me.  We house-sat for a wealthy union bureaucrat in his posh mansion off of Connecticut Avenue, sharing it with Djawah, an Indonesian graduate student.  Linda and I were at that time in our second year of marriage and still childless.  She had landed a summer job in the State Department.  We were invited to attend the celebration for the independence of Malawi, and I danced with Miriam Makeba.  During the day, I mostly hung out in the Capitol building drifting from committee room to committee room.  I had virtually no responsibilities as an intern; there was no supervision to speak of.  I saw liberal Senator Yarborough from Texas get into a near fist-fight with ultra-conservative Strom Thurmond outside a Senate hearing room.

 

In another hearing room I heard some strange phrases I didn’t fully understand: “military advisors, limited engagement … dominos”.  It was the Senate Foreign Relations Committee discussing the country’s involvement in a small country in Southeast Asia, a former French colony that almost nobody had ever heard of, where some kind of a civil war was going on that for some strange reason former Presidents and the current president, Lyndon Johnson had been worried about enough to send United States soldiers, excuse me, advisors, over to help out the good guys in the south but in a “non-combatant” capacity.

 

Vietnam.

 

This was just before the war between the Viet Cong and the corrupt South Vietnam puppet regime had entered into the consciousness of the average American, but mountains of information passed through the NCC Washington office including some disturbing criticism of U.S. intervention in Vietnam by apparently well-informed critics.  Although Civil Rights was foremost on my and almost everyone else’s mind that fateful summer (the historic Civil Rights Act of 1964 was before the Congress, and Linda and I spent as much time as we could at the twenty-four hour prayer vigil in front of the White House), I decided to follow up on what had been suggested by the Vietnam critics and began to look for more information about a war in a country that I had not previously known existed.

 

At summer’s end, having made my decision, after one year of graduate studies in theology (at Princeton Theological Seminary), to become a theological seminary drop-out, Linda and I went back to Southern California, and I resumed teaching at a Lutheran private school where I had previously taught for a year after my graduation from Berkeley.  While in Washington I had introduced myself to Jim Corman, a young progressive/liberal Democrat who represented the 22nd Congressional District in California where we would be taking up residence.  I was impressed with him and accepted his request that I work as a volunteer in his campaign for re-election in the November elections.  However, it was not the congressional races that were front and center in that election. 

 

In San Francisco’s Cow Palace earlier in the year, what many considered to be the lunatic fringe of the Republican Party had gained control of the convention and nominated as there presidential candidate the right-wing “extremist” ideologue, Barry Goldwater (who in today’s Republican Party would fall somewhere well left of center!).  “Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice,” he intoned.  The Republican theme was “In your heart, you know he’s right,” In my heart I knew he was wrong!  You have to remember that this was in the middle of the Cold War, and to my thinking putting the nuclear trigger in the hands of an avowed Hawk was to risk the very survival of the planet.  Most of the nation agreed, and, thanks to some pretty nifty television scare commercials connecting Goldwater with nuclear holocaust, Lyndon Johnson was re-elected in a landslide.

 

What also slid, however, was Johnson’s commitment to keep the peace.  When he assumed the presidency following the Kennedy assassination, he had kept in tack most of the Kennedy Cabinet, including such shinning lights as Secretary of State Dean Rusk and Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara.  With the counsel and support of these men, Johnson took the nation into the morass of Vietnam and what turned out to be the United States’ first great military defeat in history.  It would appear that the boys of Camelot were out for more than a friendly joust.

 

The sinking of an American battleship in the Gulf of Tonkin was all the pretext that was needed to win the support of the Congress (only two out of a hundred voted against the Bay of Tonkin Resolution in the Senate, Barry Morse of Oregon and Ernest Gruening of Alaska) and the bulk of the American public for a major expansion of the United States participation in the war.  By that time I had read much of the early anti-war literature (Howard Zinn, Robert Scheer, etc.), which was overwhelmingly convincing.  I had learned that after the final defeat of the French at Dien Bien Phu, it was the US government that set up the puppet regime in South Vietnam that broke the peace treaty that would have unified the country (I was shocked to learn that then Secretary of State John Foster Dulles had lobbied the Cabinet and President to help the French out of their jam at Dien Bien Phu in 1954 by dropping the Atomic Bomb on the Vietnamese.  Eisenhower vetoed this plan.  The same Eisenhower, who spent as much time during his presidency playing golf as Ronald Reagan did nodding off, also warned the nation in his Farewell Address, a warning absolutely unheeded, of the dangers of the “military industrial complex.”  For these two events old Ike still holds a warm spot –albeit a small one — in my heart).

 

My intuition and reading told me that the Gulf of Tonkin incident was a phony one designed by the U.S. military and government to get public and political support for a dramatic escalation of U.S. commitment in the civil war.  This was subsequently confirmed years later.  I therefore participated in the earliest of the anti-war activities, which consisted initially mostly of “teach-ins” as high school and university campuses.

 

My personal history as an anti-war activist pretty much followed the course of the anti-war movement itself, which escalated in intensity parallel to the government’s taking the nation deeper into the Vietnam quagmire. I was still a “believer” (that is, an evangelical Christian) at the time, and along with a handful close comrades, was involved in a Congregational Church in Pacoima, a transitional community in the San Fernando Valley of northeast Los Angeles, where an influx of Blacks and Chicanos were transforming the nature of a previously white neighborhood.  I therefore concentrated much of my anti-war activism within the confines of the “faith community.”  We offered educational programs on the Vietnam War to local Christian congregations, and when they refused to even listen, we would picket them for their un-Christian like refusal to get involved in the greatest moral issue of the day.  As delegates representing our local congregation, we took an anti-war resolution to the regional conference of the Congregational Church, and when it was defeated after a vigorous debate, we donned sack cloth and ashes and sat-in at the alter of the Pasadena United Church at which the meeting was held.  We were cursed, threatened and spat upon at many of the churches we picketed and accused of being everything from unpatriotic to Communist.  When our own Pacoima congregation ultimately refused to take a public position against the war, we picketed outside our own church (one of our gang, Lew Fretz, eventually left the States and has been living and teaching in at Hamilton University in New Zealand, where he has preserved our original picket signs showing Vietnamese children being burned with napalm and uses them as illustrations in the course he teaches on U.S. History).  I think the congregation finally got fed up with us and asked us to look for a “more compatible fellowship” after one Sunday evening worship service where we had volunteered to lead the “Bible study.”  Instead of the traditional exposition of a particular Biblical text, we put on a skit in which a series of the poor and suffering individuals approached a student of the Bible asking for help and were rewarded with quotes from the Bible.  We ended the skit by tearing pages from the Bible, igniting them with a match, and singing a popular Christian hymn: “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”  Our minister, the Reverend Paul Kittlaus, with all the majesty of the British queen, was not amused.

 

Our core group consisted of Pete Flint, our moral leader and political guide, who had been drafted into the Marines during the Korean War and who had received a dishonorable discharge for his anti-war activities; Lew Fretz, who had just received his doctorate in History from Stanford; Lew’s wife, Margaret Fretz, a schoolteacher; Dick Bunce, a friend from and recent graduate of Princeton Theological Seminary; Linda Page, my wife, who was working on her doctoral thesis in Sociology for Princeton University and teaching at San Fernando Valley State College (today know as California State University at Northridge); and me.

 

We attended all the protest demonstrations.  We organized anti-war activities at Valley State in cooperation with Tom Lasswell, a campus chaplain and member of our Pacoima congregation, and with the local chapter of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS).  We recruited John Buchanan, a Professor of Speech at Los Angeles Valley College in Van Nuys to run as an anti-war candidate for the Democratic Party nomination in the 43rd State Assembly District.  We picketed Dow Chemical, the maker of the infamous napalm.  We demonstrated at local draft boards and the local National Guard headquarters at the Van Nuys Airport.

 

I cannot tell you how many times I burned my draft card.  This was before the days of photocopy machines, so there was a technical problem.  I cannot remember how we solved it, but I ended up with a supply of draft cards and even made Newsweek Magazine where a photo shows me along with two others in front of the Federal Building in downtown Los Angeles, draft-card torch in hand. 

 

And what was my draft status?  1-0, if that means anything to you.  I had been 1-A, that is, prime draft material.  However, I applied to my local draft board for “conscientious objector” status, as I had been counseling many others to do, and – only because of my religious background – it was granted to me.  [Note: insert here something of the history of conscious objection, Quakers, etc.]  This did not protect me from the draft, rather it meant that if drafted, I would be able to do “civilian public service” at home rather than go into the armed forces either as a soldier or a medic (conscientious objectors with 1-A-0 status serve as medics on the battlefield).

 

Aware of the fact that I was likely to be drafted (I was twenty-four years old in 1965, and young men were drafted up to the age of twenty-six), I looked for work that would qualify as civilian service and was hired by the United States Public Health Service (USPHS) to do venereal disease epidemiology with the Los Angeles County Health Department.  Sure enough, I was drafted in 1966 and was successful in having my health department work qualify as my civilian service. My job was to interview patients diagnosed with Syphilis and to bring in their sexual contacts for examination and possible treatment.  I worked out of health centers in Watts (South Central Los Angeles), which was predominantly Black, West Hollywood, which was predominantly Gay, San Fernando, which was predominantly Latino, and Van Nuys, which was predominately white middle class.  If you ever need a survey course on the sexual habits of a broad spectrum of society, I’m your guy.

 

It was sometime in 1967 that I went to UCLA to listen to a talk given by David Harris, who had formed a movement, which he called “The Resistance.”  David had first made news when, as Student Body President at Stanford, he was kidnapped by members of the football team who proceeded to cut off his long hair.  He went on to become seriously involved in anti-war activities and married the popular folk singer, Joan Baez.  His message to young men of draft age was that using their draft deferments (e.g., student deferments, conscious objection, etc.) to keep out of the war was in effect a form of collaboration with the war effort.  He called for total non-complicity with the Selective Service System (i.e., the draft).  I was struck by the logic of his position, which also underscored the fact that it was uneducated poor whites and Black men who were making up a disproportionate part of the waves of soldiers sent over to slaughter and be slaughtered in the jungles and swamps of Vietnam.  David himself was eventually drafted, refused to be inducted, and was given a five-year prison sentence, which he served until paroled.

 

For me, becoming a part of the Resistance meant giving up the “privilege” of my conscious objector status.  I was helped along with this by my employer, who at that same time ordered me to shave my beard and transferred me out of the “field” and into the downtown administrative offices of the USPHS.  Rebel that I was (and am), I refused on both counts and was unceremoniously fired.  Rather than finding other suitable “civilian service” work, I ignored this obligation.  Instead, I helped found and taught at the “I-Thou University of Young People” (Guinness world record for most pretentious Name of School), an alternative school in the tradition of A.S. Neill’s Summerhill.  In effect, I had gone AWOL.

 

Soon I received a visit from two FBI agents who wanted to know about my anti-war organizing and my non-compliance with my obligatory civilian service.  I refused to speak with them.  Several months later, in June of 1968, I was indicted by a federal grand jury for the crime of refusing to perform civilian service as a conscious objector, and I was arrested by the same two agents.  I was home one afternoon having lunch with Alex, a huge brooding sixteen year old who was living with us a foster child and attending the school.  I answered the door, and before I could swallow what was left of the baloney sandwich I was still chewing in my mouth, I was handcuffed and ushered out to a car where I was transported to the federal courthouse in downtown Los Angeles.

 

This was the first time I had been arrested since I was ten years old and caught by the local police throwing rocks through the window of an abandoned house (haunted no doubt) on Halloween night in Irvington, New Jersey.  At that time I was roughly sat down in the back seat of a squad car, given a stern lecture, let go with a warning, and stumbled home shaking in my boots (I have a vague recollection that I may also have wet my pants).  This time I felt an intense vulnerability with the cuffs on, and began to imagine myself the victim of police brutality.  But the two agents were professionals, they realized that my alleged “crime” was of a political rather than a violent or anti-social nature, and on the ride downtown in their beat up and aging Plymouth (was the FBI having budget problems?) we engaged in a lively and heated argument about the moral imperative to commit civil disobedience in the face of your government committing crimes against humanity.  I got as far as having them admit that they would have resisted under Hitler (sure they would have), but Vietnam, they insisted, was not the same thing.

 

At the L.A. Courthouse I was given the traditional one phone call, which I used to call home, and arranged for Linda to be notified at the college so she could drive downtown and bail me out.  I had male friends who had been arrested during demonstrations who had been raped at the infamous L.A. County Jail, and I had no desire to put myself in that position.  It turned out that I was released by signing what is called a “Personal Surety Bond,” in my case in the amount of one hundred dollars.  This was the simplest and most innocuous way of being released once arrested, and I admit that I felt cheated and undervalued.  I didn’t even have to put up any money.  It just meant that if I jumped bond, I owed the government one hundred dollars (in 1973, when from Canada I plea bargained with the U.S. Attorney to be able to return to the States – this was before the general amnesty – the charges of “interstate flight to avoid prosecution” were dropped, and I pled guilty to the main charge of failing to perform civilian service and was given eighteen months probation.  But no one ever thought to dun me for the hundred bucks!).

 

Out on bond I had a life-changing decision to make: stand trial where conviction was assured and serve up to five years in a federal prison (plus a $5000 fine), or flee.  I was married at the time and the father of a one-year old daughter.  I did not have the courage or the strength of principle of a David Harris, who was also married with a child, and I decided, in consultation with my family, to leave the States and start a new life in a foreign haven.  I did some research, and, although we would have preferred to settle somewhere in Latin America, it seemed as if the only countries where there was absolute safety from being extradited were Sweden and Canada (Canada will not extradite to the United States a person accused of a crime that is not a crime in Canada).

 

Linda and I decided that we had no desire to exile ourselves as far away from home as Sweden, and Canada offered the opportunity to live in a French culture.  We opted to settle in Montreal.  I had draft counseled a student of Linda’s, Jim Falconi, who had fled to and was living in Vancouver.  I would “slip out” of the country by flying to Vancouver to stay with Jim until Linda finished the school year and could drive up with our daughter, Malika, and join me before heading east to La Belle Province (Quebec). Falconi shortly thereafter also moved to Montreal, changed his first Name to Giacamo, and we ended up managing together the Montreal Paperback Bookstore, whose owner was the eccentric Julian Wedgwood, heir to the Wedgwood china fortune (Julian once showed me an elaborate chart of his family tree, with Josiah Wedgwood, the founder of Wedgwood China at the center, and he pointed out that one of his ancestors was Charles Darwin.  I was duly impressed).  Today Giacomo Falconi, who adopted the separatist politics of Quebec, owns and operates a prosperous rare book shop in Old Montreal.

 

The hardest part of going into exile, of course, was going to be the leaving behind of family and friends.  For security reasons no one could know about our plans except my political group and my parents.  The discussion with my parents was heart rending.  They “understood” and did not understand at the same time.  My father was caught between his pragmatic ethic and, I believe, the knowledge that what I was doing was moral and right.  My parents have gone through all kinds of “stages” with me over the years, from my conversion to rabidly evangelical Christianity, to my student shit-disturbing (including locking horns with Clark Kerr, the illustrious President of the University of California), to my political radicalism, to the Hippie days, and to my present life in South America (my fourteen years as a community center administrator — salaried! — and city councilor in Toronto, I think were the only ones that were really easy on their souls).  They have not always agreed with me, but never once have they withdrawn their moral and emotional support.  My mother told the FBI where they could go (and it wasn’t a very nice place) when they came looking for me; and my father, who worked in the aerospace industry, was put in an awkward position by my actions.

 

As my father had watched my escalating radical activities – we were living in the same general area of the San Fernando Valley – I could sense a growing uneasiness on his part.  This was based entirely, I realize mostly in retrospect, on his concern for my personal safety.  But he used all the ammunition he had at his disposal to dissuade me from taking so many risks.  He argued that I could achieve more by “working within the system,” that, yes, you have to “stoop to conquer.”  I can remember some pretty heated arguments.  But, as I say, there were never threats, ultimatums, or withdrawal of friendship and emotional support.  In spite of his fears for me, I know that my father never ceased to be proud of what I was doing.  He later (while I was living in “exile” in Canada) went downtown to the federal courthouse for the Los Angeles trial of Daniel Ellsberg, the government researcher who had leaked the infamous “Pentagon Papers,” which revealed much of the government’s lies and treachery.  He introduced himself to Ellsberg and proudly told him about my having had to go into exile because of my opposition to the war.  When Vietnam era Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamara, published his book admitting that Vietnam was a huge mistake, my dad phoned to congratulate me “on being right all along.”

 

It was a typical smoggy morning in early June as my parents, accompanied by Linda and one year old Malika, drove me to the Burbank Airport where I would fly to San Francisco and connect to Vancouver.  I thought I saw FBI agents everywhere.  The farewells in Burbank were, of course, highly emotional. I thought I would never again be able to set foot on United States soil.  You can imagine how my parents must have felt as I boarded the aircraft that would take me thousands of miles away, possibly never to be able to return.

 

It is the only time in my life I have ever seen my father cry.

 

 

 

 

1941

 

Charlie would later joke to Neil and me that his secret weapon in getting us to sleep at night when we were babies was to sing to us, because we immediately would fall asleep so as to not have to listen to his operatic interpretations.  But the fact of the matter is that Charlie actually has a pleasant tenor voice, and he did succeed in lilting both Neil and himself into dreamland that night on the studio couch in the living room at about ten o’clock.

 

He awoke just after midnight to the sounds of the snowstorm lashing against the windowpane just above his head.  Apart from the howl of the angry winds, the house remained in complete silence.  Anne had gone to bed who knows what time, and must be sleeping comfortably in the adjacent bedroom.  Charlie looked outside and thought to himself, “better that it not be tonight with the storm raging as it is.”  Anne was still suffering with the remnants of her flu, and although Dr. Hautman said not to worry, going out in this weather certainly was not what the doctor ordered.

 

Everything was set for the big moment.  The old ’34 Packard that Anne’s brother Ernie had loaned them was parked downstairs a half a block south on Jacob Street, and there was gas in the tank.  When the moment came, they would drive Neil to Charlie’s sister Molly’s to be left in her care, and phone Dr. Hautman from there since they had no phone in the house on Jacob Street. 

 

Charlie thought to himself, with a smile, about Dr. Hautman’s prediction of a girl.  He really didn’t care that much, as long as Anne and the baby come out of it O.K. either sex would do.  A girl would be nice, however, maybe one a little quieter than Neil, although apart from his nightly colic, Neil was really a pretty cute baby, and Charlie thought to himself I really have nothing to complain about.  He had a lovely and devoted wife, a half decent roof over his head, and the country seemed to be about to pull itself out of the depression.  Although what he earned in Morris’ grocery was barely enough to get by on, it was a job, and in those times simply having a job was everything.

 

But the ominous possibility of another war crept again into his thoughts and put something of a crimp into his reveries.  He already had one potential future soldier, and the thought of that cuddly dark haired toddling noise maker someday going off to kill and, what would be unthinkably horrendous, be killed himself, was not something any parent should ever have to contemplate.  Yeah, maybe a girl after all.

 

Charlie took a long and loving glance at Neil, who was by now deeply and safely into sleep.  He gently lifted himself up and carried the baby to the crib in their bedroom at the foot of the second hand maple wood bed that he shared with Anne.  Upon looking up he saw to his surprise that she was not asleep, but rather sitting up with her back against the headboard.  Although the room was mostly in darkness, enough light peeked through the bedroom window from the lamp-post outside so that he was able to make out the expression on his pregnant wife’s face.  What he saw left no doubt in his mind.

 

It was time.

 

With hardly a word said between them, Charlie began to dress Neil as rapidly as he could without waking him.  Although Neil fought bedtime with stubbornness that sometime drove both Charlie and Anne to despair, once he was gone he was gone.  Thank god for that.  Anne’s “overnight” case for the hospital was already packed and ready to go.  As Charlie dealt with the baby, Anne slowly got up from the bed and began to dress herself.  She hadn’t mentioned it to Charlie, but the contractions had actually begun in the mid afternoon.  Since they were sporadic and spaced widely apart, she hadn’t been sure it was the real thing, and it was right in character with her stoicism that she didn’t bother to say anything.  But now that her water had broken and the contractions were beginning for real, there was no doubt about the imminent arrival of number two.

 

Charlie sat with Neil in his lap, the baby fully dressed and ready to go.  Heavy woolen pants, sweater and jacket, all hand me downs from one of his sister Rose’s boys.  The tiny watch cap, scarf and mittens that Anne had knitted and the cheap rubber boots they had picked up in the second hand shop.  He watched Anne as she was in the final stages of putting on her winter clothes, and he urged her to put on a second sweater as he could see what the wind was doing outside.  He couldn’t help thinking again, for the millionth time since they were married how lucky he was.  Anne was a real beauty.  He thought of the way she looked when he first met her eight years ago.  With her hazel green eyes, her radiant skin, and her flapper hair-do she could have passed for Mary Pickford.  According to her brother Max she had had tons of “suitors,” and Charlie still couldn’t really understand why she had picked him.

 

They really didn’t know one another when they ran off to Maryland that New Year’s Eve of ‘33.  Charlie was so smitten that he would have driven to the moon and back if that was what it would have taken to make her his wife.  Anne was impressed with Charlie, he was the first one bright and serious enough for her to even consider marriage, and marriage for Anne was her Underground Railroad to freedom.  She could tell he was a good man, an honest and kind man.  He was Jewish but she didn’t care, and that was something for a Ukrainian girl.  She might not yet have been in love, but when he proposed, she didn’t hesitate.  She knew her father would be furious, but she never imagined it would take a full five years before his stubbornness would wear down and break the wall of silence he had built between them (William Korabiak and Charlie would eventually become great friends, and Charlie loves to tell how Bill once told him, “Charlie, you a good man, I like you; only thing, you is poor.”  Neil and Roger as children never experienced either a hint of their grandfather’s anti-Semitism or any antipathy toward their father.  Nor had they a clue about the tyrannical character of his younger days.  To them “Pop” was always a sweet white haired affectionate grandpa; and, when as adults they heard the stories about his tyranny, intolerance and philandering from their parents and aunts and uncles, it couldn’t have come as more of a surprise).

 

With the overnight case safely placed on the back seat of the car, Charlie went back to the flat to fetch his wife and child.  With Neil in one arm, he used the other to guide Anne gently down the steps from their second floor flat, out the front door and onto the front porch, which by now was almost completely covered with snow.  He was treating her as if she were a breakable antique which prompted her to say, “It’s O.K., Charlie, I’m all right, I won’t fall, just get me into the Packard and for god’s sake drive carefully.”

 

It was just before one in the morning when they got to Molly’s.  Molly and Morris were first cousins so Molly’s maiden name and married name were one in the same (if she had been Latin American where they use both parents’  surnames, she would have been called Molly Hollander Hollander).  The sad thing was that their daughter, Lorna, was born deaf, and in those days schools for the deaf did not teach American Sign Language, so that Lorna’s ability to communicate was always limited.  Morris and Molly, groggy eyed from sleep, took a minute to come alive.  Mollie fussed over Neil while Morris attempted to get Dr. Hautman on the phone.  Anne was starting to have stronger and closer contractions, and Charlie was beginning to worry that they might not get to the hospital on time. Morris finally got through to the doctor, who asked a few questions then said he would be on his way to the Presbyterian Hospital.  He was a lot closer than they were, so he would be sure to be there when they arrived.  He told Morris to tell Charlie that there was plenty of time, that he shouldn’t tarry, but that there was no need to rush.  Charlie didn’t need to be reminded that driving conditions were getting worse by the minute.  Morris volunteered to accompany them to the hospital, but Charlie said no, someone has to be rested to take care of the store tomorrow, that Morris should get some sleep.  He would call from the hospital as soon as there is news.

 

It would normally have been about a fifteen-minute drive from Molly’s house in the nearby suburb of Irvington to Newark Presbyterian.  In this weather it was going to be a half hour or more.  Anne sat in the front seat next to Charlie, endured the contractions with her characteristic stoicism, and on the whole was calmer than Charlie, who couldn’t refrain from asking her how she was doing every thirty seconds.  “Don’t worry, stop talking, and keep your eyes on the damn road.”

 

It was close to two a.m. when they entered the emergency, were interviewed by the receptionist, filled out forms, etcetera.  It was close to two thirty when Anne was finally admitted.  Charlie was nodding off as they waited in the reception area, and when they came for Anne, she was halfway down the long hallway before he realized they were taking her up to the maternity ward.  He had to run to catch up and barely got to where she was sitting in a wheel chair before the elevator arrived.  This was the last he would see of her until after the delivery.  He gave her a peck on the cheek, told her to be brave, and had a forlorn look on his face as the elevator door opened and the nurse pushed his about to deliver wife into it.  As the door shut in his face, Charlie felt moisture running down his cheek. 

 

He stood immobilized for a minute, then he wiped his face with his handkerchief and then went back to the emergency reception area to ask how he could find Dr. Hautman.  He was told to wait, and in a matter of a few minutes the doctor appeared with a smile on his face.  “Hi, Charlie, didn’t I see you here just two years ago?”

 

“It seems like yesterday,” Charlie answered, “She just went up, I guess we’ve both got a long night ahead of us.”

 

Hautman nodded, and they discussed the routine.  He promised Charlie he would periodically brief him on how things were going, but that if he could find a way to make himself comfortable on one of the hard waiting room chairs, he should try to get some sleep.

 

“You still putting your money on a girl?” Charlie asked as the doctor started away toward the elevator.

 

“Do we need another putz in this world?” he quipped as he strode away without looking back.

 

Charlie dozed on and off through the night, waking with a start whenever the doctor or a nurse nudged him to give him the news that the delivery was proceeding as it should.  “What about her cold?” he asked Dr. Hautman, who had come into the waiting room at just after seven o’clock to inform Charlie that Anne was ready and going into the delivery room. 

 

“It’s not a problem,” the doctor answered, “the delivery is going smoothly, and her general health is excellent.  She is a strong woman, don’t worry.  It’s going to be just fine; I’ll see you in less than a half hour.”

 

That half hour lasted longer than all the previous half hours put together. Did Charlie pace?  Is the Rabbi kosher?

 

At last Dr. Hautman strode into the waiting room with a broad grin written across his face.  He spoke before Charlie had a chance to say anything.  “You are a father again, my friend.  Everything went perfectly.  Anne and the baby are fine.  A real scrapper, over eight pounds.”

 

“And?” said Charlie.

 

“And what?” A pause.

 

“Oh, yeah,” said the doctor, almost as an afterthought and with a wry smile, “cannon fodder.”

 

Health-Care Reform Could Kill the GOP December 6, 2008

Posted by rogerhollander in Barack Obama, Health, Political Commentary.
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“…for most of my lifetime, prominent Democratic leaders have been chucking liberalism itself for the sake of immediate tactical gain.”

This is a quote from the article posted below that appeared in the Huffington Post.  Although the article focuses on the issue of universal health care, it raises much wider issues.  After one reads the article, one cannot help but asking the question: Why is this the case?  (Why does the right tend to implement its agenda when elected to government, while the left has a marked tendency to waffle and back track?)

My comments continue after the article.

 

Huffington Post, December 3, 2008

 Thomas Frank

 Can policy be both wise and aggressively partisan? Ask any Republican worth his salt and the answer will be an unequivocal yes. Ask a Democrat of the respectable Beltway variety and he will twist himself into a pretzel denying it.

For decades Republicans have made policy with a higher purpose in mind: to solidify the GOP base or to damage the institutions and movements aligned with the other side. One of their fondest slogans is “Defund the Left,” and under that banner they have attacked labor unions and trial lawyers and tried to sever the links between the lobbying industry and the Democratic Party. Consider as well their long-cherished dreams of privatizing Social Security, which would make Wall Street, instead of Washington, the protector of our beloved seniors. Or their larger effort to demonstrate, by means of egregious misrule, that government is incapable of delivering the most basic services.

That these were all disastrous policies made no difference: The goal was to use state power to achieve lasting victory for the ideas of the right.

On the other side of the political fence, strategic moves of this kind are fairly rare. Instead, for most of my lifetime, prominent Democratic leaders have been chucking liberalism itself for the sake of immediate tactical gain.

Former President Bill Clinton, who is widely regarded as a political mastermind, may have sounded like a traditional liberal at the beginning of his term in office. But what ultimately defined his presidency was his amazing pliability on matters of principle. His most memorable innovation was “triangulating” between his own party and the right, his most famous speech declared and end to “the era of big government,” his most consequential policy move was to cement the consensus on deregulation and free trade, and many of his boldest stands were taken against his own party.

The results were not pretty, either for the Democrats or for the nation.

Still, conservatives have always dreaded the day that Democrats discover (or rediscover) that there is a happy political synergy between delivering liberal economic reforms and building the liberal movement. The classic statement of this fear is a famous memo that Bill Kristol wrote in 1993, when he had just started out as a political strategist and the Clinton administration was preparing to propose some version of national health care.

“The plan should not be amended; it should be erased,” Mr. Kristol advised the GOP. And not merely because Mr. Clinton’s scheme was (in Mr. Kristol’s view) bad policy, but because “it will revive the reputation of the party that spends and regulates, the Democrats, as the generous protector of middle-class interests.”

Historian Rick Perlstein suggests that this memo is “the skeleton key to understanding modern American politics” because it opens up a fundamental conservative anxiety: “If the Democrats succeed in redistributing economic power, we’re screwed.”

In the Clinton years, of course, it was the Republicans who succeeded. And the Democrats’ failure — the failure to deliver national health care that is, not the act of proposing national health care — was a crucial element, in Mr. Perlstein’s view, in the Republican Revolution of 1994. Assessing the accomplishments of the “party of the people” after those first months of Clintonism, middle-class Americans were left with what? A big helping of Nafta. Mmm-mmm.

Fourteen years later, we find ourselves at the same point in the political debate, with a Democratic president-elect promising to deliver some variety of health-care reform. And, like a cuckoo emerging from a clock, Mr. Kristol’s old refrain is promptly taken up by a new chorus. “Blocking Obama’s Health Plan Is Key to the GOP’s Survival,” proclaims the headline of a November blog post by Michael F. Cannon, the libertarian Cato Institute’s director of Health Policy Studies. His argument, stitched together from other blog posts, is pretty much the same as Mr. Kristol’s in 1993. Any kind of national medical program would be so powerfully attractive to working-class voters that it would shift the tectonic plates of the nation’s politics. Therefore, such a program must be stopped.

Liberal that I am, I support health-care reform on its merits alone. My liberal blood boils, for example, when I read that half of the personal bankruptcies in this country are brought on, in part, by medical expenses. And my liberal soul is soothed to find that an enormous majority of my fellow citizens agree, in general terms, with my views on this subject.

But it pleases me even more to think that the conservatives’ nightmare of permanent defeat might come true simply if Democrats do the right thing. No, health-care reform isn’t as strategically diabolical as, say, the K Street Project. It involves only the most straightforward politics: good government stepping in to heal an ancient, festering wound. But if by doing this Barack Obama also happens to nullify decades of conservative propaganda, so much the better for all of us.

Thomas Frank’s column, The Tilting Yard, appears every Wednesday at OpinionJournal.com

Continuation of remarks by Roger Hollander:

 The answer to this question (Can policy be both wise and aggressively partisan?) I believe, is both simple and complex.  Complex in its detail with respect to the myriads of forms in which decisions are made in a capitalist democracy; but not that hard to understand in its broadest terms.

Follow the money.

The Republican agenda, again broadly speaking, is very much in tune with the objectives of corporate America, the military-industrial complex, the financial industry, etc; in other words, with capital.  If it goes to extremes, as with the current Cheney/Bush administration, some Republicans may take a longer perspective and believe that it needs to be reined in.  Nevertheless, no one could seriously argue that the Republican Party is much more than a front for organized capital.

Is the Democratic Party then, the opposite, its foil?  Dream on.  Because even in a capitalist democracy the power structure must at times respond to popular demands, the Democrats have taken the advantage of this by being the repository for such phenomena.  But within strictly defined limits.

Bob Dylan wrote, “Money doesn’t talk, it swears.”  Now I have nothing against money per se, I use it all the time.  It’s one of my best friends.  But what we are talking about here is enormous concentrations of money that exert an influence through campaign contributions and lobbying that cannot possibly be matched by any one or ones who represent the general interest. 

To go back to the original question, “can policy be both wise and aggressively partisan,” if we assume by “wise” that we mean the general interest, than from that perspective the answer in no.  Lobbyists have been referred to as the fourth branch of government.  The metaphor is useful to the extent that it demonstrates the colossal power of corporate and military lobbyists; but in effect the influence of lobbyist permeates all branches of government.  My favourite example of the effective lobbying is the Helms-Burton Act of 1996, which tightened the restrictions regarding doing business with Cuba, and was apparently actually written by staff at Bacardi and passed on the legislators who introduced it.

Of course the most obvious example of the Democratic Party’s winning representation in support of popular sentiment only to renege on its promise is the Iraq War (or, rather, the invasion and occupation of Iraq).  In the 2006 mid-term elections, the Democrats were able to gain control of both Houses of Congress based upon their support of enormous public sentiment for an immediate or prompt withdrawal.  With that power and authority under its Beltway belt, the Democratic Congress proceeded to approve every budget request for the war and went so far as to allow for its escalation, which was thinly disguised by the Orwellian use of the word “surge.”

Thomas Frank, the author of the posted article on which I am commenting, identifies himself as a Liberal.  We all know that the past two decades have been dominated for the most part by Conservative ideas and policies: anti-labor, anti-welfare, anti-environmental protection; pro-war, pro-corporate, pro-rich, etc.  But you wouldn’t know that by looking at the results of polling American voters, which consistently support universal health care, environmental protection, more equitable taxation, etc.; that is, the Liberal agenda!  But the Democratic Party (Clinton 1992-2000; Congress 2006-2008; Obama 2008?????) for a variety of reasons is neither willing nor able to give Americans what we want.

Two factors, not entirely unrelated to “money,” should be mentioned as means by which the general will and interest are thwarted in our capitalist democracy: manipulation through massive spending on public relations and influence bordering on control of the mass media; and manufactured crises or the appropriation of actual crises (this well documented in Naomi Klein’s blockbuster, “The Shock Doctrine”) to scare us into accepting unpleasant medicine.  The current economic crisis is being used, for example, to give Wall Street and its supporters in BOTH parties the opportunity to maintain its advantages while millions of Americans lose their homes and/or their jobs).

In effect the United States is a one party democracy with two branches: the Democrats and the Republicans.  Wikipedia lists 210,000 entries for the word “Republicrat.”  The notion is not original with me.  Look at the political spectrum.  The Republican Party pretty much represents every interest almost to the extreme end on the right side.  On the left side, the distance between the left wing of the Democratic Party (with the exception of a tiny handful such as Dennis Kucinich and Barbara Boxer) and say Ralph Nader (whose policies on the environment, the war, corporate taxation, regulation of the financial industry are virtually congruent with public opinion) and Noam Chomsky – both of whom are no where near to being criminally mendacious or as irresponsibly and ludicrously extremist as the Bill O’Reillys and Rush Limbaughs – is gaping.

Going back to the money, Barack Obama has tried to create the illusion that his massive campaign contributions came largely from ordinary Americans making relatively small donations.  While it is true that much of the Obama movement has been fuelled by the enthusiasm of American youth and liberals, and small contributions have been considerable; nevertheless, the bulk of the nearly trillion dollars in his war chest came from similar sources as were traditional for both parties.  Once the band wagon gets rolling, the big boys know when to jump on.

And going back to health care, Canada provides an excellent example of the thesis stated by Thomas Frank.  In 1942, Tommy Douglas was elected Premier of the Province of Saskatchewan, and introduced the first democratic socialist government in North America.  In 1962 Saskatchewan, after a “fight to the death” with the North American medical establishment and the provinces’ physicians, introduced universal health care, another first for the western hemisphere.

In that same year, a Conservative (!) Prime Minister of Canada, John Diefenbaker, established a Royal Commission to study health care in the country, and that Commission, headed by a former Supreme Court Judge, Emmett Hall, recommended nationwide adoption of Saskatchewan’s model of public health insurance, which led to the introduction and passage of the Canada Health Act in 1966 under a minority Liberal government, headed by Lester B. Pearson.  Thus Canada became the only country in the Americas, apart from Cuba, to offer its citizens universal health care.  And it did so under the political pressures that were a consequence of Saskatchewan’s successful and enormously popular and socially beneficial initiative.

It is also interesting to compare the results of leftist governments coming to power via democratic election versus those coming to power via revolution.  I have not made a comprehensive study of this, but will just name some examples.  In Europe, in the second half of the last century, two avowedly socialist governments came to power in France (under François Mitterrand) and Greece (under Andreas Papandreou).  Neither of the two governments were able (or willing) to deliver on their promises from the standpoint of either domestic or foreign policy.

On the other side of the ledger, during roughly the same time period two socialist governments came to power in the Americas though armed revolution: the July 26 Movement (under Fidel Castro) in Cuba, and the Sandinistas (under Daniel Ortega) in Nicaragua.  In the early years of both revolutions, their governments made huge inroads in eliminating illiteracy and in introducing free education (in Cuba up to and including university level studies) and universal health care, along with other progressive social programs.  Although the Cuban government has ossified into a Stalinist style dictatorship (though not nearly as brutal) and had to withstand the hardships imposed by the US blockade, it has been able to maintain these social programs.  In Nicaragua, the Sandinista government was seriously disabled by the US supported Contras.  The major targets of their terrorist attacks incidentally, were schools and clinics.  It lost power in a democratic election and recently has regained it.

I’m not saying that these examples necessarily prove anything, they are anecdotal , but I think it is worth pondering.

The example with which I am personally most familiar has to do with the Province of Ontario in Canada, where I resided for many years and where I served on the Municipal Council of Metropolitan Toronto as a elected Councillor for seven years.  In 1990 the New Democratic Party (NDP), which originally considered it socialist, but over the years evolved into a non-socialist leftist social democratic opposition, won a large majority in the provincial parliament and its leader, Bob Rae, became Premier of Ontario.  

The very first thing that Rae did upon being inaugurated was to travel to New York and speak on Wall Street to assure that they had no fears from his government.  Although his government was mildly progressive in some areas (a large percentage of women in the cabinet, some environmental protection), on the whole it could not be distinguished from traditional Liberal or Conservative governments when it came to protecting corporate interests and other instruments of capitalist control (policing, for example, where the Rae government failed to implement effective civilian oversight). It’s most notorious legislation was blatantly anti-labor.  It introduced what it called the “social contract” for government workers, a measure whereby they could accept voluntary roll backs or the government would do it for them.

Ironically, the Rae government was attacked viciously by the right and the corporate media as if it had in fact introduced a democratic socialist progressive policy agenda.  It was soundly defeated after a single term in office despite its efforts to appease capital.  It may as well have implemented its “radical” platform and left the province with a progressive legacy.  Instead,the Rae government was replaced by the government of Conservative Mike Harris, who did not hesitate to keep his promises to deregulate, privatize, and drastically reduce social and environmental programs.  He left office in disgrace, but his legacy remains.  Not only that, his major advisors and cabinet members are now effectively in charge of the Conservative government of Canada under Stephen Harper, another rightist who more or less “keeps his word” when it comes to his regressive policies on labor, social programs, taxes, environmental protection, etc.

A final and unpleasant irony.  One of the major arguments coming from the right when progressive measures are on the table is that such things as taxing business or increasing government spending on social programs (which involves more taxation) have the effect of driving business out of the jurisdiction.  If we increase corporate taxes or increase costly benefits and wages in X state or Y province, business will abandon them and move elsewhere.

When the Woodrow Lloyd (successor to Tommy Douglas) government introduced universal health care before the Saskatchewan parliament in 1962, the right and the medical establishment went ballistic.  Saskatchewan doctors went on strike and threatened to leave the province.  The opposition used this to play on latent racism by raising the specter of having to be attended to by “foreign” doctors, who would be brought to the province to replace the good White Saskatchewan docs.

Of course, as we have seen, exactly the opposite occurred.  When the general public in one jurisdiction can see that progressive social programs can actually work in another, it puts enormous pressure on their governments to act in a similar way.  No political party, no matter how far to the right, would dare suggest that the Canada Health Act be repealed (although they do their best to hack away at it whenever they get the chance).

Those of us from the Vietnam era remember the phrase “domino effect.”  It was used to frighten Americans into believing that if Vietnam remained a Communist state, all of Asia (if not the entire world) would follow.  In this case it was a bogus argument, but as the Republicans seem to be well aware, the Democrats actually being able to achieve a workable universal health care plan for the country could cause other dominos to fall (Kyoto, disarmament, affordable higher education, etc.) and undermine what the Republicans have so laboriously built up in the way of firewalls against progressive domestic and foreign policy. This “Chicken Little” strategy along with the enormous lobbying influence on both parties of the AMA and the private health insurance industry (of whom Hillary Clinton had become the major beneficiary in the Senate) is what Barack Obama and his Democratic Congress has to face if they are serious about universal single payer health care.  Place you bets.

A final word about universal health care.  Plans that involve the Byzantine network of private health insurance are probably doomed to failure once in operation for a variety of reasons not the least of which is cost and unworkable bureaucracy.  The weakness of existing single payer health plans such as that of Canada is that, while the coverage is “socialized,” the costs remain private.  In Canada the government negotiates with the Medical Association on a schedule of fees, but cost containment remains a serious problem.  In Canada drugs and dental care are not covered.  In the US, when the drug benefit was introduced to Medicare, it specifically prohibited the government from negotiation with the pharmaceutical industry for lower prices.  In Great Britain, where the National Health Service represents genuine “socialized” medicine in that it is government “owned and operated,” pressures to limit services in order to contain costs persist, of course, because costs are directly related to taxation. 

This takes us to the question of the role of the state in a capitalist society and what might things be like if and when capitalism were replaced with genuine democratic socialism, a minor issue but one which I will leave for future discussion.

 

 

 

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