If only all those anti-American Canadians could see the light
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - The day after the war started, the People in Favour of the Continuation of One of the World's Most Brutal Dictatorships made me an hour late for dinner with my brother. They managed to shut down Toronto's downtown core. Stuck on a streetcar, I had time to read the placards of Saddam's fans, many of which read "Bush is a Moron," "America is the Real Threat" and similar slobber.

The anti-America/anti-Bush message is endemic in the peace-at-any-cost movement. The idea that not liking the United States, or George W. Bush, has nothing to do with whether one ought to support this war, is clearly too nuanced a thought for the minds of the anti-warniks to grasp. But they really should exercise their underused grey matter and think this one through.

Last week in this paper, a columnist raided the great crypt of the 1960s, and -- never letting the facts get in the way of her "arguments" -- opined that "we" Canadians hate Americans. The reasons she listed were only vaguely related to the situation in Iraq. She included, of course, the requisite digs at Bush and the 2000 election. The fact that the events around Florida 2000 have nothing to do with this war is, again, a shade of grey beyond the reach of the anti-war crowd. As is the fact that most of us who are "pro-war" are simply so because we see the risk of not dealing with Saddam as being greater than the risk of dealing with him.

Susan McMaster, one of Ottawa's Poets Against the War, a group that threatens far more painful punishment than a Massive Ordnance Air Blast ever could, included in her opus, Against the War, the following lines: "Against the war I'll laugh/ at Bush's foot-in-mouth." Against the war, she continued,
mercilessly and in blatant disregard for my pain at having to read such efforts, she would learn to spell "Qur'an."

Ah yes, there it is, Americans are bigots. One wonders whether the anti-war crowd on the left sees how embarrassing its carriage is, right in goose-step with the anti-war right. No western boys and girls, no sir, should ever die to improve the lives of Arabs. For one thing I noticed about the crowd in Toronto was its shining whiteness. No crosses to bear for the pasty. We should only be willing to die for our own spoiled selves.

Do these people, most of whom call themselves "liberal," not see their hypocrisy? They scream about Iraqi babies being killed this week, scarce giving a thought to the hundreds of thousands of babies who have died at the hands of Saddam. Should we have not intervened in Kosovo? Milosevic did nothing to us. Should our soldiers (including an uncle of mine) not have stopped and helped Holocaust victims on their march into Germany? Should we have been there at all? Germany never attacked North America.

The same crowd that lambasts the United States for interventions in Latin America --which, arguably, made people's lives worse -- now denounce it for an intervention that will make the Iraqi people's lives better and ours safer. I wonder how these munificents feel about being allied with the Vatican which, probably thrilled at the fact that we've stopped discussing child molestation, has kept up its tradition of sidestepping confrontations with anti-Semitic dictators.

What sickens me most is the attempt to portray the Bush administration as a force more sinister than Saddam or the Islamonazis. One wonders how long the Poets Against the War would last in Baghdad if any of them tried to write anything with a title other than "Saddam is Great" and "I Hate America."

Sadly, one suspects many of them wouldn't mind writing such a poem, if they haven't already.

The contempt many Canadians feel for the United States is nowhere more evident than on the CBC, which, after Sept. 11, I began to refer to as "the al-Qaeda Broadcasting Corporation." Watching CBC coverage of Operation Iraqi Freedom, I think "the Baath Party Broadcasting Corporation" would be fitting.

The barely concealed gloating with every (small) setback, the complete trivialization of genuine gains, the lack of shame in regards our own lily-livered leader's lack of commitment to the United States ... it's all there. Our military may be emasculated, but whatever we have to offer -- one tank, one troop, one ball -- ought to be offered.

I was once anti-American. I grew out of it when I lived overseas and realized that in my ideals I was American, and that that was a good thing. I grew out of it when I realized that American values far outweigh American flaws, and that those values, when possible, should be exported.

Let's Forget the Past and Welcome Polanski Back to Hollywood
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - Kilometres away, as the crow flies, from Operation Iraqi Freedom, is the land of Oscar. The Academy Awards will, barring something unforeseen, take place tonight. I would like to see The Pianist take a troika -- best picture, best director and best actor. It is only a shame the director in question, Roman Polanski, cannot attend the ceremonies without fear of arrest.

In my first year in Paris, I worked as a jeune fille au pair (a horror story unto itself) and I lived in the same quartier as the great director. As I walked my young charges home from school, we would often run into Polanski, and he would playfully, somewhat suggestively, ruffle the hair of the nearly teenage girl I looked after. She was not many years younger than myself at the time. It was hilarious, done with a wink and knowing smile in my direction. Boy, was he a cutie pie.

It was clear he was making light of his reputation, playing up to the crowd. His sense of humour was, I felt, mutinous and admirable (two things that so often go together), something best displayed only in select company. He was lucky for my dark and realistic (amazing, given my tender age back then) view of the universe. Another girl may have gone screaming to the authorities.

In my second year in Paris, I was liberated from my employers/oppressors and began working as a teacher. One night, out at a dance club with friends, we began to hear shouts of "C'est Polanski!" It was Polanski, all right, showing up at three or so in the morning with the French actress Emmanuelle Seignier, a woman who has since become his wife and the mother of his children. That night, he struck me as looking, well, debauched. Maybe it was the environment, but on his forehead could have been written "I am a man who has done everything, imbibed and snorted everything, slept with everything and been through everything."

But he also seemed vulnerable.

All these years later, I have been devastated by The Pianist, a movie scarce seen on this continent as people queue up for the imcomprehensibly popular Chicago, the puerile The Two Towers and the tedious, tedious display that is The Hours. Only Gangs of New York comes close to rivalling The Pianist. Yet because people seem unable to separate art from artist, The Pianist probably won't score big tonight.

Polanski, for those of you from Mars, was charged with raping a 13-year-old girl in 1977. The girl was not a 13-year-old girl the way most of us were. She was sexually active (with her 17-year-old boyfriend), she could identify a quaalude and she had a mother who apparently thought it was acceptable for her daughter to pose topless.

Her mother also felt it sensible to leave her alone with the man who made Repulsion, the bloody decapitation fest, MacBeth, and Rosemary's Baby.

Polanski said he believed the girl consented. She says she said "no." Whether she did or not does not change the fact that he did something wrong. But this case represents one of the few times celebrity justice seems to have worked against the celebrity. Polanski agreed to a plea bargain and was promised he would be sentenced to time already served. At the last minute, under public pressure, the judge decided to make an example of Polanski and put him behind bars for years. Polanski fled to France, where, ever the rebel, he made the lyrical and romantic Tess and took up with its star, the then teenage Nastassja Kinski.

But there are other things to know about Roman Polanski. His family was interned in death camps during the Second World War. His pregnant mother died in Auschwitz. Only he escaped the camps and the Krakow ghetto and spent the war hiding and being hid, crawling through sewage pipes, on the lam and afraid. Decades later, his eight-months-pregnant wife, Sharon Tate, was killed by members of the Manson family. After his exile in France, Steven Spielberg offered him the chance to direct Schindler's List and Polanski turned it down because the movie, set in the Krakow ghetto, hit too close to home. The Pianist, set in Warsaw, offered him catharsis with a slight distance. The film is painful -- and necessary -- viewing, and given the director's past, must have been sheer hell to make.

Lucky for us, he walked through the fire. Surely the time has come not only to reward him for that, but for the Los Angeles district attorney to drop the warrant for Polanski's arrest and allow him safe passage.
 

Look How Far We've, Er, Come
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO -- For International Woman's Day, my sister e-mailed me a list of tips for hiring women, dated July 1943, taken from Transportation Magazine. It was written for supervisors of potential Rosie the Riveters, and my sister attached a note suggesting that by today's standards, these tips were patronizing. But not only are most of them still relevant, many of the supposedly sexist standards of the 1940s have simply morphed themselves into politically correct standards for the new millennium.

Tip 1. "Pick young married women. They have more of a sense of responsibility than their unmarried sisters, they're less likely to be flirtatious and they have the pep to work hard and deal with the public efficiently." Well, I should hope married women would be less flirtatious than unmarried women, be it 1943 or 2003. And as for pep, there is nothing outmoded about suggesting that single women lack it. There's nothing like dating to kill a girl's pep.

Tip 2. "General experience indicates that 'husky' girls --those who are a little on the heavy side -- are more even-tempered." This is true. I have gained 15 pounds in the last five years and I am much sweeter now than I was in 1998. And you can just tell that Anne McLellan is nicer than Adrienne Clarkson.

Tip 3. "Retain a physician to give each woman you hire a special physical examination -- one covering female conditions. This step not only protects the property against lawsuits, but also reveals whether the employee-to-be has any female weaknesses which would make her mentally or physically unfit for the job." How is this sexist? The whole lawsuit issue is timeless, not to mention how frequently feminists whinge because "female conditions" are not taken seriously. And all wise employers should take into consideration that women, up until menopause, anyway, only have one good week a month.

Tip 4. "Stress at the outset the importance of time, the fact that a minute or two lost makes serious inroads on schedules. Until this point is got across, service is likely to be slowed up." Again, isn't this a consideration for the ages? All the more since the people addressed here were hiring mostly women who weren't accustomed to a factory environment, and people who managed production lines, not poetry workshops.

Tip 5. "Give every girl an adequate number of rest periods during the day. You have to make some allowances for feminine psychology. A girl has more confidence and is more efficient if she can keep her hair tidied and apply fresh lipstick several times a day." This is very true. For some women, it's all about lipstick. For me, it's all about hair. If my hair isn't working, I'm not working. Better to allot time for insecurity/vanity from the get-go.

Tip 6. "Be tactful when issuing instructions or in making criticisms. Women are often sensitive; they can't shrug off harsh words the way men do. Never ridicule a woman -- it breaks her spirit and cuts off her efficiency." I'm not sure why this is laughable. I would love it if bosses nowadays would take cues from this tip. I am definitely sensitive, and I can't shrug off harsh words. A few years ago, I worked at a magazine where my boss had as much empathy as an SS torturer, and my spirit has yet to recover fully. I hold that man personally responsible for my weight gain (see Tip 2). Not to mention that if you ridicule someone, you can damage their self-esteem, and that's against the law.

Tip 7. "Be reasonably considerate about using strong language around women. Even though a girl's husband or father may swear vociferously, she'll grow to dislike a place of business where she hears too much of this." In 2003, you can sue a man or cry "hostile work environment" if he tells a risqué joke or uses strong language. We have gone from the over-protectiveness of the 1940s, which at least was somewhat endearing, to Victorian feminist political correctness, which is just tiresome.

Tip 8. "Get enough size variety in operator's uniforms so that each girl can have a proper fit. This point can't be stressed too much in keeping women happy." Hey, I wouldn't want to have to squeeze myself into a size 4. And if Erin Brockovich had only had bigger shirts and baggier skirts, she wouldn't have had so much conflict with her dowdy female colleagues. Which would seem to indicate that her crime was not wearing a short skirt, but looking good in one.

You see what "sisterhood" has wrought? Boy, oh boy. We have come a long way (baby).
 

Peaceniks should grow up instead of just pretending to
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - There has been harsh criticism in the print media of last weekend's protests against a war with Iraq. The protesters have been mocked and picked apart as though they were subjects of vivisection at some sick laboratory, and I think that's unfair. Those protesters were adorable. Simply adorable.

Listen to what little 11-year-old Barbara Merasty of Saskatchewan's Flying Dust reserve said on a network news report: "I came out to stop the war so no one will die." That's darling, Barbara, just darling. And with young people like you, there's hope for mankind.

And I think it's appalling for grizzled, old, drunken journalists to take the mickey out of pre-pubescent children in ... Oops! Someone just informed me that not all of the marchers were in the fifth grade! Apparently some of them were adults. Most, even.

Now that's scary. For it would never occur to me that people over the age of 11 would think it necessary to carry a placard saying they were "for peace." What sane human isn't "for peace"?

And it would never occur to me that anyone over the age of 11 would not be able to clearly think through to their logical conclusion the implications of attending a rally that essentially attacks the leader of the free world in favour of a vicious tyrant.

Had any of the protesters been carrying placards saying things that constituted arguments against a war, those "peace rallies" might have been worth the while. There are arguments against this war -- there are none that convince me this war is not necessary for us, or that it will not be beneficial to the Iraqi people, but there are arguments, nonetheless.

What I saw, however, were a lot of banners that insulted President George Bush, that insulted the United States and American "imperialism," that called Bush and Rumsfeld "terrorists." There was even a group of people carrying a large photo of Bush with a Hitler moustache. In Ottawa, protesters carried signs that said "Morons make War" and "Terrorists wear Suits." I guess this kind of nonsense is what passes for polemics these days, as morons also attend anti-war protests and terrorists wear bandannas and drum and dance their way to Parliament Hill and the U.S. Embassy. It's a new movement called "Terror Through Mind-Numbing Stupidity and Knee-Jerk America Bashing."

Another news report featured an Ontario protester who said the protest reminded her of the good old days. "I protested in the border area of Windsor-Detroit 30 years ago to help draft dodgers. We're just going to have to keep doing this every 30 years or every 10 years until there's no more war. We can't have war in the 21st century."

This kind of infantile posturing would be funny were it not so terrifying. That folks who may have smoked a little too much dope or gone to one too many love-ins might still like to fight the establishment is cute. Except that in this case it does not simply represent an opinion. It represents, I think, a frightening set of values -- and by that I don't mean the belief that tie-dyed shirts or the Grateful Dead are fashionable. I mean values that have convinced these people that peace is preferable to freedom, and that the protector of our freedom, the United States, deserves only to be loathed.

On what terms, one would like to ask them, are you willing to have "peace." On whose dictates? In fact, what is going on here is not a movement for peace but a movement to win a few more days of denial, nothing more. It is also indicative of some odd kind of guilt about what we in this part of the world ought to represent.

For the world would not be a better place if the United States had less power. It would be an infinitely worse place. For those who say the United States should listen to the UN, perhaps it would be more fitting to suggest that the UN do its job and respect its own resolutions. Hans and Mohammed can take permanent suites at the Tikrit Marriott if they wish; after 12 years, we ought to know that "more time" is a joke.

Most of the marchers "for peace" could not tell you which countries border Iraq, who the main ethnic and religious groups in that country are or how long Saddam Hussein has been in power. Nor, for that matter, could most of them see the irony in the fact that one of their own in the U.K. held a banner saying "Peace in Our Time." But then, that's to be expected ... of 11-year-olds.
 

The Bachelorette can teach the UN a few lessons about Saddam
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - Trista is the Hans Blix of reality television. She talks tough but does she ever let a lot of infractions get by. It takes her forever to act on something she should have taken care of weeks ago. I speak, of course, of Trista Rehn, the lovely physical therapist/Miami Heat dancer/Bachelorette, and the Saddam Hussein to her Herr Doktor Blix has got to be that awful stalker guy, Russ.

Trista finally gave old Russ, the, um, "writer," the heave-ho this week, and it was high time. It was time for a change of regime ... and it has been time for, if not 12 years, then at least since Jan. 8, when glistening, slimy Russ showed up, Tiffany-box bribe in hand, and declared his refusal to give up without first putting up the mother of all cockfights.

From the first episode, Russ has worn his true colours like a peacock in raging heat. He sweats like a crack addict waiting for his dealer in one of those dingy alleyways behind my apartment building. He has shown about as much respect for Trista's boundaries as Saddam has for the borders of his neighbours and for the Kurds who live within his own nation. He has accepted criticisms and attempts at reason with a Saddam-esque level of equanimity. Without asking Trista's permission, Russ stuck his tongue halfway down to her knees during the second epi-sode, in much the same way that a certain despot stuck his troops on someone else's sand once upon a time.

It's lucky for our friend, Trista, that Russ didn't manage to smuggle a vial of nerve gas or smallpox along with him on their trip to Arizona this week. Anyone who saw the rage and desperate need for control in Russ's eyes when Trista put the kaibosh on the possibility of nookie with him had to know that she was fortunate to have a camera crew around to protect her. Trista may be a trained cheerleader and all, but I doubt if one of those high kicks she learned to do in Florida could take down anyone as furious and loopy as Russ -- any more than a team of timorous, Coke-bottle-eyeglass-wearing UN "inspectors" can put the fear of our Lord into the crazy mustachioed, beret-wearing one.

Like Blix, frustrated by Saddam's tricks and dishonesty, Trista, has -- up until now -- ignored the signs and fallen for every ruse Russ has put before her. A couple of weeks back, Trista's best girlfriends joined her in her candle-laden Bachelorette pad to help her suss out which fella she should trust. Her pals resoundingly dissed Russ, telling Trista to lose him or live to rue the day. But did she listen? Noooo. Proclaiming a "connection" with psycho-guy, she allowed Russ and his numerous contraventions to thrive.

Sound familiar? Reminds me of a certain Saddam whose myriad transgressions haven't seemed to cause much concern to certain Eurotypes and geekish UN employees who look much like boys we wouldn't have dated in high school. Reminds me of listening to Colin Powell on Wednesday, speaking before a crowd of UN representatives who were so fascinated, many of them were yawning, rolling their eyes or looking as bored as if they were at a screening of The Hours. For heaven's sake, people -- the man had a teaspoon of anthrax in his pocket! Pay attention!

The poor U.S. secretary of state was preaching, I fear, to the opposite of the choir (the tone-deaf?). A shame, really, since he made sense. One argument Powell tried to put to rest was the oft-repeated assertion that Saddam would never link up with al-Qaeda, since the former is secular and the latter fundamentalist. Of course, the best rebuttal to that weak logic is this: Hitler and Stalin in 1939.

OK, Trista probably wouldn't get that reference, but I'm still glad she came to her senses, however belatedly. As a result of her early unfortunate choices, Russ got too confident and behaved so abominably this week that he self-destructed, imploded, so much so that even the slow-witted cheerleader had to face the truth. It is quite possible that if we leave Saddam Hussein alone, he, too, will self-destruct. But waiting for that to happen may allow him time to develop weapons of mass destruction and get up to other lethal endeavours.

I am not a hawk any more than I want people to kill their babies. I am, however, pro-choice, because I believe that abortion, like war and dumping icky guys, is sometimes necessary. How foolish would we look if the Bachelorette were smarter than us?
 

The 65-year-old Saint Laurent was a fashion radical, popularizing the pantsuit for women and using his name as a brand on perfume and makeup. His very un-French openness about his dependence on alcohol and anti-depressants set him apart in a culture mercifully unfettered by the Barbara Walters special.

Above all, he understood that fashion was important. Sadly, in Ottawa that point of view is treated with all the respect given polyester and stretch pants at Calvin Klein's house.

Ottawans use the city's climate as a perfect excuse for not looking good. I noticed, when I visited my mum at Christmas, that I had to break out my "lesbian boots," as I call them, to walk a block without falling over and breaking my neck.

My lesbian boots are from Roots -- big, clunky, tough urban-chick things with massive tread and no heels, totally necessary for an Ottawa winter. You won't get far on ice, at least not upright, with four-inch heels and no tread.

In Ottawa, you have to accept looking "blobby" in winter, unless you're willing to lose your fingers and ears to frostbite. You need layers and hats and mittens -- gloves won't do when it's wickedly cold -- to survive. Bulky coats are the order du jour, and mere tights won't protect your legs from the wind.

So that explains the winter.

But what about Ottawa fashion in the other season(s)? In the other six months of the year, I have noticed three distinct looks. The first is what I like to call "aging hippie" and is the result, I figure, of what seems to be the disproportionate number of aging hippies in the Ottawa Valley. The Valley is, I believe, second only to Vancouver in this regard. It's the silver ponytail (on men and women), Indian cotton, silver jewelry, Birkenstocks, bulky sweaters, "I work in a health-food store" statement, and it does have its charm.

Then there's the "I'm going on a hike/public servant" look, favoured by the many outdoorsy types among you who, thanks to your impressive salaries working for our government, can afford canoes and cottages. Your style comes from Roots, Eddie Bauer and the like. And finally, the most offensive of the three, the "high tech/I never have sex and I can't match my shirt to my pants" look. Sadly, this is the one favoured by those among you who could probably afford to shop at Yves Saint Laurent. Ah, the irony.

I lived in France for more than four years, and I learned much there for which I am eternally grateful. I learned about wine, cheese, Jerry Lewis, the importance of maintaining Everest levels of denial about national behaviour during the Second World War, and, of course, fashion. When I moved to France, I was just out of university and attired in the North American college student uniform: jeans, Nikes, Polo sweater and windbreaker. What a vision I was.

Within a few weeks, my Nikes were relegated to the gym, which is the only place a woman should wear them, the sweater and windbreaker were shamefully stuffed in my closet for trips back to Canada, and the jeans were worn only with smart tops and peacoats.

In Ottawa this past summer, I winced at the sight of adult women in business suits and ... it was tragique ... Nikes. For heaven's sake, women, I would think, how can you stand to be seen in public like that? Don't you know how you look? Put some grown-up shoes on and learn to navigate Elgin Street in heels. If French women can do it, you can too. You're at least as clever as them.

Lest you think I'm Ottawa-bashing, 'tis not so. Toronto only has two looks: "I think I'm cool, so I wear black" and "I'm incredibly uptight." (I alternate, depending on my mood).

The bottom line is, all Canadians need fashion help. Our prime minister should strike while the iron is hot and make a personal appeal to Mr. Saint Laurent to spend his retirement on this side of the Atlantic.

In fact, there's a little town called Shawinigan, with a beautiful resort and golf course ...

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.

Better to have chequebook journalism than no journalism at all
by Rondi Adamson

Rene Michaud, one of the accused killers of Ottawa couple Robert and Bonnie Dagenais, recently made an offer to the media. He said he would sell us his story. The Citizen turned his offer down, and that is a good thing. But I don't believe it is always objectionable for journalists to pay their sources.

We are told that "real" journalists don't pay sources, that no one serious would do such a thing, and that serious issues would never be discussed as a result of chequebook journalism. Leave that to the Enquirer and don't taint the sacred world of "serious" media with such talk.

People have short memories. The late William Bradford Huie, a prominent Alabama journalist and novelist from the 1940s to the 1960s, was famous for the use of his chequebook. Huie's book, The Execution of Private Slovik, about the only U.S. serviceman to be executed for desertion and cowardice in the Second World War, is considered to be one of the two best American non-fiction reportage books, along with Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. Huie also held the sales record for three of the news-magazines that published his articles. He was no tabloid reporter. He was able to give the public information about important stories -- information that others were not able to provide.

In 1955, Emmett Till, a teenage African-American from Chicago was visiting family in Mississippi and became, tragically, the victim of a hate crime, long before we called them hate crimes. Two white men had seen him talking to a white woman and deemed his behaviour too forward. They tracked him down, beat, tortured and shot him, tied him to a cotton gin fan and tossed him in the Tallahatchie River.

The men were tried for the case, and acquitted by an all-white jury. After their trial, Huie paid them $4,000 for an interview which was published in the then widely read Look magazine. In the interview they confessed to the murders, knowing that because of double jeopardy, they could not be tried again. And they did not simply confess. They described, with some pride, what they had done. The story was shocking and was said to have brought about awareness to many Americans of just how bad race relations were in the South.

The Look magazine in question sold off the stands.

However, many fellow journalists denounced Huie, as he had paid the men. Huie defended himself: The truth would never have been revealed otherwise, he said. The FBI frequently pays for information, he said. He was not, however, cavalier about it. He was a cold, hard realist: "A lot of people resent using informers. I don't recommend it. I just don't know any better way."

Huie continued his work, continued to expose civil rights violations and continued, unapologetically, to pay sources. In 1964 he co-wrote, along with Martin Luther King Jr., Three Lives for Mississippi, a book about the young civil rights workers who had been killed in that state. In spite of his tactics, Huie had become known as a courageous journalist who helped the civil rights movement along by revealing brutal truths.

Huie, however, lost many of his supporters when he paid James Earl Ray, the convicted killer of Martin Luther King Jr., $40,000 for an in-prison interview in 1968. (He concluded, after speaking with Ray, that he had acted alone in killing King.) After this, Huie was ostracized more than ever and his work for civil rights had earned him enemies in the Ku Klux Klan. On one occasion he defended himself with a shotgun as the Klan burned a cross in his yard.

It's a long way from that world to Monica Lewinsky, but two years ago the Washington Post accused ABC of compensating Lewinsky indirectly for her 1999 interview with Barbara Walters by paying one of her legal bills. The lawyer who was paid had apparently convinced Ken Starr to allow Lewinsky to appear on the broadcast.

Whatever happened there, I'm not sure Monica Lewinsky was worth the money. I don't think we need to know what Rene Michaud has to say. I'm not suggesting that it is a good thing for criminals to be given money for their time. But few things are as cut and dried as we would like, least of all the line between "serious" journalism and the tabloid world. The Enquirer, after all, gets a lot right. "I'm in the truth business," said William Bradford Huie, a most serious journalist. He may have let the ends blind him to the means, but his contributions were invaluable.

Too few journalists, tabloid or "serious," can claim the latter about themselves.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

It's the height of folly to worry about your date's high heels
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - A recent study at Britain's Open University indicates that shorter women are more likely to be married and have children than their taller peers.

For men, on the other hand, greater height means greater success in both the financial and romantic fields of the Darwinian struggle.

Scientists who conducted the survey say there is no reason to believe shorter women are more intelligent, attractive or fertile than taller women. It appears that the issue is simply that most men and women prefer that the man be taller.

In other words, most of the people procreating out there are insecure men and shallow women. Is it any wonder mankind seems to be devolving, rather than evolving? I am, for a woman, fairly tall -- though I have young nieces who are well on their way to towering over me -- and I would love to be taller, which is why I often wear high heels. My mother is 5' 10" and my brothers are all over six feet tall. My father was just an inch taller than my mother. But dad was secure enough to not be intimidated by that fact, and I think that's why in my family we all have triple-digit IQs and good values. We weren't co-produced by a superficial woman and a frightened, quivering man who needed to feel closer to the clouds than his wife.

I have dated many men who are shorter than me and invariably friends will comment on how "nice" I am to do so, or they'll say something like "good for you, Rondi," as though I am donating to a charity. Call me crazy, but what matters to me in a romantic partner is that he be kind, that he make an honest living, that he not abuse any substances, that he know how to read (and that he actually do so) and that I feel lust for him. Only one of my boyfriends has ever said anything negative to me about my height, and he was a fellow who was taller than me. He deemed me "too tall" and a big red flag went up in my mind, one that had "insecure, pathetic loser" written on it. All his previous girlfriends had been dowdy little twerps, and I guess girls like that made him feel like a big, strong man.

Real men are not afraid to have a girlfriend who is tall or taller than them. This is how we separate the men from the boys. Diana, Princess of Wa-les, was 5'10" and Prince Char-les, a bit taller, apparently had some "issues" with that. He didn't like her to wear high heels and he left her for a shorter woman who looked like she was related to the Royal Family via their horses. Now that's depressing.

In sharp contrast, American historian Arthur Schlesinger is married to a taller woman, the six-foot-plus Alexandra Cushing. In a recent issue of Vogue, he commented that he was "all in favour of tall women" and that he wished his wife would wear heels higher than her customary two inches. Sigh. He's brainy and self-confident. Not too many men like that around. And of all of Woody Allen's wives and girlfriends, the pick of the crop -- Diane Keaton --was taller than him.

For a famous tale of real cojones, think of the first ever meeting between Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, on the set of the 1942 film Woman of the Year. "I fear," said Hepburn, "that I may be a little too tall for you, Mr. Tracy." "Don't worry, Miss Hepburn," Tracy replied, "I'll cut you down to size." Now there was the start of a great love story, and for the strong-willed and proud Hepburn, it was surely a sign that she had met her match. OK, her match happened to be married, but her other options were probably single, short men who wanted her to walk in a ditch so they could feel superior, or single, tall men who felt threatened.

I could be catty and suggest that shorter women are, in every sense, average, and that therein lies their appeal, but that would be so unlike me. And it wouldn't be constructive. So, instead, I'll suggest that if we want to turn the tide on the dumbing-down of the universe, you men ought to wake up and figure out that your strength does not come from the fact that your girlfriend can't reach the top shelf.

And girls -- wouldn't you rather be with a man whose spine was in working order, even if it was a spine on a short body?

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Don't blame the beauty queens, blame radical Muslims
by Rondi Adamson

Ottawa's Lynsey Bennett came back from the Miss World pageant in Nigeria saying the violence she saw there was not something with which she wanted to be associated. With that comment, young Lynsey shows how much she has been suckered into the received wisdom on the matter, as have some writers at this paper, where an editorial about Bennett's participation recently asserted that "allowing one's good name to be associated with such acts (human-rights abuses in Nigeria) ... was a bad idea." Ah yes. Let's put the blame squarely on the pageant and on the contestants.

The Miss World pageant was surrounded by controversy from the start, because of the case of Amina Lawal. Lawal is the Nigerian woman who was sentenced, under Islamic law, to be stoned to death for bearing a child outside of wedlock. (But she won't be stoned until her child is weaned in 2004. I'll say this for Nigeria's Islamic law: At least it recognizes the importance of breastfeeding, which is more than I can say for us.)

Bennett hemmed and hawed about the matter and finally decided to go to Nigeria, saying that the pageant had drawn, and would continue to draw, more attention to Lawal's plight than holding the competition elsewhere would. I believe she was right about that. I doubt most of us would have heard of Lawal were it not for Miss World, a show that more than 1.5 billion people (and far more women than men) watch.

So the beauties descended upon Abuja and things broke loose. Isioma Daniel, a female journalist at the Nigerian newspaper ThisDay, wrote a comment piece suggesting that the Prophet Mohammed would not only have approved of the pageant, but might have chosen one of the lovelies to be his bride. A protest erupted in a mosque in Kaduna, which turned into a riot, which ended up killing hundreds of people.

Christians are said to be fleeing the area altogether. Kaduna is a city in the north of Nigeria, which is predominantly Muslim. The pageant has been relocated to London, and a death sentence -- a "fatwa," like the one placed on Salman Rushdie years ago -- was placed on Daniel.

The fatwa was just removed by the provincial Nigerian government that placed it, though one wonders whether true believers will care. What frightens me is where we are focusing our attention. This paper talked about the contestants whose good names were associated with the goings-on in Nigeria. Bennett herself bravely said that she didn't "agree" with the violence and didn't want to be affiliated with it. As though anyone with even a double-digit IQ would hold Miss Canada, Miss Israel, Miss Scotland or Miss Anywhere Else responsible for either what may happen to Lawal, or for the violence that has gone on in the past 10 days.

Speaking of double-digit IQs, Jurassic feminists -- never ones to ignore slights against women, real or imagined -- haven't been much better. Germaine Greer and a number of other commentators tried to suggest a moral equivalence between the pageant itself and Islamic law. Yes, a spectacle where girls prance about in a bikini and talk about world peace may be silly, but comparing the fact that some women freely choose to participate in it with the facts of harsh sharia law -- under which there is sweet little a woman can choose to do or not do -- is absurd. British Labour Party politician/actress Glenda Jackson said that, considering the bloodshed, the competition should be cancelled. Writer Muriel Gray said that should the show go on, the girls involved would be wearing "swimwear dripping with blood." Say again? The girls are responsible for the bloodshed?

The CEO of Miss World, Julia Morley, hasn't made things better, saying of Daniel that "a journalist has made this problem and we hope journalists can put it right." So Daniel should have written something toeing the party line, rather than challenge Nigerians to reframe things? The media started the riots. One wonders whether Morley, Gray, Greer or any of the other old darlings understand who created this problem (violent Islamists). Do they "get" what the real problem is? (Violent Islam). What's worse is how many mainstream newspapers, including a number of Canadian dailies, have referred to the "Christian/Muslim riots" in Nigeria, when the responsibility for them lies within the radical Muslim movement. If a Christian loony shoots an abortion doctor, we don't blame the abortion doctor. We blame the Christian loony, as well we should. Let's talk about who is truly responsible here, and about what truly matters.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Life lessons from Monsieur Dagenais
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - To us he was Bobby D, Daggy, Bob or, when we were being well-behaved, Monsieur Dagenais. I had the great fortune to be taught by Robert Dagenais when I attended Glebe Collegiate and was, like many who knew him and many who didn't, heartbroken to hear of his slaying on the weekend. His wife, Bonnie, was also killed when two burglars broke into their West Quebec cottage and shot the couple at point-blank range.

It was the tail end of the Trudeau era when I attended French literature and language courses taught by Dagenais. And like our prime minister at the time, Dagenais loved red roses and wore them in his lapel almost every day. I realize now how young he was at the time -- 33 or so -- but to us he seemed like a venerable, and funny, sage.

As is often the case in language courses, the desks were mostly filled by girls, and I don't believe it would be an exaggeration to say we all had a crush on Monsieur Dagenais. In fact, it used to make us ill, yet very pleased, to hear him gush (as he often did) about Bonnie.

With his big limpid eyes, his slight and very cute accent, he was utterly charming. He was also a natty dresser and considerably slimmer back then than his recent pictures reveal. I remember one Valentine's Day when a classmate of mine made me extremely jealous with her nerve -- she walked up to Bobby, handed him a red rose and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I'm not sure whether he blushed more than her, but as usual, he treated her and the situation with the utmost grace.

For there is nothing so insufferably pretentious as a group full of teenagers living through its first exposure to Sartre, Camus and Malraux. With Dagenais, we read La Nausee, L'Etranger and La Condition Humaine, and he navigated us all through those heady waters with ease, and in a second language, yet. Like teens everywhere, we thought we were the first people on the planet, apart from the old French guys whose books we were reading, to come up with deep thoughts about man, the existence of God, our place in the world and responsibility toward each other.

The height of teen cool for us, thanks to the influence of our French literature class, was dressing in black and going to cafes in the Byward Market and talking about existentialism. Pretty tame next to raves and ecstasy, but I do not once remember feeling that Monsieur Dagenais took all of us anything but completely seriously.

(I wish I could say as much for all my other teachers at the time).

No smirks from him, no rolling of the eyes, just an ear and a challenge when we needed it. His catch- phrase was "Questions, suggestions, opinions, commentaires, objections?" And he listened to every one of them.

It was my first experience learning to debate and speak publicly in French, and to write clear and logical arguments in that language. As someone who is fairly shy even in her own language, it could have been an ordeal, but it wasn't, because of the sense of confidence we had in our teacher. Still, he never let us out of our assignments. I can remember, on one occasion, trying to get out of having to talk in front of the class and Bobby giving me a steadfast "no. You can do it, and you will do it if you want to pass." Good for him. For though he was friendly, he wasn't there to be our friend, and he knew that. I read that he and Bonnie did not have children and part of me thinks they didn't need to, since they gave away so much of themselves to kids each day.

After university, I went to Paris, where I stayed for a number of years. There I learned French without the Quebecois accent and vocabulary, and came home all snobby and pleased with myself. On the weekend, I remembered the man who made me want to go to Paris in the first place. He was the man who gave us an assignment about L'Etranger, titled "Meursault, est-il coupable?" (Is Meursault guilty?). The irony of that question, and of the topics we discussed with Robert Dagenais years ago, cannot be lost on anyone thinking about how he and Bonnie died, the nihilism and stupidity of the act, and the number of young minds influenced by Monsieur et Madame Dagenais.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Mistry's finished with border checks. Now he needs a reality check
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - In various Canadian newspaper columns this week, Rohinton Mistry was declared a modern-day Rosa Parks, a modern-day Jew under the Nuremberg laws, a modern-day merchant in Munich having
his windows smashed on Kristallnacht while neighbours turned a blind eye. Oh, please. These comments represent the kind of righteous hysteria many Canadians have been spouting since Mistry announced the cancellation of his U.S. book tour earlier this month. The Indian-born Mistry decided to renege on promises to stop in six American cities because of what he felt was discriminatory treatment at airports. Mistry was touring the United States to promote his new book, Family Matters.

I do not doubt that Mistry had to undergo embarrassing questioning and luggage checks, even rude comments, while travelling in the U.S. But comparing him to Rosa Parks? Aren't we getting a bit carried away? First of all, that means Jean Chretien is Ike. I think not. But for a shared love of golf, I would not compare our leader to Eisenhower, who was a war hero, a superior military strategist, an enemy of communism and a man who showed, time and time again, that he would overlook his own beliefs and feelings in order to uphold his country's constitution.

Rosa Parks lived in a world where her rights were not upheld, where indeed, by law, she did not have equal rights with a white woman. Mistry lives in a world, where, because of the unfortunate vicissitudes of history, his luggage is likely to be checked. But if nothing untoward is discovered on his being or in his belongings, he can go back to his life, back to his book tour, back to nice hotels and appearances on Oprah, one of the most popular TV shows in the world. A show, need I point out, hosted by a woman of colour.

A Jew under the Nuremberg laws found his rights fast dwindling to nothing, friends and neighbours turning on him and, ultimately, he found himself on a train to a death camp, if he lasted that long. Is this what Mistry's life is like? Somehow I doubt it. He experienced the unpleasant experience of a security check and, perhaps a few unkind words, and then he was sent on his way. A Jew on Kristallnacht found himself under merciless attack from a mob, while "good" people closed their shutters and hunkered down until it was over. Is this what Mistry has gone through? Again, no. He found himself questioned by authorities and then let go. And not only have people not looked away, but most of his compatriots have rallied to his defence and made absurd and histrionic declarations.

Mistry is being, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit whiny. He commented that "when it (the security check) keeps happening every single time, you get into this convoluted logic, trying to convince yourself about why it's happening. 'Perhaps it's something about my beard, maybe I should change my beard.' " He characterized this line of thinking as "trying to appease a bad policy."

I'm not so sure this policy is bad. Unfair? Certainly. Foolproof? No way. But the fact is that the next terrorist will probably not be ethnic Japanese or Finnish or Scottish. And we should stop pretending otherwise. We should also stop pretending that the U.S. does not have good reason to be concerned about people from certain countries who currently live in Canada, given the number of terrorist operatives found living within our borders after Sept. 11. Sadly for Canadians and Americans of Arab or Muslim backgrounds, or immigrants from Arab countries who are not yet citizens, we must ask them to tolerate a period of forbearance.

As a foreigner living in Japan, I was fingerprinted. It was an odd experience. What was odd was that my German colleague was spared the ordeal -- nostalgia for the Axis, I gathered. Countries pick and choose, based on their history, who they trust and who they don't. On a trip to Israel, I was hauled out of the check-in line for a rather unforgiving search and questioning. But the El Al people had their reasons. I resembled the Scandinavian girlfriend of an Arab terrorist, a woman who had been helping her beau blow people up. It was humiliating, to be sure. But El Al has not had a hijacking in more than 30 years.

During the part of the book tour he did finish, Mistry was not sent to segregated hotels or made to drink from a separate water fountain. He should have kept things in perspective and honoured his commitments.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Yes, politically correct professionals, there is a Christmas
by Rondi Adamson

I was recently invited to spend an afternoon with a group of teachers. I've long had issues with teachers, because they always seem to be whining. And while I have been known to whine myself, I don't have a job where I get a good salary, finish work at 4 p.m. each day and get three months' holiday. So I hoped the teachers I was meeting with would change my mind. And ... they didn't.

Plaid-shirted and earnest to a man, they spent the first half-hour of our time together whin-ging about Mike Harris. Who? Isn't he long gone? Time to join a support group, people. Time to meet in church basements and work through the pain.

Anyway, after the Harris-bashing died down, one of the teachers told a story about how he had explained to a student-teacher that the phrase "Christmas is coming" was "culturally insensitive." Huh? Trustingly, as I had been told my questions were welcome, I put up my hand and said "excuse me, but how is it culturally insensitive to say Christmas is coming?" I added that it wasn't as though what was being said was "Christmas is coming and it's way better than anyone else's holiday!" That would be culturally insensitive, I said.

The wrath that then fell upon me was a shock until I realized -- at my advanced age -- that when people say your feedback is "welcome," what they really mean is "we want you to sit there and nod." One of the plaid-shirted crowd then spelled out for me, pointing a finger in my face, that "Christmas is coming" was a culturally insensitive phrase because "one-third of Canadians aren't Christian and that is reflected in the classroom. We want to be inclusive."

Now that's a point. I don't know if it's a good one, but it is a point. If that one-third of Canadians who aren't Christian were all of the same faith or background, then perhaps it would be a good point. Because then they would represent some kind of lobby and might have more reason to insist that their holidays be included on Canadian calendars and so forth. But the one-third of Canadians who aren't Christian are of many different backgrounds. And while I believe they deserve freedom of religious practice, and respect from other Canadians, I don't think they ought to feel that the mention of Christmas is some kind of attack on them. And I rather doubt that they do.

It has been my experience that most of the people who kvetch and carry on about diversity and inclusivity are white people. Immigrants to Canada generally have more important things to worry about and don't need to be patronized by the condescending majority. And, if one-third of Canadians are not Christian, then that leaves two-thirds who are, at least in name. And in a democracy, I think it is the majority that is supposed to rule, not the politically correct.

Even if the majority of Canadians were not Christian, this country remains one that was founded on Judeo-Christian principles, and immigrants to this country know as much. They are not going to be surprised or traumatized by the fact that we talk about Christmas. The idea of a decorated tree or Santa Claus oughtn't send them reeling. They know they are not coming to Saudi Arabia. It should be noted, as well, that Judeo-Christian countries are probably the only ones in the world where we have this kind of debate.

I challenged my plaid-shirted friends with the aforementioned ideas, and was met first with a long silence, and then a with question from a woman who looked positively shell-shocked. "Are you saying," she asked, "that immigrants to Canada should adapt to our culture?" Um, yeah. When I lived in Turkey, I put away my miniskirts and made sure my hair was covered before entering mosques. In Japan, I tried not to blow my nose in public. In France, I argued with people a lot.

Here in Canada, we have reached new levels of the absurd. A friend of mine works in an office where she is not allowed to wish anyone a Merry Christmas. She has been instructed to wish people a happy "winter holiday," as though they were all headed off to St. Moritz for a week's skiing. And on that note, I'd like to wish my Druid readers a happy new moon ceremony tomorrow -- Oops! Sorry, that wasn't very inclusive of me. My werewolf readers -- who prefer the full moon -- may feel excluded.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Belafonte hits a sour note when he sings the blues at Colin Powell
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - Harry Belafonte and Colin Powell have much in common. They are both impossibly handsome men who seem to get more handsome with each new silver hair. They both look great in uniform. They are both of Jamaican background, both well-read and articulate.

They are both high achievers, idealists, men of integrity who have risen to the heights of their chosen fields and who aren't finished yet. And they have both worked within the system to get to where they are, to help pave the way for other visible minorities.

And that final point is one everyone seems to have missed in the furore surrounding Belafonte's recent dismissive comments concerning Powell. Belafonte has gone too far, we have heard, confusing political disagreement with below-the-belt blows and name-calling. And those things are probably true. But above all, Belafonte should keep in mind that if Powell is the house slave, then he is the house calypso singer, who married the master's daughter (his second wife is white) and helped organize the biggest, most mainstream, most cloying smarmfest known to mankind, the "We are the World" atrocity of the mid- 1980s. Powell may no longer live in the 'hood, but Belafonte has moved to Sesame Street.

Belafonte is a man who has spent his career wearing tight pants, low-cut floral print shirts and gold medallions and singing counterfeit Caribbean music in an affected accent for well-off white people at Carnegie Hall. Not to downplay his mellifluous voice and shining charisma, but Belafonte's career in music and film has largely benefited from his appearance -- not just his good looks, but his light complexion. He was acceptable to American audiences in the 1950s and '60s in a way that his darker-skinned contemporary, Sidney Poitier, was not -- though decades later the always-opinionated Belafonte would accuse Poitier of kowtowing to the white psyche.

A part in the very bad 1957 movie Island in the Sun, in which a romance between the Belafonte character and Joan Fontaine was suggested, would not have been given to a darker-skinned actor at the time, movie historians agree. And while Nat King Cole, about 10 years Belafonte's senior and also darker skinned, suffered from a lack of sponsors on his 1956-57 variety show (the first ever primetime television show in the U.S. hosted by an African-American), Belafonte took home an Emmy for his 1960 variety special. He was the first African-American to win that award. It has often been suggested that Belafonte was able to become popular across the board in the United States because he seemed "foreign," not a threat, not a black from home. The long-suffering Cole was the latter, a gentle man who got hell from the Klan for being on TV and hell from blacks for living in Beverly Hills.

Ironically, the same criticism that Belafonte directed at Powell has plagued him throughout his own career. He was accused of being an "Uncle Tom" by some civil-rights workers and by folk-music purists in the 1960s. His music -- and his manners and appearance -- were criticized virulently for being too "assimilationist" and, that most biting of insults, "too white." Such claims actually placed far too much importance not just on Belafonte's relatively light skin but also on his considerable popularity. Belafonte is successful -- the first recording artist of any colour to sell more than a million copies of an album -- the mantra went, therefore he has sold out. Sound familiar? Sound like something we heard last week?

For this is at the root of the Belafonte-Powell kerfuffle: the belief that if you are successful, you have forgotten your own.

After the civil war, Frederick Douglass gave some famous advice to African-Americans and newly freed slaves: "Agitate, agitate, agitate." Back then, that was what was needed. And it is sometimes needed now. But there are other ways to succeed and help others do the same. A cursory look at both Powell and Belafonte's careers should make it crystal-clear that neither gentleman could have avoided working well within the system.

In the antebellum South, slaves who were musicians were granted privileges other slaves could only dream of, including travel, getting to stay inside the master's house, eat the master's food and bathe and dress in fancy clothes before performing at plantation balls. If Powell weren't such a class act, he could throw out a choice insult or two along those lines in Belafonte's direction. Because the latter's comments are really only a case of the calypso singer calling the general black.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

In praise of all the Earth's living creatures, great and small
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - I took my kitties to church on Sunday. It was the day the animals are blessed, following the feast of St. Francis -- a man who was very nice to the critters -- on Oct. 4. I have never done this before and rarely go to church. I am concerned about one of my cats, Pushkin, who suffers from kitty bulimia, and I thought this might help. Besides, I have a friend who is an Anglican minister and she told me the high point of her year is the day the animals are blessed. It's a lot more pleasant, she says, to look out and see animals in the pews than a sea of people.

Woody Allen once announced that if five more years of therapy didn't help him, he was going to Lourdes. Pushkin is in the same boat. She lived on the streets until I took her in, and according to her favourite vet -- a man she has only hissed at a dozen or so times -- she has no "off" switch when she eats and there's not much to be done. But I figured a blessing couldn't hurt (beyond all the scratches I got sticking her and her brother in their carrier).

This week is World Animal Day in many countries, some on Oct. 6, some on the 7th and so forth. It's not co-ordinated but I think it's important. I'm an animal lover and an animal advocate, as much as I can be. This does not mean, contrary to what some might think, that I hold vigils in the forest with my little woodland creature friends, or that I think animals should have the vote. Though they probably wouldn't make worse choices than we do.

It means I think animals are living creatures who feel fear and pain and should benefit from the same legal and moral protections as us. It means I do not believe animals are here to entertain us, or to serve us without getting proper reward, kindness and respect for that service, or for that matter, to be eaten by us. I accept that some people are going to eat animals, however, and I have never given anyone grief for doing so. I simply suggest, when they do so, that they take care the animal in question had a decent life and humane death before they decided to fill their faces with him or her.

My pilgrimage on Sunday was interesting. I am an atheist and I have a hard time with the arrogant notion that humans are the sum of all creation and therefore deserve to lord it over everything else because of our superior intelligence. This is an argument often put forward by those who think animals are here to serve and entertain us.

If we took that argument literally, then I guess it would be all right for me to abuse and torture people who weren't as smart as me. What fun! According to that line of thinking, I guess people can beat their kids and make them jump through hoops when they're babies because they aren't very smart then.

I used to have a Christian friend who would roll her eyes at me and snicker when I would tell her about the volunteer work I do for animals. I pointed out to her that I never rolled my eyes or snickered when she talked about church. I also pointed out that if Jesus came back, I had a sneaking feeling that not only would he approve of my helping animals, he would probably join me in my work.

And he would probably give the thumbs up (if Jesus did stuff like that) to Pope John Paul II, who has said that animals are imbued with the same spirit as man, that animals have souls.

I just wish more of Christ's followers would reflect on the words of one of their fellow believers, pastor/medical missionary/vegetarian Albert Schweitzer, who wrote that "the human spirit can only attain its full breadth and depth if it embraces all living creatures and does not limit itself to man-kind."

On Sunday, my Anglican minister friend read from Ecclesiastes: "I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts. For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts ... as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no pre-eminence above a beast." It was really beautiful.

Except for when Pushkin barfed all over the hymnal.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Abolish craven thinking about the guilt of the white race
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - It's a scary world where a novel by Alice Walker or Amy Tan is on the reading list of a university student's 20th-century English-language literature course, and books by William Faulkner or Ernest Hemingway are nowhere to be seen. And yet this is so often the case, as a young friend just starting university revealed to me.

I knew things were bad, but I didn't know they were that bad. That third-rate writers (and I think I'm being generous) should take precedence over first-rate writers because the latter happen to be white and male -- and in the case of Hemingway, a macho, hunting, fishing and womanizing white male -- is something I knew had been happening for the past 10 years, but I had hoped the tide was turning.

Then I heard about a magazine called Race Traitor, founded by Harvard academic Dr. Noel Ignatiev. Ignatiev found himself in the news last week for an article he penned in the current issue of Harvard magazine titled "Abolish the White Race." "Every group within white America," wrote Ignatiev, "has advanced its particular and narrowly defined interests at the expense of black people as a race." He goes on to say that abolishing the white race -- culturally, psychologically and emotionally on campuses and in corporations -- would rectify imbalances of the past. The article is sort of a composite version of what you'd find if you went to the Race Traitor Web site. Ignatiev, who seems to think white people are responsible for everything bad on this planet, is really no different from those who would have you believe white people are responsible for everything worthy of praise on this planet.

That aspects of North American history, specifically slavery and segregation, have led to deep schisms and "success gaps" if you will, is indisputable. What is objectionable is Ignatiev's "solution." How encouraging people to hate other people based on race, class or political passion, and to see themselves as members of a group or "community" (Lord, how I hate that word) rather than citizens of a country, capable of making choices, gains and losses on their own strengths, is ever going to help them is beyond me. When you find yourself in a hole, the saying goes, stop digging. History is full of proponents of Ignatiev's philosophy -- Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Milosevic -- if not his methods, and we all know how well those worked out. But Ignatiev encourages us to dig away, all the same.

Also objectionable, not to mention hopelessly naive, is Ignatiev's seeming belief that white people all stand side-by-side, unified in our goals and looking out for each other. Take a look around. There's enough hatred between various white people to fill a death camp. Many famous wars have been fought because of, and between, white people, often to the benefit of non-white people. Ignatiev has probably heard of the Civil War, just for starters.

Look at the current situation in Zimbabwe. Robert Mugabe is doing what he can to abolish whites (literally) in that country, but he is also doing what he can to destroy his considerable black opposition. Not to mention that, as American journalist Paul Craig Roberts noted this week, "if whites had race loyalty or even racial awareness, wouldn't they do something about Mugabe's decimation of their brothers and sisters? One British regiment or one U.S. Marine division could topple Mugabe in a few hours. However, instead of displaying race loyalty, white governments are enabling Mugabe by sending him food."

White people are not all equal. And all whites are not "privileged," a word that is so often carelessly thrown about in these discussions. Ignatiev says he wants African-Americans to destroy the white "social construct" without having much to say about what social construct would be left. The ideas that Ignatiev puts forward deserve to be hooted out of polite society. It makes one wonder, at what price hate? And under the aegis of the esteemed Harvard, no less.

But should that really surprise us? North American universities, for the past decade or so, have not only become home to the quota and places where one reads Alice Walker over William Faulkner, but environments almost Stalinistic in their intolerance of "unpalatable" viewpoints. Unpalatable, that is, to the diverso-fascists, the feminazis and the politically correct pod people -- most of whom, interestingly, are white. (Ignatiev himself received two degrees from Harvard.)

Because he has provoked debate, we should thank Dr. Ignatiev. Let's make sure we also challenge and "deconstruct" what he has to say.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

And so, too, will Sept. 11 pass when a new tragedy takes its place
by Rondi Adamson

On March 11 this year, my mother called to tell me that she had been feeling sad. "You know," she said, "it's the anniversary." The anniversary ... my mind immediately wandered to what I had seen on the morning shows that day, a Monday: memorial services for the six-month anniversary of Sept. 11. "It would be 55 years," mum continued. And I realized she was talking about my parents' wedding anniversary. My father died seven years ago, four months after my parents' 48th anniversary, also on the 11th of a month, in July.

To borrow a line from George W. Bush, the 11th has been hijacked. This is understandable. And not just Sept. 11, but the 11th of every month. Each month this year, we have been reminded, in case we have forgotten, that it is two, six, nine, 11 months since that day last fall. And now at the one-year mark, the shock is fading to facts.

We know now the number of casualties is not what we had thought -- down from almost 7,000 to closer to 3,000, not many more deaths, in fact, than at Pearl Harbor, and less than at Antietam, Maryland. What was called "the deadliest day on U.S. soil" is now not that, coming second behind a battle that took place another September, in 1862. The Civil War still provides Americans with so many watersheds.

I know a man who was born on Pearl Harbor Day, and by that I mean he was actually born on Dec. 7, 1941. He is Czech, and never felt his birthday had any significance beyond the fact that it was his birthday, until he moved to North America at age 27. All of a sudden, he told me, his birthday meant something to other people -- something that got patriotic blood boiling and stirred up angry memories. Something that was marked with ceremonies and not just a cake.

This summer, I taught cross-cultural skills to a group of educated and intelligent Asian businessmen. When I first used the phrase "9/11" with them, they didn't understand. And not because their English was lacking. It was simply not on their radar. Important, yes. But their internal compasses were not forever jammed on Sept. 11. (Not to mention that for much of the world, it would be "11/9," since we do the dates backwards here.) Dec. 7, 1941 on the other hand, never needed to be explained to the Japanese among them.

Now, Dec. 7 takes a backseat to Sept. 11, as do June 6, May 8, Aug. 14 and another 11th, one in November. My Czech friend told me that on Dec. 7, 2001, his 60th birthday and the 60th anniversary of Pearl Harbor, he noticed that he heard more speeches referring to Sept. 11 than talk about the United States' forced entry into the Second World War. My friend still enjoys hearing "Day of Infamy" jokes when he tells people his birthday, but that does not happen so often anymore.

John Still, in his book, The Jungle Tide, wrote that "the memories of men are too frail a thread to hang history from." But we can hang something more personal from them.

For my mother, there are many significant 11ths. There was her wedding day, of course, and the death of my father. But long before that, there were others: Her favourite brother was born on April 11, 1919. He died on Aug. 11, 1944, at the Falaise Gap, some two months after being part of Canada's D-Day effort on Juno Beach. He is buried in a Canadian war cemetery in Normandy, and the dates are engraved there: the 11th to the 11th. This year, those days did not belong to her. They were seven- and 11-month anniversaries.

I have a friend whose birthday is Sept. 11. I was sending her a birthday e-mail greeting last year when I saw the news in its early stages and thought -- momentarily -- that perhaps a Cessna pilot had goofed. I mentioned it to her in the e-mail, and no sooner had I clicked on "send" than I knew it was no Cessna. "My birthday has been ruined," she announced shortly thereafter.

But a lot can change in 12 months. People are talking about celebrities and feeling free to hate each other openly again. And while the world tilted a year ago, it will tilt again. This year, the 11th of each month will not be singled out. And in 28 years, when my friend is 60, she will probably find, like my Czech buddy, that some other atrocity has bumped her birthday out of the top spot.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Why are we so afraid to learn about the faiths of others?
by Rondi Adamson

It's not fair but it is her call
by Rondi Adamson

Mother Nature made the final decision, it turns out. Tanya Meyers suffered a miscarriage Monday night.

Meyers is the 23-year-old Pennsylvania woman who, during her 10th week of pregnancy, found herself in the spotlight and embroiled in a legal battle with the baby's father over her decision to end her pregnancy. In late July, her ex-boyfriend, 27-year-old John Stachokus, won a temporary injunction to prevent her from having an abortion. Both she and Stachokus agreed that he was the father; that was not the issue. The issue was who got to decide whether the baby should even be born.

Stachokus's legal action galvanized anti-abortion activists as well as fathers' rights groups. Luzerne County Common Pleas Court Judge Michael Conahan, soon after Stach-okus's legal success, ruled, after hearing both arguments, that the baby's father had no grounds to interfere with Meyers's constitutional right to terminate her pregnancy before the fetus could survive on its own. In spite of the ruling, Meyers, according to her mother, was having second thoughts about her choice. And then she miscarried.

It's a really sad story. The fathers' rights advocates who supported Stachokus throughout the saga said that it was not fair that Meyers alone should have been able to make the decision about her and Stachokus's unborn child. Don't men who don't want to be fathers, they argued, often have to pay child support to a woman who got pregnant and gave birth without consulting them? Well, yes. That happens and it's not fair. But it is a chance anyone, male or female, takes when they become intimately involved with someone else.

What is really not "fair" is that women get to live through the wonders of carrying the children during gestation and get to experience so many of the joys of childrearing -- breastfeeding, just for example -- all alone. It is also not fair that women, frequently, are left alone to raise their children when some loser decides to bail rather than accept his responsibilities. We all have our crosses to bear, we all have things that work to our advantage. Still, anyone who has ever been romantically involved with anyone can tell you that the easiest part of any relationship is the not-getting-pregnant part (it's the rest of relationships that are a massive challenge). It's quite simple to remain childless. In fact, it's so simple I don't understand why anyone in the West -- except for a rape victim -- would ever become pregnant without wanting as much to happen. There are any number of birth control methods available out there, without a prescription, and the combination of two or more of them will pretty much always prevent conception.

In an ideal world, Stachokus and Meyers would have been married before Meyers got pregnant. In an ideal world, they would have both discussed things and planned on this child. But Stachokus and Meyers, it seems, have both behaved in far from ideal ways. Meyers, at her tender age, already has a two-year- child from another man, a man she is not married to. She only met Stachokus last fall and got pregnant this spring. Stachokus, clearly, has "issues." He is, by many accounts, abusive and certainly, his legal action would indicate, is manipulative in the extreme. In a way they seem like a match made in hell, curiously well-suited.

Having said all of that, it seems clear that Stachokus should not have won the right to force Meyers to have their baby. In China this week, the government introduced its new law on family planning and population, to take effect in September. In it, husbands will be able to take legal action against their wives if the latter are planning to have an abortion. I doubt if Americans or Canadians want to model themselves on a decision from a government not exactly famous for its consideration of human rights.

What is particularly distressing is how much the Meyers case has galvanized both sides of the abortion debate. Both sides seem unreasonable. And it brings home how nice it would be if we had an actual abortion law in this country. One where we could face the facts: The woman is the one who bears the weight during pregnancy, for better or for worse, and therefore should make the decision. And yet, it should be apparent, even if you are of the belief that life begins precisely at the moment of conception, that there is a difference between a four-week-old fetus and a 16-week-old fetus, that even an abortion law that favours choice should have limits.

For many of the pro-choice persuasion, however, admitting as much would be inconceivable.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Ottawa, where cab travel can be taxing
by Rondi Adamson

Taxis are a necessity for the car-challenged in Ottawa. Unless, that is, you are willing to wait three hours for a bus, then pay a $17 fare and then transfer seven times in order to get to your destination, which is probably about three yards away. Slow boats to China would be faster.

Ottawa has no subway, no dogsleds, no flying carpets. Without a car, it's the buses you must take, and for me, in the heat, that's a hellish thing to contemplate.

So during a recent trip to Ottawa, I personally contributed more money to Ottawa cabs then I generally spend on FancyFeast for my kitties in a year -- and that's a lot. To make matters worse, my, like, very best friend in the world, a girl I've known since high school, a girl with whom I immediately regress into teenspeak, had her car in the shop. Like, oh my God!

The first mistake I made was thinking you could hail a cab on the street, like one can do anywhere in Toronto. Ottawa cabs only seem readily available at one in the morning in Centretown. One afternoon I stood on a busy stretch of Bank Street and watched about a dozen busy cabs fly by. So I took out my cell, called the easy-to-remember Blue Line number and sweet Jesus, within 20 minutes a kind gentleman showed up.

Calling for a cab certainly improves your chances of getting one in Ottawa, but within what time frame? One night I phoned for a cab and the woman who answered -- Doreen, if I recall correctly -- greeted me with a perky, "I believe you, honey," when I said, "I need a cab." Ah, I thought, it's that wonderful Ottawa Valley chirpiness, that down-home friendliness that you can find nowhere else.

After being assured there would be a cab outside my mother's building "soon," I went down to the lobby and waited. And waited. And waited. When I called back, Doreen answered. "Hi," I said. "I just called, well, not 'just.' About 25 minutes ago. I asked for a cab and it hasn't arrived."

"Oh," said the ever cheery Doreen. "Are you in a hurry?"

I toyed with the idea of answering sarcastically, of saying, "Oh no, I just felt like talking to you again, Doreen. I'd be perfectly happy to sit here for the next three or so hours, until, you know, one of your cabbies can be bothered to drive along this way." But I fought back the urge and said, "Well, I wasn't in a hurry when I first called you, but I am now." The cab showed about 15 minutes later.

The day after that, I felt I had learned my lesson and called for another cab to take me from Mum's place to a friend's place barely a kilometre away. "I need the cab very soon," I said, not to Doreen this time. The cab arrived quickly and off we went. But the driver did not know the way to my friend's house. He had not heard of the street and asked: "Can you give me directions?"

"Well," I hesitated, "I don't live here and I haven't for years ...um, shouldn't you know your way around?"

The cabbie reached for a map of Ottawa and handed it back to me. "You tell me the way." OK, I thought, do I get a discount? I read out the instructions and as he drove along each street he read the names out loud.

"And now we're going on along Hunt Club Road ... and now I'm turning on Paul Anka Drive ... and now we're heading up to the A & P ..." The play-by-play was amusing.

On the way back I asked the cabbie (a different one) if he had air conditioning.

"It doesn't work," he said. "Could you try," I pleaded, suffering in the humidity. He turned it on and lo, it worked, though not well since he left the windows open. Don't you think you ought to close the windows, I suggested. Begrudgingly, he complied, and the non-functioning air-conditioning worked just fine. "You're pretty demanding, ma'am," he concluded.

On my trip to the train station to return to Toronto, the driver was my little friend who didn't know his way around, the one who liked to say the names of the streets aloud. It was a fitting bon voyage for me but as nice he was, I just hope my girlfriend's car is like, so totally out of the shop next time I visit.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Sometimes the sins of the parents are visited on their children
by Rondi Adamson

I'm hooked on Court TV. And since early June I've been following California vs. David Westerfield, the trial of the 50-year-old engineer charged with the kidnap and murder of seven-year-old Danielle van Dam.

It is believed that Westerfield also raped the little girl, but her body was so decomposed when it was discovered -- a month after she disappeared -- that there could not be a charge. Westerfield, it is alleged, took Danielle from her home some time in the early hours of Feb. 2, assaulted her, killed her, put her body in his motorhome and took a trip to dump the blond Girl Guide like yesterday's trash. Westerfield has also been charged with a misdemeanour for possessing child pornography.

The trial is drawing to a close and will probably be sent to jury this week. If Westerfield is guilty, as DNA evidence indicates, he should at least be locked away forever, at most given the death penalty. One thing that may be considered a mitigating factor in the penalty phase of this trial, should Westerfield be convicted, is the relative role of Danielle's parents in her disappearance.

Brenda and Damon van Dam, it seems, have a "swinging" lifestyle, and the issue of whether that lifestyle should have been considered during the trial caused a furore in March. Many cried that it was an invasion of the van Dams' privacy, others said it was "irrelevant." Danielle, people said, was the victim of a random act of violence. It is an invasion of their privacy, but unfortunately, once your child goes missing, your privacy does as well.

What it is not, is irrelevant. According to U.S. crime statistics, under one per cent of the 850,000 children gone missing in 2001 were taken by total strangers. Samantha Runnion appears to be one of those rare cases. Most children are taken by a divorced parent and many by other relatives or family acquaintances. In other words, the decisions you make in terms of keeping your family together, and in terms of who you associate with, may haunt you -- and your child.

Judge William Mudd decided in favour of allowing some evidence of the parents' private life into the trial. And much of the testimony so far makes their neighbourhood of Sabre Springs seem like a regular "Peyton Place." We have Brenda and Damon, a good-looking pair in their late 30s, who, in spite of their wedding vows (and the fact that they had three children) saw fit to bring strangers home from bars for the purpose of wife-swapping. They smoked a lot of marijuana and had their sex parties in a locked- from-the-inside garage, presumably so their children couldn't accidentally stumble upon them in flagrante. Brenda, on the stand, told Westerfield's defence attorney that an evening during which she, her husband, and two other couples had group sex did not qualify as a "sex party." Denise Kemal, a friend of the van Dams, was defensive when it was suggested she had slept with two people other than her husband one night. "No," she said, "I only slept with one -- Damon."

The night Danielle was taken, Brenda was out partying with her girlfriends until 2 a.m. One witness testified that Brenda said of her and her boyfriend, "boy, I'd really like to take those two home." Brenda also, by many witness accounts, danced suggestively with Westerfield that night, though she denies it. Once home, Brenda did not check on her daughter but sat by as her husband "cuddled" with another woman. They had all smoked marijuana and had all been drinking. One of the doors was unlocked, the alarm system was tripped and their gate was open.

One theory as to Westerfield's alleged motivation is that he wanted to punish the van Dams for excluding him from their "fun," as he did not have a partner to bring to their garage get-togethers. It is not difficult to believe that Westerfield was titillated by their lifestyle. He also had good reason to speculate that he could get away with it, as there would be plenty of other suspects, given the number of low- lives and unsavoury characters the van Dams welcomed into their home.

Do not misunderstand. Brenda and Damon van Dam need compassion and sympathy, for not only have they lost their daughter, but they also must surely feel burdened by their choices. The only person who should be held responsible for the death of Danielle van Dam is whoever killed her. But these things are not always beyond our control. The greatest shame is that some of the van Dams' sins were visited on Danielle.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

A drink or smoke during pregnancy shouldn't get you all puffed up
by Rondi Adamson

Ken Livingstone, the mayor of London (England), found himself in the headlines recently for a reason unrelated to politics. At a party, he saw his pregnant girlfriend smoking, and intervened. Some sort of fight ensued and gossip columnists gleefully reported. A few months back, a pregnant Kate Moss caught it from the press and general public when she was photographed at a party with a drink in her hand.

And unknown women are judged. A six-months pregnant friend of mine, two weeks short of 41, recently found herself harangued by a waitress (who looked about 22) when she ordered a beer with lunch. She said, "Listen honey, I'm probably two decades older than you, I'm easily 10 times smarter than you and I have an ob-gyn. So I don't need advice from a waitress." She got her beer.

That we should intervene when we see a pregnant woman sniffing gallons of glue, shooting up heroin, guzzling cases of muscatel, smoking packs of cigarettes or bungee-jumping goes without saying. Yes, a woman's body is her own ... up to a point. But Livingstone's girlfriend was having one cigarette, and by all accounts it was the first one she'd had in weeks. Livingstone's behaviour proved he has some "control issues," not that he is a caring father.

Of course, smoking at any time, but especially during pregnancy, is stupid and self-destructive. Smoking is in no way good for you, is vulgar, costly, makes your teeth and fingers turn yellow, increases your chances of getting several diseases and gives you extra wrinkles.

Regular smoking during pregnancy increases chances of miscarriage and crib death, among other things. But there is no proof that a pregnant woman smoking, say, two cigarettes a month, especially when she is beyond the first eight weeks of her pregnancy, is putting her baby at risk.

Drinking, on the other hand, is not stupid or self-destructive. In moderation it is widely agreed to be beneficial to one's health.

And the hysteria around fetal alcohol syndrome is just that. Even the physicians who did the initial research and coined the term have said as much. The initial work, done by Ernest Abel and Robert Sokol in the early 1980s, seemed to suggest that even a drop of liquor during gestation would turn a baby into a slobbering, handicapped basket case. That became the received wisdom. The good doctors themselves, though, in 1991, issued a statement saying that "we now estimate that the incidence of FAS in the western world ... is about six times lower than our previous estimate." No one seems to have read that.

In studies since, Abel and Sokol have pointed out that FAS is most likely not related to drinking alone, but to combined factors, such as the mother's level of nutrition before and during her pregnancy, her education level, IQ, social class, previous health history, genetic susceptibility to disease, use of drugs and/or frequent smoking. In other words, if a pregnant woman drinks moderately, but also smokes, has an IQ of 80, eats a steady diet of meat and Cheetos and cohabits with a crack addict in a tenement in an inner-city, she is probably at a higher risk of giving birth to an FAS baby than is a pregnant woman who drinks a couple of glasses of wine a week, doesn't smoke, eats well, has an IQ of 125 and lives with her husband in an apartment on a nice enough street.

Well, duh.

No one knows what a safe amount of alcohol during pregnancy is. And if you want to err on the side of caution and not drink at all, more power to you. But even that is not a guarantee your child will be healthy. Preaching to a woman who has a drink or two during pregnancy is unseemly, especially as -- I would argue -- there are far worse things women do to their children after giving birth to them. Not breast-feeding them and sticking them in daycare are but two.

Anecdotal evidence alone should show us that light to moderate drinking during pregnancy is not a cause for concern. Most of our mothers drank during pregnancy. Mine had the occasional martini or brandy Alexander during all seven of hers. And none of us were born with that dreaded "low-birth weight" FAS fearmongers love to talk about.

Or were we? Four of us weighed nine pounds, three (including me) weighed in at 10. As mum likes to say, "I'm so glad I drank when I was carrying you all, because just imagine what you would have weighed otherwise."

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Welcome to Toronto: Sorry about the garbage, rats and politicians
by Rondi Adamson

Martha Stewart: Don't stir the pot before you try her recipes
by Rondi Adamson

Judging from the headlines, the news shows, the jokes about the possible feng-shuiing of death row and  crafts in the prison yard, the most important thing happening in the world right now is the ongoing investigation of Martha Stewart. My Lordy, it's splashed on the cover of bloody Newsweek. The possibility that the high profile CEO of Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia Inc. may have profited from insider trading has overtaken Arafat, Sharon, Osama, India and even JLo's divorce as today's top story. Most insider trading accusations get into very tiny print. But Stewart is not just a celebrity, she is an unprecedented phenomenon, and a woman.

People hate Stewart. I don't. The recipes in her popular magazine, contrary to the received wisdom, are not complicated and made up of foods no one but kings and gay men would want to eat. They are usually simple and healthy. Stewart's television show is uneven -- at times it seems like a parody of itself, but at other times you can actually learn something. A recent episode was devoted to pet care, something I found informative and hilarious to watch (as the ever calm Stewart gave a bath to a very concerned and not so calm kitten). Don't get me wrong. I seriously doubt Stewart bathes her own pets or does her own gardening or shopping. But that isn't the issue. People shred Stewart without ever having tried one of her recipes or listened to her speak. By many accounts, Stewart is not the most patient woman. And perhaps some of the glee out there is fuelled by people she snapped at while stirring one of her many pots.

What people don't get about her is her edge. They don't get the sarcasm in her voice -- even though her intonation never actually varies -- or the mockery in her eyes. They can't have seen her on David Letterman's Late Show where she willingly pokes fun at herself by reading Top Ten lists that take the mickey out of her entire persona. Stewart is a woman whose husband left her for a bimbo, and Stewart, apparently devastated, did the sensible thing. She took her hurt and anger and channelled them into linens, phyllo pastry, making decorative thumb tacks out of old buttons and becoming a millionairess many times over. You go, sister.

The centre of the current tempest in a teapot is under 4,000 shares of ImClone stock worth $228,000 U.S. To you and me that sounds impressive. To a woman worth hundreds of millions of dollars, it is insignificant. Consider the last large insider trading scandal in the late 1980s, where financiers were holding stock under hidden ownership and planting false rumours to help their cause and get rich. And here we have the already beyond-wealthy Stewart, who (maybe) heard from a friend that a certain stock might be in trouble and tried to avoid a loss. For the stock market to function properly, people need to act on information. Further, Stewart has been portrayed as the ultimate insider, when in fact she is not even a director at ImClone. What is being discussed is not years of conduct, but a single trade. Stewart has a good professional reputation, having stood by K-Mart when they declared bankruptcy.

So much of the anti-Stewartisms spring, I think, from snobbery. For Stewart has made tasteful housewares available to all through her inexpensive products. Having a nice livingroom is no longer something for a select few. She has succeeded in making life prettier for nearly all. Also, much anti- Stewart backlash comes from feminists who dislike what her very success seems to scream out: that looking after a home is something to take pride in. And, I suspect, a lot of women who feel mighty guilty about doing a bad job in their own kitchens aren't convinced Stewart is such a good thing.

The allegations -- and at this point that is all they are -- are serious. But even if they're true, put them in perspective. The focus should be on the person who may have told her secrets he shouldn't have, rather than on Martha who (maybe) did what most of us would have done.

I don't know if Stewart is guilty. But the notion that she may not be does not seem to have been entertained.

Martha Stewart stock has tumbled 34 per cent since the ImClone furor began and Stewart watchers, the ones who buy stock -- and not linens -- are worried and wondering how much she knew and when she knew it. But don't count Stewart out. Remember, Martha is a buy right now.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

Don't turn a blind eye when boys are sexually exploited by women
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - All people make a connection in their minds between sex and love. Except for men. Nah, I'm just kidding ... although reading about a recent legal decision in New Jersey could certainly give one that impression. However, I have been blessed with four brothers and I know from years of observation that they do have actual emotions, and a couple of the more evolved among them can even occasionally identify and quantify those emotions. And I'm sure my brothers aren't the only males out there with feelings.

Which makes last week's lenient sentencing of Pamela Diehl-Moore, the now 43-year-old New Jersey teacher accused of having a sexual relationship with one of her 13-year-old students, worthy of scrutiny and criticism. Many people in Diehl-Moore's community are angry that Judge Bruce Gaeta sentenced her to a mere five years' probation. "I really don't see the harm that was done here," the judge said. "And certainly society doesn't need to be worried." He also said the relationship may have helped the youngster "satisfy his sexual needs ... It's just something that clicked between two people beyond the teacher-student relationship."

I'll say. According to trial records, Diehl-Moore began inviting the boy, now 16, to her home during the spring of 1999. Over a period of six months, they carried on a "consensual" sexual relationship. Can a 13- year-old "consent" to sex with an adult? If the 13-year-old is male, apparently he can. For there can be little doubt that were Diehl-Moore male and the student a girl, Diehl-Moore would have been sentenced to prison, lest all hell break loose. The judge in this case seems to have fallen into the "nudge, wink" line of thinking, as though boys are by nature callous, as though somehow the fledgling emotional life and vulnerabilities of young males are not to be protected.

It is true that there are many teenagers, male and female, who would happily engage in sexual relations with certain adults. But that doesn't mean the adults should allow it to happen. It is also true that there is a difference between a 13-year-old and a 16-year-old. But we seem to forget that when the 13-year-old is male.

Consider the reaction five years ago when popular Tacoma, Washington teacher Mary Kay Letourneau became pregnant during an affair with one of her 13-year-old students. There was also a considerable nudge-wink chorus then, and she was given a short prison term. Even the victim's mother defended Letourneau. And it seems mere seconds after Letourneau was released, she became pregnant again by the same boy. She was subsequently locked away for a long time. Only now is Vili Fualaau, the father of Letourneau's second "family" (she already had four children with her husband) speaking openly about the negative emotional effects the relationship has had on him, not to mention that he became the father of two before he turned 16. Fualaau and his mother recently filed a lawsuit against their school district and local police for failing to protect him. (The jurors awarded the Fualaaus no damages, suggesting that perhaps Mrs. Fualaau was the one who ought to have been looking out for her son.)

There is currently considerable and justifiable outrage over the Catholic Church sex scandal. Boston Bernard Cardinal Law's failing memory -- his I-don't-recalls could challenge Bill Clinton's -- is reported on a regular basis. And every day it seems, another priest is accused, shot or kills himself. The priests in question have not behaved in a way very far off from Diehl-Moore or Letourneau. But because they engaged in relations many are uncomfortable even contemplating, we treat it like the outrage it is. No nudging or winking.

We are appalled that people in positions of trust took advantage while the church turned the other cheek. But the suicides of priests offer at least an indication that these people knew they had done something wrong. By all accounts, neither Diehl-Moore nor Letourneau thinks she has. In a way, it is difficult to blame the frisky teachers.

Reaction when an adult male has sex with a young girl or boy is one of outrage. But a grown woman with a young boy ... the prevailing sentiment seems to be that this is not a big deal.

Have we watched too many French films? I don't know. What I do believe is that if we start treating young males as though their emotional life matters, perhaps when they grow up they won't be so clueless when it comes to their own hearts.

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

When the creator joins the ranks of the politically correct
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - Alan Watts wrote that you "can't get wet from the word 'water.' " I wish the people at Zondervan Publishing House had thought about that before they capitulated to politically correct gender-equity loony-tunes, creating a new edition of their already popular New International Version Bible.

Zondervan is the world's largest publisher of Bibles and it has recently decided to replace words such as "men," "son," and "he" with words such as "people," "children," and "they" in its just released Today's New International Version New Testament. The complete "inclusive" version is planned for a 2005 release.

I hate that I agree with people like James Dobson, Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell on this topic, but I do. Dobson is a radio personality and psychologist who advocates swatting your children when they misbehave and, like Robertson and Falwell, has that patronizing "love the sinner, hate the sin" attitude about homosexuals.

True, Dobson's reason for railing against the changes in the Zondervan Bible are not the same as mine. In an interview in USA Today, he recently said that the new words "dilute the masculinity intended by the authors of Scripture." I wouldn't pretend to know what the authors of Scripture intended. But I think I'm more qualified to talk about this than Dobson and his posse because I do not believe in God. Therefore, I have no stake here, no romanticized, childlike notions about some guy in the sky who had his son killed to make up for our sins or who apparently made us in his image. Hard to believe when I look around me. As Woody Allen said in Love and Death, "You think God wears glasses?" (To which Diane Keaton replied "not with those frames.")

Organized religion is something I find tiresome, divisive and a hotbed of hypocrisy and violence. But for the openness and discussion allowed in Judaism and the vegetarianism of the Hare Krishna, little of it attracts me. So I am able to look at the Bible as exactly what it is: a book, a piece of fictionalized history with some magnificent poetry, worthwhile philosophy and cool ideas thrown in for good measure.

Ezra Pound called Ecclesiastes the most beautiful piece of poetry ever written (I concur) and I don't see how it could be improved by making the language in it gender-neutral. Would we make Shakespeare gender-neutral? Well, there are probably people out there who would, and, who, Horatio forbid, already have.

What I would say to them is what I've often said to feminist friends of mine (yes, I do have those, I just don't see them very often) who go all hormonal when someone says "he" in a story instead of "he or she": If you can be so profoundly traumatized, if you can be made to feel excluded, offended or lacking because of a pronoun, then you must have bigger problems to contend with in your life than a few measly gender-equity "issues." (Sweet Jesus, I hate that word). Run, don't walk, to your nearest therapist and work on that self-esteem.

Zondervan is actually an admirable holdout in the gender-equity wars, being one of the last to crumble. Even the usually gloriously intransigent Catholics have, in some North American congregations, used "inclusive" Bible versions, though the Vatican opposes that. But Zondervan's New International Version, with more than 150 million Bibles out there, is second only to the King James Version (which, praise be given, reads exactly as it did the day it first went to print in 1611) in terms of circulation, and therefore its newspeakisms are worth talking about.

A religious friend of mine (yep, I've got those, too), who also happens to have been indoctrinated into  pc-ism, told me he felt the changes could help communicate "biblical truth" to readers. Biblical truth? Isn't that something like "male sensitivity," "Canadian military" or "jumbo shrimp"? An oxymoron, I mean. According to Biblical truth, insects have four legs, bats are birds and Noah was able to get two of all the animals in the world (that's 50 million species, so 100 million critters) onto his ark in one day, even though even with the kind of boats and loading equipment we have today, that wouldn't be possible.

Which makes me wonder: If you can buy all of that, if you can check your IQ at the door and drop money into the collection plate, if you can suspend reality in such an impressive fashion, why on earth do you need "our Father" to be turned into "our Gender Neutral Parent Figure" or anything else?

Rondi Adamson is a Toronto freelance writer.
Copyright Ottawa Citizen 2002 All Rights Reserved.
 

No one ever said that fighting a war was going to be a picnic
by Rondi Adamson

TORONTO - That we should honour our soldiers and veterans, dead or alive, goes without saying. I am proud of the sacrifice my uncle made in the Second World War, being part of the D-Day invasion and, ultimately, giving his life at Falaise Gap in August 1944. I do my best to make sure he isn't forgotten. I am proud of my other uncles, who served as medics with our forces in Europe, also in the Second World War.

But the reaction to the deaths of four Canadian soldiers as the result of a friendly fire incident in Afghanistan almost a month ago was unprecedented. Even over the top. Not dignified, as soldiers deserve.

All four funerals were covered live on the major Canadian networks, as were the arrivals of the coffins beforehand and the memorial service afterwards. At the latter, our Governor General spoke and my brother asked, quite rightly, "Haven't the relatives of those poor guys suffered enough?"

Our reaction these past weeks stands in stark contrast to our apathy at the deaths of more than 100 Canadian soldiers in peacekeeping operations in the last 50 years. In the Balkans alone, more than 20 died, and some died from enemy fire. No funeral coverage, no governor general, no flag-waving or hysterical headlines.

I think there are two reasons for this. The first is that these four young men died in a friendly fire incident, not in battle. We have so overly romanticized our vision of ourselves as the great peacekeepers of the world (surely you've all seen the Heritage Moment about that? Excuse me while I choke back tears) that we don't like it when we have to admit that Canadian soldiers might actually be in a battle, or worse, be trying to kill someone.

Shortly after Sept. 11, the great military strategist Svend Robinson said that yes, perhaps Canadians