Women's mags: proof misery sells
by Rondi Adamson

        TORONTO - Like a repentant cattle rancher turned vegetarian,
Myrna Blyth appears to have turned on her former self. The retired editor of Ladies' Home Journal has written a book dishing scorn on women's magazines - "Spin Sisters: How the Women of the Media Sell Unhappiness and Liberalism to the Women of America."

        Ms. Blyth accuses an entire magazine genre of marketing anxiety
in order to perpetuate the myth of women as victims - and the fur's flying.

        Cosmopolitan's editor, Kate White, accused Blyth of "dragging
other people down with her self-loathing." Cindi Leive, of Glamour, said that Blyth was "trying to burn down the whole category of magazines." Ellen Levine, editor at Good Housekeeping, calls Blyth's condition "serious Ann Coulter envy."

        Meow.

        It is fair comment to point out that this book was written after
a successful career in the field the author condemns. I wouldn't pretend to know Blyth's motives. Or who she envies. But I'm certain she is right.

        Women's magazines fall into two categories, with occasional
overlap. There are the fluffy, and there are the fear-mongering - reflecting the bifurcated legacy of feminism:  be sexy while you file for divorce. The former fill their pages with eyeliner, Armani, and Beyonce's luscious curves. They are, I believe, harmless. The latter fill theirs with infidelity and infertility, and I cannot, for the unfulfilled life of me, see what good they do.

        My experience writing for several such magazines in Canada -
Chatelaine, Modern Woman, Flare, Homemaker's - confirm Blyth's claim that editors skew facts, court alarmism, and reject the positive. There's no better (seemingly bottomless) swamp to draw from than the one filled with insecurity and victimology that mainstream feminism has created. At times, I've played along - the pay's good. But one tires.

        Three years ago, I pitched what I felt was an empowering (to use
a word I hate) story to several women's magazines. I got the idea from my gynecologist, who, dismayed at my extreme fear of breast cancer, gave me a good talking to about what he termed "the breast cancer hysteria." The 1 in 9 statistic, he said, should read more like "1 in 9         if every woman on the planet lives to be 100." And three times out of four it will not be fatal, he said.

        I hoped to explore in this article the politics of the disease,
showing how the threat of breast cancer is disproportionate to the amount of attention and money it receives, and that attention takes away from other problems and, indeed, from the quality of life.

        Editor after editor rejected the idea with no comment, except
one at a magazine called Elm Street who snippily e-mailed: "There is no way this story can do anything but trivialize the plight of women with breast cancer."

        That this woman failed to see how condescending she was being to
her readers - as though females cannot grasp nuance - should not have surprised me. Ultimately, I wrote the piece for an online Libertarian magazine. This argument has been made elsewhere, notably in "PC, M.D.: How Political Correctness Is Corrupting Medicine," by Sally Satel, a Yale psychiatrist.

        On another occasion, an editor at Homemaker's hired me to write
a feature about the division of housework. I gathered up statistics and anecdotal evidence and found that men were helping and were particularly involved with childcare.

Madame Editor was grim. She told me to "find evidence" men didn't help, but not before going off on a rant about her second or third husband never having lifted a finger.

        She instructed me to interview a friend of hers whose husband
was "useless," and specifically told me to begin my piece with a description of this woman "having a meltdown." I attempted second and third drafts, neither of which conveyed sufficient misery for the editor. I gave up. The story appeared in the magazine, bylined by another, replete with meltdowns and lazy lunks, months later.

        Still another time, I proposed a story to several magazines. I
wanted to write about having a mother who was in her 40s when I was born. My focus was positive: about how much it benefited me and how close I am to my mum.  Homemaker's bit on the idea.

        I got back, with the first draft, a request that I add some
statistics about older mothers and birth defects, the "dangers" of old eggs, and that surely I could think of instances when my mother was "too exhausted" to play with me. I refused but was promised the story would run, nonetheless. It didn't. An e-mail and a call from me went unanswered by the magazine, so I sold the story to the Life section of a newspaper for Mother's Day.

        And that was the last time I bothered with women's magazines -
except to read them. But I go for the fluff. I'd rather read the story under the headline that says "Six Ways to Sexier Lips" than the one under "You're Going to Die Barren and Alone and Even If You Don't Your Husband will Probably Leave You" any day.

When embarking or disembarking a plane, or entering a foreign country, people ought to have the expectation of limited privacy. We expect, when we travel, that we will be asked questions, asked to show documents and possibly be searched. Since Sept. 11, 2001, this is not simply something we should expect, but something we should insist upon.

       But the implementation of US-VISIT last week, the new system by which many visitors to the United States will be photographed and biometrically fingerprinted, has not brought out the best in everyone. One Brazilian official made the requisite - and dumb - Nazi analogy and insisted that Americans in turn be fingerprinted when entering Brazil. This caused an American Airlines pilot to lift his middle finger when being photographed at São Paulo International Airport last week. (The emphatic pilot agreed to pay a $12,775 fine in exchange for not being charged.)

       Canadians are exempt from the fingerprinting unless traveling on certain kinds of visas. But previously able to visit the US with only a driver's license, Canadians, since Sept. 11, are now told it is "highly recommended" they bring along a passport. When you've had it easy, any condition can seem like a huge infringement.

       Fingerprinting carries with it any number of negative connotations, which may explain people's ire. But we are not on "Law & Order." And is it really such a violation? Where travel is concerned, I think I am knowledgeable, having lived in France, Japan, and Turkey and having traveled to many other countries. I was once even subjected to a grueling luggage search by El Al (including an interrogation and boot removal), fairly embarrassing at the time, but which ended with a cheerful apology from a cute soldier with a gigantic gun. I looked at it as a small price to pay for safety. El Al has not had a hijacking in more than 30 years.

       In the mid-1990s I worked in a Japanese car-part factory, not far from Mount Fuji. My second day there I spent a fast-paced morning at the local police station being photographed and fingerprinted for what was commonly referred to as my "gaijin card" (foreigner card.) Smack-dab on it was my fingerprint. I was told to take it everywhere and to hand it back to authorities when I left Japan for good. I do not remember feeling as though I had been robbed of my civil liberties.

       Perhaps this is because I had just arrived in Japan after teaching in an Istanbul high school. While my overall experience there was invaluable, it made me uncomfortable that the Turkish version of a gaijin card stated my religion. This I now think was far more a violation of my civil liberties than a fingerprint. After all, one leaves one's fingerprints everywhere, but whether anyone else should know my faith should be up to me, except under the most extreme of circumstances. But when in Rome....I filled my card out and showed it at borders and airports, and in other places on the odd occasion I was asked to show it.

       The US-VISIT system avoids the randomness of what I experienced overseas. By fingerprinting citizens of certain countries across the board, the possibility that persons will be singled out by ethnicity is avoided. By checking against terrorist watch lists, Americans are safer - as are tourists and foreign workers within US borders.What should concern us is just how effective US-VISIT will be. A two-month test program in Atlanta caught 21 people (out of 20,000) wanted on various charges, including rape and immigration fraud, so surely this system can limit crime. But will it prevent another Sept. 11?

       What's certain is that no measure is perfect. US-VISIT is a reasonable response to circumstances brought about in 2001.We have been forced to try out new tactics and forced, sadly, to forfeit trust. And that is what we need to remember as we curse the airport lineups and biometric screens - the ease with which people used to travel has been taken away by Osama bin Laden, not Tom Ridge or George Bush.

With a simplicity that might make the Democratic candidates for 2004 turn green, Canada will get - sans primaries or being yelled at by Chris Matthews - a new leader on Friday. Paul Martin, Canada's former finance minister, was crowned - with virtually no competition - the new head of the Liberal Party in mid- November. He takes over as Prime Minister Jean Chrétien steps down after 10 (it seemed like more) years.

       Mr. Martin is not required to call an election until 2005 but will probably not wait that long. It is doubtful he'll lose, as there is no effective opposition to the seemingly always in power Liberal Party.

       Still, the change in leaders represents, if not a sea change in policy, then at least a change in style. Martin is mature and diplomatic, less fractious than Mr. Chrétien. But as he has had little opposition within or outside his party, he has not been required to say much regarding his beliefs. One thing he has said, though, is that improving US-Canada relations will be a priority.

       Not that that should be difficult after the climate of overt hostility created by Chrétien. Under Chrétien's leadership, a federal politician referred - publicly - to Americans as "bastards," and his communications director called President Bush a "moron." All to the obvious delight of many Canadians. Chrétien blamed Sept. 11 on Western - aka American - "greed" and his transport minister, David Collenette, publicly mourned the passing of the Soviet Union because there'd be no one around to check American "bullying."

       Were that not enough, Chrétien gleefully told NATO leaders that "I make it my policy" not to do what the United States wants. So there. He also shook the hand of the Malaysian Prime Minister Mahathir Mohamad, shortly after the latter made his infamous anti-Semitic comments in October.

       Chrétien and Martin have had their own share of conflict, culminating in Martin's being booted out of the federal Cabinet in 2002. (Chrétien said Martin quit. Martin maintains he was fired.) The official line was that the two men could no longer work together, but comments about Chrétien's "megalomania" did get bandied about. Chrétien was said to be angry that - according to him - Martin was already angling for the job of Liberal Party leader.

       Regardless, during Martin's term as finance minister, Canada recorded five consecutive budget surpluses and erased a $42 billion deficit. (Prior to his involvement in politics, Martin, the son of another Liberal Party politician, was a success in the private sector, as chairman and CEO of Canada Steamship Lines.)

       The cost-cutting was done at the expense, in large part, of the Canadian military, such as it is or was. But Martin's choices most likely came from the overall spirit of the government he was serving. While Canada does have troops in Afghanistan, Chrétien, after much waffling, announced two nights before the start of the war in Iraq that Canada would give no support there.

       A recent report from Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, suggests that Canada couldn't have offered much anyway, and that in 10 years, without reprioritizing, Canada will not have a military at all. Currently, Romania has more power and influence than Canada does. The electorate, however, doesn't seem worried. As primary beneficiary of America, its neighbor, Canada has the privilege of luxuriating in social programs while the US spends on weapons and sacrifices lives. Martin has promised nothing regarding Iraq, but has said he will increase defense spending. He has also expressed enthusiasm for the missile defense shield endorsed by President Bush.

       Another of the few things Martin has already committed to is improving border security in order to quell US concerns about what are perceived to be Canada's lax immigration and refugee policies. He has intimated he will, toward this end, develop an office similar to the US Homeland Security Department. Whether it will be color-coded remains to be seen, but it's a step in the right direction.

       Martin has called the deportation to Syria by the US of Syrian-born Canadian citizen Maher Arar "unacceptable." Mr. Arar, arrested in 2002 at JFK, was traveling on a Canadian passport and, now returned to Canada, says he was tortured in Syria. Martin says he would not rule out an inquiry into the case.

       Other common issues of concern are softwood lumber and the mad-cow scare. Canadian lumber producers must contend with a 27 percent tariff, despite rulings from groups involved with both NAFTA and the WTO taking Canada's side on this matter. And, since one Canadian cow was found to be infected with mad-cow disease earlier this year, Canadian beef producers have lost more than $3 billion. Though cross-border shipments of steaks, burger patties, and roasts have almost returned to pre-panic levels, shipments of live cattle are still being slowed.

       There seems little doubt that most of this smoke can be cleared away fairly quickly if Martin douses the fires created by his predecessor.

       Days after taking over the Liberal Party leadership, he made a comment to the effect that he wouldn't let Washington push him around. But you have to say stuff like that if you want to lead Canada. It doesn't mean you have to behave childishly.

       That giant gush of air you might feel Friday could be several million Canadians breathing a sigh of relief that their new prime minister at least won't embarrass them. We Canadians can be fairly sure we won't see Paul Martin shaking Mahathir Mohamad's hand or stamping his feet. As another Canadian, Shania Twain, sings, the only way is up from here.

       There are those days when -- lost in a sea of debt and worry -- one feels one is a failure. But then there are those days when -- looking at things from a fresh perspective -- one knows without a doubt that one is a failure.

       Last week I read that my former classmate, Mabel Wisse Smit, was set to become a princess.Yes, a princess. Tiaras, carriages, state visits, dowdy suits, great big hats and all. And not of some cut-rate little kingdom like Luxembourg or Liechtenstein, nor of some country where the king rides a bicycle and does his own grocery shopping (like my mother's country, Norway), nor of some country from which the royal family is in exile, spending their days on the Riviera, waiting for whatever regime chased them out to crumble (too many to name). Mabel is set to marry Prince Johan Friso of the Netherlands, the second son of Queen Beatrix. She will be, by marriage, a member of the royal family of a country that behaved nobly during the Second World War, that is at once square and hip, that has brought us great chocolate, beautiful flowers and brilliant painters. That's not too shabby.

       Many full moons in Paris ago -- 1986 -- I was enrolled in a French course at the Sorbonne. It was designed for foreigners and mostly filled with young adult girls. Our teacher was Madame Amzallag, an elegant Frenchwoman who had once lived in Texas. We all found it difficult to picture Madame in Texas. Imagine Fanny Ardant home on the range. I was the only Canadian in class. There was one girl from Chicago and one from Yugoslavia, of whom I have painful memories. With the face of an angel she would stress to us that she was Serbian, not Yugoslav. And she was disgusted with how her country was being "overrun" by gypsies, Muslims and so forth, all of whom, she would say, unselfconsciously, in her beautifully broken English, were "breedink like the rabbits." Ms. Chicago and I would cringe when she spoke like this, wondering what it all meant. Sadly, we found out what it all meant a few years later.

       There were assorted others from Italy, Switzerland, the U.K., Israel, Mexico, Greece, even Ethiopia, a mess of Germans and two from the Netherlands. One of the Dutch girls was Mabel Wisse Smit, whom I remember because a) I have an appallingly good memory (no matter how hard I try there is much I cannot forget) and b) I thought she had the most excellent first name ever. Even now "Mabel" is on my shortlist for a daughter's name.

       Most of us worked as au pair girls. This meant that in the morning we memorized Saint Amant and Villon and complicated points of French grammar; that in the afternoon we got yelled at by Frenchwomen because we screwed up the vinaigrette or -- quelle horreur -- ate peanut butter in front of the children; and that in the evening we got drunk, got lovesick and missed our parents. Perhaps surprisingly, the world-class partiers in the class were not the Dutch. That distinction went to the Germans; some of us would joke that if you could no longer jackboot your way across Europe, there were other ways to crush and conquer.

       Mabel has been described as a "lauded human rights worker." My clearest memory of her was a day when the Ethiopian girl was giving a presentation about Ethiopian cuisine. Mabel spent the entire talk giggling and whispering with our other Dutch classmate. I gather that was before she learned about the human right of Third World citizens to be listened to when they're discussing the food of their people. I believe that's in the Geneva Convention.

       But no matter. She has put me to shame. A brief comparison of Mabel's life with mine makes that clear. Mabel has been linked to Klaas Bruinsma, a Dutch drug kingpin. I once dated a guy who took a lot of drugs. She admits to spending nights on his luxury boat. I once dated a guy who liked to canoe. Bruinsma was murdered in 1991. I have wanted to murder people. Mabel, it is rumoured, "liaised" with the then-married Mohamed Sacirbey, Bosnia's ambassador to the United Nations (now accused of embezzling from Bosnia's UN mission). I once dated a guy named Mohamed. Famous French do-gooder Bernard Kouchner wrote an open letter defending Mabel when her past became public and created problems for her. One of my exes has agreed to be a job reference for me. Mabel was the executive director of the Open Society Institute. I once dated a guy who was fired as executive director of something. Mabel helps children who've had limbs blown off in war. I once dated a guy who only had one eye. Mabel is often described in the press as "a beautiful, blond idealist." I'm blond. And I look OK sometimes. And when my sister uses our mother's handicapped licence to park in a handicapped spot I shake my head and tell her to "at least pretend to have a limp."

       Mabel is going to marry a prince. Mabel's prince loves her so much he gave up his right to be king when his fiancee's history made headlines and upset the Dutch. Consequently, she may not get to be called "Princess Mabel."

       Gosh! Who's really the failure here? Good thing we never stayed in touch. Of all the royal weddings I get invited to, that's one I'd be ashamed to attend.

An Islamic court in Nigeria's northern city of Katsina is expected to hand down its decision on the appeal of Amina Lawal Thursday. Ms. Lawal was sentenced in March 2002 under Islamic law - or sharia - to be buried up to her neck in sand and stoned to death for committing adultery. The carrying out of her sentence was postponed until next January so she could nurse her baby (sharia gets some things right) and Lawal's lawyer used the time to appeal.

       Sharia exists in varying degrees across the Muslim world. There are fairly open, nuanced versions, where a stoning or a beheading would be rare, and there is the rigidity of Saudi Arabia or northern Nigeria, where the majority of the population is Muslim. In countries with secular governments, sharia codes can be adopted by Muslims as a matter of personal choice, much like biblical teachings here in the West.

       Nigeria's southern states are predominantly Christian, and President Olusegun Obasanjo is a Christian. He has said that his government would not dispute the rights of the north to do as it sees fit. He has received, in previous elections, support from northern Nigeria. Still, he cannot be indifferent to international outrage over Lawal's case.

       But where is that outrage - particularly on our side of the planet? Almost three years ago, a teenage single mother in Nigeria was sentenced to - and received - 100 lashes for adultery. The publicity surrounding her case was extensive. While Amnesty International and women of the African National Congress have petitioned Mr. Obasanjo and marched for Lawal, what have women's groups, such as NOW been doing? The latter issued a press release, and - in its characteristically misplaced sense of equality - expressed concern that "clearly, a man participated in this and yet only Amina Lawal faces death." The Feminist Majority Foundation have been more vocal about Lawal, but other groups, as well as news shows and op-ed pages, have focused on Arnold Schwarze negger's "misogyny" and 24-hour coverage of the absurd Ten Commandments spectacle in Alabama.

       Since the Sept. 11 attacks, we in the West have, I believe, been emasculated when it comes to touching Islam. It is good, of course, that efforts have been made not to demonize an entire faith. No one wants a repeat of the internment of Japanese-Americans, for example. But these past two years have seen something different. A much-reprinted article - particularly on political websites - concerning Lawal, written by two leaders of the Nigerian group Baobab for Women's Human Rights, states that "dominant colonialist discourse and the mainstream international media have presented Islam (and Africa) as the barbaric and savage Other. Please do not buy into this."

       One must agree it is wrong to suggest that Muslims are all primitive. But to say that what might happen to Lawal has nothing to do with Islam is like suggesting the Crusades had nothing to do with Christianity, or the Holocaust nothing to do with Germans.

       This multicultural nonjudgmentalism almost amounts to Western self-loathing - a refusal or reluctance on our part to call out anything negative beyond our shores. It was evident in the "peace" movement earlier this year which suggested we have no "right" to bother with anything outside our borders because we are not perfect ourselves, and that imperfection, it is asserted, brought about Sept. 11.

       A painful display of this was the reaction to the riots over last December's Miss World contest in Nigeria. Not only was attention diverted from Lawal's case, but renowned Jurassic-feminists such as Germaine Greer and Glenda Jackson blamed the uproar on the horrors of pageants - rather than on the intolerance of Islamic fundamentalism.

       It goes without saying that a culture responsible for "Sex and the City" and McDonalds is flawed. But does that make us blind or impotent? One hopes not.

       Sharia is only one aspect of Islam, but it is very real. Ask Amina Lawal. She is being tried under the intolerant influence of what the West faces - hers is one part of a war we all face between free thought and fundamentalism.

       In the 1990s I had the great fortune to teach high school in Istanbul. Some of my Turkish students stay in touch with me. Earlier this year I received an e-mail from one telling me of a stoning in southeastern Turkey. An unmarried pregnant woman, Semse Allak, had been killed to restore the "honor" of her family. In some ways, Turkey is more secular than Canada or the US - but regional influences there allow premedieval realities to rear their ugly heads. Shortly before Ms. Allak's funeral in June, Turkey's parliament approved a bill that, among other things, forced judges to impose full sentences for honor killings.This legal change was made as part of Turkey's effort to secure acceptance into the EU - which indicates that external pressure does make a difference.

       Think what that external pressure could do for Amina Lawal if her stoning sentence is upheld Thursday.

Shortly after the war in Afghanistan began, I appeared on a Canadian TV show, in which a caller opined that George W. Bush was acting "just like John Wayne, just like a cowboy."Now, I could, and maybe should, have pointed out that there's nothing wrong with acting like John Wayne, or for that matter, like a cowboy. Instead, I mumbled something about Mr. Bush having waited a month after Sept. 11 before beginning operations in Afghanistan, hardly a hair-trigger response.

       "The Searchers," arguably the greatest American movie of the 20th century, was a Wayne vehicle.   Other great Wayne westerns include "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" and "Rio Bravo."  But people snicker when you defend the western genre, largely out of snobbery and ignorance, the same reasons the term "cowboy" inspires such contempt.And cowboys were - and are, for those who remain - an integral part of American history, vital to the development of the Southwest and among America's most hardworking and underappreciated. And, like most things purely American, they were anything but, having roots elsewhere.

       When Spanish conquerors in Mexico "hired" Mexican Indians to work on their ranches, much of the imagery we know was born - broad-brimmed hats (sombreros) to protect them from the sun, chaparejos (chaps) to protect them from cacti, la reata (which became a lariat) and, ultimately, the original idea of a brave man facing the elements. The vaqueros lived lonely lives and tended herds, as would the original American cowboys, the men who drove cattle to the railheads in Texas in the mid-19th century.

       American cowboys were, like all things American, ethnically diverse - a fact perhaps not reflected enough in the picture we have of them. And, on the frontier of the time, a cowboy's enemies included not only nature but also Indians trying to protect their hunting grounds. A cowboy may have wanted to simply do his job and live in peace, but he rarely was granted that privilege. In short, cowboys were not only not so bad, they were good. Think of some of the historical and cultural clichés one could aim at other nations.

       Let's start with my own people, Canadians. I would much rather be called a "cowboy" than a coureur de bois. The latter were unlicensed fur traders in 17th-century Canada, who stimulated the fur trade, but also helped deplete the beaver population and introduced liquor to our Indians. Their intentions may have been good, but....

       And what of the French? What if everyone went around calling Jacques Chirac a "Jacobin," conjuring up images of beheaded members of the French aristocracy and people stabbed in their bathtubs? "Oh, Chirac, he's such a Jacobin," we could chuckle, as he uttered yet another condescending, anti-American comment, accompanied by an impressive Gallic shrug. Better yet, what if we called Mr. Chirac a "mime"? "Oh, that Jacques, there he goes, walking against the wind again!" Mind you, the idea that Chirac might actually stop speaking is unthinkable.

       And Gerhard Schröder? Oy. I wouldn't know where to begin. We could call him a "Vandal," or a "Visigoth" or ... well, there are some 20th-century German stereotypes I can think of. But Silvio Berlusconi took care of that earlier this summer. So again, "cowboy" wins out.

       What I like about Bush is the straight talking, the refreshingly open crankiness, the lack of pretense. Even when he mispronounces something, I find it infinitely preferable to the Clinton-era debate about the definition of "is" or of "sex." Bush may not be a scholar, but I suspect even a cowboy knows what both of those words mean. So when, in June, he suggested he would appoint a coordinator to "ride herd" on the Middle East peace process, and BBC commentators went wild, alternately mocking the president and calling his comment "patronizing," all I could think was, get along, little dogies! Do we not want someone keeping the herd in line along that trail to Middle Eastern utopia?

       And perhaps the best defense George W. Bush could use against the Euro-snobs, and his own cowboy-phobic citizens, would be to say as much. "I'm a cowboy? And? What's your point?" Of course, if he did that, people would dismiss it as "typical cowboy talk."

It seems odd to tell people they are now free, under the law, to have
romantic and sexual relationships, but that others would prefer that
they still can't get married. Even after 5, 10, 20, 30 years together.
Such is the current reality facing homosexuals in the US.

    The Supreme Court ruling in Lawrence v. Texas last month gave
homosexuals a boost to their right to live a private life as they see
fit, while at the same time highlighting in what way that right stands a
little bit short of the finish line.

    Gay marriages are legal in Belgium and the Netherlands, and were
recently legalized in the Canadian province of Ontario. Other provinces
have followed suit, and Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chrétien has
announced he will draft a bill giving legal recognition to same-sex
marriages throughout Canada. In the US, only Vermont recognizes "civil
unions" between same-sex couples, giving them many of the same rights
and responsibilities as married couples, but calling this rose by another
name. Opponents of gay marriage may ask, what's in a name, after all?
Large corporations increasingly are offering benefits to gay partners,
and more and more communities are seeing firsthand that the gay couple
next door with the 2.3 kids and the Lab and the minivan is not unlike
their own family.

    Surely relative acceptance and "commitment ceremonies" and shared
health insurance ought to be enough, no?

    Well, no. If someone decided blue-eyed people couldn't have
"marriage," but would be marginalized with only a "civil union," I'd be
mighty angry. Because there is growing evidence suggesting that gay
people no more choose to be gay than I chose to have blue eyes.

    But our governments are here - in theory, anyway - to represent all
of us, to give all constituents equal importance, to give us equal
rights. Which makes Senate majority leader Bill Frist's comments
supporting an amendment to the Constitution banning same-sex marriages
puzzling. "I very much feel that marriage is a sacrament," said the
Tennessee Republican.

    As far as I know, marriage is a sacrament only in the Roman
Catholic, High Anglican, and Eastern Orthodox churches. Protestants
generally don't regard it as such. And what of the many US citizens who
are Sikh, Jewish, or Muslim? What about atheists? Will their marriages
not be recognized?

    Western nations are supposed to be secularly run societies, living
by a separation of church and state. For a church to refuse to recognize
gay marriage is its own business, and ought to be respected. But if you
don't like it, don't join that church. Or join another. I see no
contradiction in a society where both gay marriage and freedom to voice
opposition to gay marriage coexist.

    I often feel the natural place for a gay person is on the right.
Conservatives should be all about an individual's right to his or her
own life, his or her own business, without the interference of
hypersensitive, offended others. And it follows that true conservatives
ought to support gay marriage, particularly those partial to family
values. It's difficult to argue that society doesn't benefit from stable
relationships. And what better way to encourage stable relationships
than to support gay marriage? It is hard not to snicker at the idea that
same-sex marriages would threaten straight ones. We straight people in
Canada and the US have done a good job of bringing the divorce rate
close to 50 percent all on our own. Rather than weaken straight
marriages, gay marriages may strengthen them.

    Being gay is not, I imagine, simply about sex. When a gay man
mentions his boyfriend, he's not flaunting his sexuality, as the accusation often goes, any more than I am when I mention mine. Being a homosexual is, I would guess, about most of the things being a heterosexual is about,
including the pain and joy of being in love.

    And why, oh why, should only straight people suffer through the
family fights, expense, pettiness, grudges, and stress of planning a
wedding?

        Last week it was determined that the pilots involved in the
friendly-fire deaths of four Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan would not
be court-martialed. The news was greeted the way most things involving
our relationship with the United States are here: with hyperbole and
paranoia. There were the predictable "they got away with murder"
comments. Murder? Manslaughter, maybe. There were even those who
suggested the big, bad US was punishing Canada for our lack of support
for Operation Iraqi Freedom. Did I mention paranoia?

    Canadians have a "bland" rep. We are bland ... but also whiny,
particularly when the cool kids ignore us. When George Bush gave his
speech to Congress after Sept. 11, and neglected to specifically thank
Canada for its support, the "snub" made headlines. It did not seem to
occur to us that a country under attack might have other concerns.

    The decision not to court martial, looked at realistically and not
through hysteria-colored glasses, is sensible. It is highly unlikely the
US pilots, if court-martialed, would be found guilty. A not guilty verdict
would allow them a future of promotions and flying. Convicting a pilot
in wartime of manslaughter is tantamount to convicting a driver at
LeMans of speeding. The general who made the choice against
courts-martial said the pilots would face punishments decided
"administratively." In Canadian newspapers, this has been portrayed as a
slap on the wrist. But it is a slap likely to keep both pilots from
flying again.

    Canadian reaction to this event has been a drop in the bucket
compared with the fury that followed the actual deaths of the soldiers.
Coverage of their funerals was undignified (at least by Canadian
standards of hype). Their remains were dragged across TV screens as
every politician who could, managed a sound bite. The deaths of four
young men doing their job - a job where death is a real risk - were used
as political fodder for anti-American ax wielders.

    A prominent Canadian politician expressed her "rage" at how we are
"taken for granted" by the US. One could suggest that we take America for
granted, as we will have to depend on the US for help should we be
threatened.

    More than 100 Canadian soldiers have died in peacekeeping operations
in the past 50 years, some from enemy fire. No over-the-top funeral
coverage for them, no politicians, little media. But those 100 did not
die at the hands of Americans. Prime Minister Jean Chrétien, commenting
on the decision not to prosecute the pilots said: "I'm not in a position
to comment on systems of justice in another nation."

    Rare shyness from a man, who, only a month ago, criticized the
deficits posted by the "right wing" Bush administration. "I'm a Canadian
Liberal; he [Bush] is a Southern conservative," said Mr. Chrétien, going
on to enumerate differences of opinion between the two men.

     But, our generous leader added, "that has nothing to do with him
personally." Chrétien granted that Bush was one of the few world leaders
with whom he could talk baseball.

    The message was clear. And it is a reflection of what your average
Canadian will tell you. We are pretty smart and sophisticated, while you
are nothing but a bunch of redneck, gun-toting warmongers. In the past
year, a Canadian member of parliament and an aide to our prime minister
have, respectively, called Americans "bastards" and Bush "a moron."

    This smug attitude has been magnified on "Talking to Americans," a
segment of a popular Canadian comedy show in which a "reporter" goes to the US to show the stupidity of Americans by asking them questions such as who our prime minister is, or what our national bird is. The silliest answers would be broadcast - like that of the man at Harvard sandbagged by the question of whether the seal slaughter in Saskatchewan should be stopped. His compassionate answer: "Yes." It was funny, of course, as would be something called "Talking to Mexicans," but we wouldn't mock Mexicans.

    In fact, a 2001 poll by Canada's Dominion Institute revealed that
Americans knew their own history and civics far better than did
Canadians. But we don't dwell on that up here.

    An American friend of mine - living in Canada - says that in the US,
greed is acceptable but envy is a sin. In Canada it is just the opposite.
I would suggest that envy is our national sport. And no one inspires
more envy in us than our southern neighbor. It is a shame, because any
legitimate gripes we may have about America get lost in a sea of
childish wolf-crying.

    Hillary Clinton and Martha Stewart are both driven, powerful,
talented, blondish women. Both have suffered marital woes, both have one daughter. Both find their every move vivisected. With so much in common, it's odd how far apart public perceptions of them are.

    Martha, indicted Wednesday in connection with an insider trading
scandal, has been demonized. And even before her legal woes began, her
leftover Hanukkah-candle bikini waxes were fodder for comics everywhere, a unifying factor in a world of conflict. Feminists derided her for the double whammy: making women feel inferior if they couldn't keep up with her horrifying combination of skill and energy, and suggesting - oh, the humanity - that looking after a home might be a worthwhile pursuit.

    Hillary is about to release her mightily remunerated autobiography,
"Living History," the cover of which looks like a self-titled debut
album. But she's no frivolous entertainer, of course. She's devoted
herself to worthwhile causes - her husband's career, her career - not
silly nonsense like baking cookies and hosting teas. She has made that abundantly clear.

    And overall, she has been treated generously, kindly, even fawningly
at times, by the same crowd who gleefully tear into poor Martha. To be
sure, Hillary has her critics, but the attacks on her nowhere near
approach the vilification Martha has suffered - unjustly, I feel. And
the curious combination of victim/aggressor Hillary appears to go
mind-bogglingly unchallenged.

    Breathless celebrities extol Hillary's value as a role model for
young women, but only occasionally will someone uncomfortably admit they like Martha. Had I a daughter, I don't know how I'd feel about her
looking up to the former first lady. To willingly continue in a marriage
where you're routinely humiliated as your husband gropes about outside
your marriage is an odd thing to emulate. Hillary may well have her
reasons for sticking it out with Bill. There can't be any question
they're devoted to (now adult) Chelsea, but surely children are better
off not living a lie.

    It has been suggested that Hillary's primary motive for hanging on
to the mister has to do with ambition and appearance. I have nothing
against ambition, per se. But when it comes at such a high price?
Hillary, sadly, fits in well with the world of victimology women have
created for themselves. They love her, perhaps, because they can relate
- for all our progress, we still can make stupid choices and then blame
others for our unhappiness.

    In "Living History," Hillary claims shock and betrayal when Bill
confessed to the Lewinsky affair. Is she being disingenuous, or is love truly blind (and deaf and dumb), or is a Yale education not worth much?

    Martha, on the other hand, liberated from her philandering husband,
forged on alone and created an empire. It's true, her divorce was
acrimonious. But there's something more authentic, refreshingly human,
about Martha's reactions to betrayal, particularly when compared with
Hillary's Stepfordesque, tight-lipped denials and buck-passing.

    Throughout the ImClone scandal, Martha has so far not blamed anyone,
saying the justice system will prove her innocent. Part of Martha's
image problem might be jealousy, or the class factor.

    Where the Clinton marriage has been parodied as a trailer park saga,
Martha's life, on the surface, looks like a John Cheever story. In
reality she's the hard-working daughter of immigrants. She has a good
deal of humor about herself, too, something she rarely gets credit for.
Before the ImClone scandal, she regularly read disparaging Top Ten lists
about herself on David Letterman's Late Show. She has also always been
beautiful - since her teen modeling days. We've seen Hillary, on the
other hand, through big glasses, mousy hair, headbands, and frumpy gowns - mistakes most of us have made.

    That may give credence to what I've long thought: Feminism has
liberated men in a much greater way than women. While men are freed from many of their previous responsibilities and expectations, women are
still at each other's throats, and we still hate the Prom Queen.

Apparently, I am not alone. An e-mail survey of friends revealed all kinds of driving angst. The No. 1 fear was making left turns, followed by freeway driving, parallel parking, going through intersections, and various kinds of lane changes. Hamish, in his late 40s, describes parallel parking as "torture" and "proof that I'm in touch with my feminine side, since it seems I have no spatial reasoning. Whenever I'm finished a parallel park I'm convinced I've got about an inch in front and behind and beside me to move, and then I get out and see I'm three feet away from the curb with plenty of room between my car and the others."

A girlfriend in her late 30s calls left turns her equivalent of a World War One foxhole, as in "there are no atheists in foxholes," or for that matter, at intersections where you're turning left. "It's something that if I absolutely can't avoid I'll do, but once it's done I have to turn into the nearest gas station or mall and just slow down my breathing." One of my brothers complains of the overwhelming feeling of nausea that comes over him when other cars pass him ... only he means when they pass him coming from the other direction in the opposite lane.

Toronto psychiatrist Dr. Irvin Wolkoff says that driving-related fears are not peculiar. "You'd have to be pretty creative to come up with a reason to be afraid of socks. But there's no creativity required in being afraid of any aspect of driving. It's dangerous out there." Fear of left turns or freeways, says Wolkoff, are completely logical. "Think of what's going on with a left turn or out on the highway. One second of distraction and you could be roadkill."

Sy Cohn, the Driving Therapist, whose Web site, http://www.phobiafree.com, offers a haven for those plagued by driving-related phobias, treats people in person and over the phone from his home in Southern California. Cohn -- who worked as a professional driving instructor for years -- is a licensed marriage and family therapist and has been helping people since 1964 "in the car and at the office," as his site says, to overcome all kinds of anxiety, including obsessive-compulsive disorders and post-traumatic stress issues. Cohn makes house calls and does phone sessions, and his site is the hub of an international (from countries as far afield as Australia, the U.K., Canada and the U.S.) online support group.

He also offers a Survival Kit, which consists of CDs, affirmations (examples: "I am a good, safe driver," "I now have the white light around me and the car for protection") and a video. With the help of his South American wife, Maria Andrade, he also offers bilingual consultations. For in-car work, Cohn will have people go over and over whatever intersection or stretch of road scares them. And then he will have his charge stop for a few minutes and do relaxation exercises. "That way they'll develop a more positive association with being in a car."

Cohn says that left turns, intersections in general and freeways seem to be the biggest bogeymen in the minds of his clients, "but I see all kinds of things." He also says there is no one reason for people's road fears. "Some people are good drivers who have never had an accident, but they have panic attacks. Some people have had accidents when they were at the wheel or when someone else was.

There's no set answer."

Well, almost no set answer. "There wouldn't be a need for therapists," says Cohn, "if there wasn't such a powerful human resistance to change." That, he says, is behind most people's anxieties, be they on the road, in the workplace, in their living room or anywhere else.

"Usually when I treat people for a driving phobia, I'll find that recently there's been some kind of big change in their lives. And that doesn't mean a bad one. People will also resist positive change, healthy relationships and so forth, if they are accustomed to the opposite. And that can show up behind the wheel."

One of Cohn's success stories, Susan Melanson, found that phone sessions with Cohn (she lives in Oahu, Hawaii) helped her overcome her fear of freeway driving, but not without a few tears first.

"There were some underlying psychological problems ... and we worked through them." She now finds freeway driving "exhilarating, not frightening," and confesses she tends toward a heavy foot.  Some 20 years ago, Cohn saw a need for driving therapy "since no one else was addressing these things." And, he says, there is nobody he's ever seen that he couldn't help. "The only requirement I have is that they really want help."

He doesn't promise a cure, though. "I can help you manage and handle your anxieties, but if I cured you of all that you feel, you'd probably have to have a lobotomy or be in a coma. You can't 'cure' people of their feelings. It is a question of seeing things with new eyes, of changing your mind." At any rate, concludes Cohn, there's no shame in your fears. "People with these phobias generally have higher than average intelligence, are perfectionist and very hard on themselves."

Tom Furlong, the regional director for Nova Scotia's Young Drivers of Canada schools, concurs with Cohn about "curing" people. "You teach them to manage their phobia if they can't conquer it," he says. "One way is for a driver to plan a different route or to avoid driving at certain times of day or to select their lanes early on. I've seen people drive around the block 27 times rather than parallel park, and if it's that big a problem, then fine, just don't parallel park." Furlong says that many drivers with fears simply weren't taught to drive correctly in the first place. "Then you just have to break things down for them into little segments which eventually they can put all together."

Echoing Wolkoff, he says, "It makes perfect sense to fear a left turn in traffic." Furlong has seen, he says, his share of "drivers with death grips on the wheel. And that's another problem. People think if they don't hang on tight the car will spin out of control. It's a question of teaching them they control the car, not the other way around."

One thing is certain, says Furlong (whose 85-year-old mother still drives, though "selectively"). Most young drivers who come into his school have no fears. "They haven't had enough experience to develop any." But, he says, he sure sees it in people who have been around the block a few times.

Copyright National Post 2002 All Rights Reserved.

So three weeks ago she set up the Web site with its plain-speaking tag line "Save Karyn! Help her pay off her credit card debt!" On the site's home page is the admonition that says it all, "Credit cards are bad!" A letter from Karyn explaining how she "got into this mess" says that when she sank into credit card hell she was "actually helping out the economy." She points out that she is "really nice" and admits that there is nothing in it for us if we help her, except perhaps a boost in our general karma.

In one section, frequently asked questions are answered. Question one is "Is your site for real?" It is, she says, and yes, in answer to another question, her debt has been consolidated. In sections like "The Daily Buck" and "Weekly Update," Karyn tells visitors to her site about ways she has saved money -- giving up on her previous frivolous ways (buying hair colour at the pharmacy instead of going to a salon, shopping at the dollar store) -- and about plans she has for making money (seeing if she qualifies for a PMS study). Online thanks are given to those who help and -- in an inspired gesture of atonement --there is a section devoted to some of the items that got Karyn into debt, items she is now auctioning off on eBay -- an "authentic wool Burberry shoulder bag/purse," for example.

A new section called "Good to Know" will go up this week, filling visitors in on some of the interesting information people have sent her. For example, after Karyn mentioned she was saving money by giving up bottled water in favour of a Brita filter, she received an e-mail from "some New York water safety guy telling me New York City water is the safest water in the world. And that's definitely good to know." Another tip she'll share online is that washing your sheets in vinegar will get the smell of cat pee out.

Last November, Karyn lost her job -- "nothing to do with September 11th, I'm not a victim of that, I want to make that clear" -- and spent nearly five months unemployed until she got a new job (in television) but one that paid considerably less and demanded a lot more time than her previous job had. The debt, though, started long before her employment woes. "I had a great job for my first two years in New York, and I thought, 'I can afford a $500 Gucci bag, I can afford Prada shoes,' and, you know, I couldn't." New York City is one of the reasons she's in financial trouble, says Karyn.

"This city is like one big shopping mall. And my mother always told me, 'At your next job you'll make more money,' so I never worried." A month ago, after Karyn's roommate told her he saw a piece of paper tacked up somewhere that said "I need $7,000," she toyed with the idea of putting out flyers saying "Help me pay off my debt." "I figured there are millions of people in New York, and if a fraction of them just gave me a buck each, I'd be fine." The pamphlet idea got tossed though, and Karyn vowed she wouldn't ask her parents to bail her out. "They always have, but I didn't want that." Instead, she put a notice up on craigslist.org, saying "Wanted, $20,000." The next day, she recalls, she got 15 e-mails, but craigslist took it down, saying they didn't post "things like this." She tried again and the same thing happened. So she created the Web site, along with a P.O. box to receive money. The first week, Karyn says, SaveKaryn got 100 hits, the second week over 300 hits and this past week over 20,000.

While Karyn tries to answer all her e-mails -- coming from as far afield as Norway and Australia --she is also trying to hang on to her anonymity. At this point, her parents don't know about the site ("They're not very Web savvy") and only a handful of close friends do. Her mother, she says, would find it funny, but she isn't so sure about her dad. "He's very conservative, very Midwestern. He's very against credit cards and wouldn't be happy with me not working for the money."

Some of the creepier e-mails she has received have convinced her that remaining anonymous would be a good idea. "I got one that said 'Don't think I can't find you. How would you like to open your door and be staring down the barrel of a gun?' " Others have been nasty, but in a minor league kind of way. "Mostly I get 'Why don't you get a job, stop panhandling,' all that stuff." But she gets encouraging e-mails, too. "I get the ones that say 'You go, girl.' I'd say it's half and half, nice versus mean." She also received an e-mail from a "BGates@Microsoft.com" but "it was a joke, and an obscene one. You don't want to hear the details."

Some people have offered her money in exchange for sex, or for a date, or for underwear she has worn. "No thanks to all of those," she says.

An Australian man planning to visit New York offered her $250 if he could stay with her. Also "No thanks." Another man who grew up in New York but who now lives elsewhere asked her to seek out some of the bakery food he loved as a child and mail it to him in exchange for money. "And I'll do that, once I find those buns he was talking about."

So far, the biggest chunk of money she has received is US$20 and the smallest, a penny. "Every penny counts," she says, "so I won't complain." She has also received -- after writing about her beloved cat -- a donation of several tins of cat food. "And that's great, too." In all, she has received just under US$200 from people (excluding eBay sales) but that was a tally done before this past week, the week with 20,000 hits. "I'm not asking you to give me a dollar over your favourite charity. I know there are people far worse off than I am, through no fault of their own. But I've learned my lesson and if you want to give a dollar to a charity and ten cents to me, I'd appreciate it."

Emerson concluded that those "rejected thoughts" of ours would come back to us with "a certain alienated majesty." If that seems hyperbolic given the premise of SaveKaryn, the movie industry doesn't seem to think so. Karyn has already received a call about movie rights to her story. That debt should be paid off soon.

Copyright National Post 2002 All Rights Reserved.

I was fingerprinted when I lived in Japan. As a foreigner living there, I had to make my way to the police station to get my gaijin (foreigner) card. I filled out a form, had my picture taken and was fingerprinted. One of the fingerprints appeared on the card and very occasionally I had to show the card to police, but only very occasionally. "Don't lose it," I was warned, "and make sure you hand it back in to the police when you leave for good."

I found it amusing more than anything. I was younger and didn't really contemplate the implications. I giggled as my Japanese Jack Webb pressed my fingers into the ink pad, imagining him telling me "just the facts, ma'am" in Japanese. Others I knew were offended at the fingerprinting. Still others didn't get fingerprinted, such as my housework-obsessed, highly unpleasant German roommate. The fact she was spared the fingerprinting bothered me. Was it nostalgia for the Axis, I wondered.

The racial profiling took place in Israel. I was working in Turkey and took my holidays there. On the way back to Istanbul, I was pulled out of the check-in line at Ben Gurion Airport and asked to follow two young men, both of whom had enormous guns. (What was I going to say, "no"?)

I watched as they opened my luggage and picked through every last item. The only thing they looked at twice was the plastic bag full of artificial sweetener packets I had stolen from various Israeli restaurants and hotels. "Impossible to find in Turkey," I said. They snickered, asked me to remove my boots, tried (unsuccessfully) to remove the heels, handed them back to me and then sent me out to the tarmac accompanied by a soldier. I asked him what gave. He told me they were checking all young women with Norwegian passports, or with a parent born in Norway, because they had news that some Arab terrorist or other had a Norwegian girlfriend helping him smuggle and blow things up. I've dated some cads in my time, I told him, but I would never (knowingly) date a murderer. And, I added, what happened back in the terminal was humiliating. I know miss, he told me, and we're sorry. "That's why we let you keep the Sweet 'n' Low."

Fair enough.

Racial profiling makes at least a bit more sense than identification cards. The first month I lived in France, a bomb went off in a department store in Paris. It was put there by an Arab terrorist who lived in France and had a "carte de sejour" as all foreigners in France must. While the French police are free to stop people on the street and ask for "vos papiers" the only time I was ever stopped was when I was out with Moroccan friends.

My most memorable experience as a foreign resident was when I taught in a high school in Turkey. Filling out my alien card I found that for "status" my options were "married," "divorced" or "virgin." None of the above, I told my vice-principal. He advised me to choose "virgin." But I'm not, I said. His mouth said "that doesn't matter," but his eyes said "of course you're not, you western trollop." For "religion" I was even more confused. "I'm an atheist," I told him. "Don't say that," he said, looking worried. "And don't say you're Muslim unless you are. And don't say you're Jewish, even if you are. Just put Christian."

Having lived in four different countries, and having travelled to many more, I can say with certainty that little of what is being proposed to increase security -- particularly once people are already here -- is without flaw. But even if I think ID cards are particularly useless, at least I have proof that for a full year of my adult life, I was a Christian virgin.

Copyright National Post 2002 All Rights Reserved.

Irrational-phobia
http://www.opiummagazine.com/filmadamsonspider.html
by Rondi Adamson

Since Friday, May 3rd, I have been laughed at more than Lucille Ball. Every time someone asks me "are you going to see Spider-Man?" I answer "No, I'm arachnophobic." This is followed by torrents of snickering. It's so nice to have "friends" who find amusement in my personal trauma.

I have been seriously arachnophobic for as long as I can remember. And I know I could not handle watching Spider-Man. He has spiderweb designs on his superhero outfit, for starters. And the mere sight of a spiderweb, even without its occupant, can give me the heebie-jeebies so badly I need an ativan and a glass of white wine just to be able to talk again without my voice trembling. Also, I have read that in Spider-Man, there is a scene where Tobey Maguire gets bitten by a (radioactive) spider. The radioactive part doesn't scare me. I'd sooner sleep near (or in, for that matter) a nuclear power plant having a meltdown than knowingly walk within a kilometer of an itsy-bitsy spider.

They're icky. And they're creepy-crawly. They have too many legs, and they walk funny, and I hate the way you can be sitting there eating you dinner and innocently watching Patton for example, and all of a sudden a spider drops onto your lap. Why? Oh, I don't know. Because he got tired of walking across your ceiling, saw you sitting there, relaxed and happy, and decided to scare the bejesus out of you.

I don't know why I am this way. And I don't care if there was some key moment in my formative years, that if I could only remember it would enable me to pick up handfuls of wolf spiders and daddy longlegs as though they were wildflowers. I am afraid. It is that simple. When I was little and saw spiders, I would scream, as my sister fondly remembers "blue, bloody murder" till someone came running. Often, my brothers would claim they had trapped the spider in question and put it outside, when in fact, they had simply moved it to another room in the house. When I twigged--because the eight-legged monstrosity inevitably would come and find me--I started insisting that my brothers allow me to watch them trap and take the spider outside.

Trap them, yes. Because, as much as I'd like to live in a spiderless world, I figure they have a right to their ghoulish little lives. I'm not saying I've never dropped an encyclopedia on a spider, in desperation, but whenever possible I try to put a glass on top of them and then find someone brave enough to slip a piece of paper underneath and set the little fella/gal free. I have met countless neighbours that way. I used to live in Turkey, and big, hairy spiders would frequently make their way into my flat. I met the local Imam thanks to them. He was sweet, and very impressed with my unwillingness to kill a living creature.

I also lived in Japan, where I shared my space with cockroaches so big I used to joke they broke the "no pets" clause in my lease. When I attended my brother's wedding in Malaysia, my bedroom was also home to a lizard family. And neither of those situations bothered me one one-billionth as much as a single tiny spider would have.

I currently live in a highrise and one day, as I approached the elevator, a spider dangled in front of me from one of those horrible silken threads they ooze, the ones that if you get them on your hand you can never get them off. I ran into my apartment, and phoned the management office, telling them that if they didn't send the janitor, I would phone the fire department next (after saving cats from trees, that's, of course, what firemen are for).

Years ago, I took my niece and nephew to see James and the Giant Peach unaware that one of the protagonists was a spider. I remember looking over at my brother's children, then five and eight, thinking, "Are they too young to be left alone?" They were. I stayed, eyes covered, weeping. When they asked me what gave, I told them, and they were delighted. Every time they visited me after that, a rubber spider would appear on my pillow, in my purse, etc. Oh, tee hee. That was the last time Auntie Rondi ever took those little monsters to a movie.

I used to work at a magazine, where, one day, a spider crawled up the back of my chair. I shrieked, and my boss, a man with the intelligence of an amoeba and the empathy of an SS torturer, treated me to a long lecture which amounted to this: "Spiders are our friends." Well I know that. That's why it's called a "phobia." It isn't rational. Another colleague told me that if I'd just open myself up to a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, spiders wouldn't scare me.

Nonsense. If Jesus came back, he wouldn't want a spider dropping from his ceiling, either. He would understand why, when I buy bananas, I shake them down first for tarantulas. And he would understand why, pretty soon, I will be the only person on the planet who hasn't seen Spider-Man.

When I began dating one of my colleagues, a gym teacher named Attila, I assumed I might not be able to buy any birth control without my ring and spouse. But by then, most of my neighbourhood knew that I was not just foreign, but Western, and, therefore, a woman of questionable morality.

Western women, I would discover, had "slut" written across their foreheads in ink that only Turkish men could see. So, interestingly, buying spermicide was a relatively easy task, since everyone assumed I would be going through caseloads of the stuff. I had to tolerate being winked at by the vendor, though, and, I figured, snickered about later on. Which probably happens in Canada, too. It is only too bad we cannot get phenobarbital so easily.

Copyright National Post 2002 All Rights Reserved.

Malak Karsh, who died of leukemia six months ago at the age of 86, was the younger brother of famous portraitist Yousuf Karsh, whose photographs of Winston Churchill, John F. Kennedy and George Bernard Shaw, among others, are known worldwide. The brothers came to Canada from Turkish-occupied Armenia in the 1930s and settled in Ottawa.

When my parents knew Malak, he was just starting out, or rather, starting out again, after suffering the considerable setback of being confined to a sanitarium for several years due to tuberculosis. My Norwegian mother, 5'10", slim and blond, made a good model, though in real life, as she puts it, she was just a housewife. "I posed for Malak a number of times in 1947-48, usually as a young mother, or a teacher or something mundane. Sometimes I got to pose with a bunch of tulips and that was fun." What my mother really enjoyed about the modelling, was that she got to get "all tarted up. Barbara would put makeup on me."

After having grown up with a mother who forbade her to wear even the lightest shades of lipstick, lest the boys at school mistake her for a harlot, having a good excuse to put on "the works" was worth it. It has occurred to me that these experiences of Mum's are part of the reason she was so indulgent when, as a young teen and Debbie Harry fan, I began appearing at the dinner table wearing four metric tons of mascara and eyeliner.

At any rate, it never occurred to my mother that anything would come of the pictures. She just enjoyed the company. "Living with Malak and Barbara and their first child was great," she recalls. "They were gentle and kind and even though we had to share the kitchen and bathroom, we never had the feeling we were in the way." When my parents discovered that they were expecting my oldest brother, they decided it was time to move out and make a home of their own.

In spite of promises to the contrary, Mum and Dad lost touch with the Karshes, but heard about them in the news. Malak had become well known for much of his work, but particularly his photographs of tulips. The Dutch royal family, grateful for the hospitality Ottawa had shown them during the Second World War (Queen Juliana gave birth to Princess Margriet at the Civic Hospital in 1943) and for the role Canadian troops played in liberating Holland in 1945, sent 100,000 tulip bulbs to the national capital. The original gift became an annual bequest, and the springtime bloom is a welcome sight in a city that tolerates about six months of winter every year.

Malak first began taking pictures of the flowers as he recovered from his illness and by 1951 he had become the official photographer of the International Flower Bulb Centre of Holland. He even took a picture of then Prime Minister Mackenzie King, in 1948, surrounded by tulips on Parliament Hill -- ironic, as King had originally balked at the prospect of having the flowers on the Hill. In 1951, Malak approached Ottawa's Board of Trade with a proposal for an annual Canadian Tulip Festival and they snapped the idea up. (This year marks the 50th Canadian Tulip Festival and it is dedicated to the memory of Malak.)

Also in 1951, one of the pictures Malak took of Mum ended up in Claire Smith's Service Station calendar, representing the months of March and April. The caption is "Tulip Time on The Driveway in Canada's Capital" and features Mum leaning in toward a bed of yellow, white and red blossoms. My parents bought a few copies, lost them over the years in the moves and left it at that.

But life seems to have few endings so final, and nine years later, my oldest brother, Alan, then in Grade 8, spotted the old calendar behind his teacher's desk. He was quite excited and bragged to his classmates that the babe among the sea of tulips was his mother. At lunch that day, my mother remembers, "a bunch of male 13-year-olds followed your brother from school over to our house, to see if it was really me."

At the time, Mum was eight months pregnant with her sixth child (my older brother, Daniel) had curlers in her hair, not a stitch of makeup (as usual) and a maelstrom of kids and pets tearing about. "I didn't really look much like the photo," she understates. "Faces fell all around me and your brother's disillusioned friends walked away." Still, Mum says she "briefly felt like a calendar girl. It was terrific. I'm just sorry I disappointed those boys."

We have continued to have tulip connections in our family. My sister, Kristen, was born in the same room at the Civic Hospital as Princess Margriet, but 11 years later. Fitting, since her childhood nickname was "Duchess" for her love of putting anything that vaguely resembled a crown onto her head, and for her bossy demeanour. She has maintained the latter (and occasionally the former). And I taught in a high school in Istanbul in the early 1990s. Turkey, my students excitedly informed me when I told them about the tulips in Ottawa, is where tulips originated. A popular name for girls in Turkey is "Lale" or "tulip" in Turkish.

Last year, when Malak died, my mother, who had also lost her husband of over 50 years to leukemia, wrote Barbara a long letter. The two have renewed their friendship, something "we should have done long ago." Barbara even dug up copies of the long-lost calendar, allowing Mum to prove to me that a tale I thought apocryphal, wasn't so.

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

Iran's Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults, a government agency affiliated with the Ministry of Education, has developed "Dara and Sara," two dolls meant to counter the popularity of Barbie, who along with Ken, Skipper and the gang, is currently flooding the Islamic nation. Dara, a boy doll, and Sara, a girl doll, promote traditional values with their modest clothing, including headscarfs and long skirts for Sara, and non-blond, non-glamorous appeal. Both dolls are dark-haired and sloe-eyed, and neither has a Dream House, convertible or 40DD bra size and five-inch heels. And no, Dara is not allowed to marry four Saras. Mohsen Chiniforoushan, the Institute's director, said the dolls are a strategic product to promote Iran's national identity. One hundred thousand of the Sara and Dara dolls, which are made in China, were introduced into Iran's market last week amid an impressive publicity rush.

In a country where the average monthly salary is $100, the $15 dolls are not cheap and certainly more expensive than an Iranian Barbie knock-off would be ($3). Genuine Barbies cost $40, but do sell well in Iran. A toy vendor in Tehran, interviewed about Sara and Dara, said that she considers Barbie "more harmful than an American missile." Barbie is, the toy seller said, "wanton" and young Iranian girls who play with Barbies could grow up to reject Iranian values.

As in the West, the focus is on girls, on Barbie, on Sara. No one over there seems concerned that Ken might make Iranian boys reject traditional values and become wanton. No one here seems concerned that Ken might be making boys grow up to be vapid, sculpted and uncommunicative. Of course, Ken has no penis, and therefore might be sending an even scarier message, but again, no one seems concerned.

The arrival of Sara on the doll scene was announced about a week after Mattel came out with "Kayla" a "multi-ethnic" Barbie, wearing something resembling a sari/kimono/bathrobe. Barbie already has African-American, Latina and Asian-American friends, and Mattel were not clear about exactly where Kayla's parents are from, or how they met. She looks vaguely Polynesian, though she has exactly the same figure as all the other Barbies. Even "Becky," the cheerful Barbie-in-a- wheelchair Mattel introduced five years ago has that kick-ass figure, in spite of her paralyzed state.

Which is all fine. For not enough credit is given to young girls in terms of their intelligence -- ironically, usually feminists are the ones doing the underestimating. Of course Barbie is wanton. And she has an impossibly wonderful body (though probably not much good for childbearing purposes) and a silly look on her face. But she is a doll, nothing more.

I loved my Barbie dolls and had all the accoutrements. But I never thought I had to look like Barbie any more than I thought I had to look like Raggedy Ann or Mrs. Beasley. I liked making clothes for Barbie, and playing house with her and Ken, except when my brothers would come along and put Ken in a compromising position with G.I. Joe. But even that did not traumatize me, because I knew they were just dolls.

In the early 1990s, a company called "High Self-Esteem Toys" (that's not a joke) came out with the "Happy to be Me Doll." She had a normal figure, even a little on the tubby side, and she wasn't very pretty. She didn't have great clothes, either. Sales were not good. She was left in Barbie's dust, to the surprise of many do-gooders. But there was nothing surprising about it. Little girls want an ideal. It's the same reason little boys like superhero action figures instead of dolls called "Bob, the miserable, overweight, middle-aged, commitmentphobic loser."

We do not give enough credit to girls for their intelligence or understand who they look up to. My niece, now in junior high, listens to her teachers, though I'm not certain she always should. When she became a vegetarian (like her auntie) her classmates panicked, telling her they thought she was anorexic. She isn't, she just doesn't want to eat dead animals any more. But the girls had been taught in health class that anyone who gives up eating a whole food group has an eating disorder, that eating disorders are widespread, and that Barbie is to blame. Who else?

Copyright National Post 2002 All Rights Reserved.

This story is disheartening, and concerns more than just the issue of public breast-feeding, but breast-feeding, period. Breastfeeding is not an alternative lifestyle, a road taken by neo-hippies in order to challenge the establishment. It is a choice made by informed women from all backgrounds who know that breast-feeding is best for them and their baby. Mainstream organizations, such as the American Medical Association, recommend that mothers breast-feed their babies for at least the first year of life, and if possible, longer. Whether a woman is willing, or can manage to breast- feed, should be up to her, and one would like to think not a decision influenced by the disparaging glances of others.

Breastfeeding was the norm, up until about the 1930s, when the first formulas were created. Back then -- as now, I suppose -- people looked to science to improve on nature. We have since learned
that where breast milk is concerned, nature cannot be improved upon. Countless medical studies show breast-feeding decreases the incidences of sudden infant death syndrome, diarrhea, respiratory and ear infections, bacterial meningitis, digestive problems and more in babies.

James P. Grant, a former UNICEF executive director, says "study after study shows that older children who were not breast-fed have higher rates of leukemia and other cancers, diabetes, viral infections, allergies, obesity and developmental delays. Women who do not breast-feed demonstrate a higher risk of breast and ovarian cancers." Not to mention the significance of the bonding that takes place between a mother and child during breast-feeding.

One would like to believe North Americans had got beyond the era of priggishness around this issue, but one would be mistaken. In a country where, in some provinces anyway, a woman can walk around without her top on, breast-feeding mothers are still not free from rude comments, glances, as well as people asking them to leave the room, store or office. Ontario's topless law is, in my opinion, ridiculous, for breasts are sexual. But when a woman is lactating, they are also utilitarian.  A friend of mine in Ottawa, 35, and the mother of a seven-month-old, has been, at different times, told to "cover up," "do that in the ladies' room" and "pump it into a bottle, already!"

Covering up is not easy or safe. When a woman is holding a baby, balancing a blanket over the child is a distraction and "my baby always grabs it and tosses it on the floor anyway," says my Ottawa friend. As for breast-feeding in the ladies room, I wonder how many of those who complain would like to eat their meals in a bathroom? True, breast milk can be pumped into bottles, but that is not always convenient or sanitary. When a baby needs to eat, it needs to eat. It also may not be what a mother wants to do. Some doctors believe women who are lactating should breast-feed exclusively from their breasts for the first six weeks of the baby's life, to increase both health and bonding benefits.

What has most surprised my friend is that the rude comments usually come from women, and young ones. It doesn't surprise me, at least not after some of the discussions I've had with my cohorts. Two of my younger girlfriends -- in their twenties -- are appalled by public breast-feeding. I've never been able to get a good reason out of them. Many young women are completely unaware of breast-feeding's indisputable benefits, and are not only against it being done publicly, but are planning not to do it themselves. One friend asked me, knowing my opinion, how I felt about a colleague of hers who breast-fed her baby in the workplace.

The only problem I could see there was that a woman with a young baby was working outside the home. This particular friend is not convinced about breast-feeding, which I find very odd, since she believes in God. Surely, if there is a God, then He wouldn't have a woman's breasts fill up with milk during pregnancy as part of some colossal joke. If He wanted us to suckle off another species, why give us milk of our own?

I am tempted to suggest that these attitudes come from women loving to sabotage each other. But I suspect they have more to do with ignorance. Generations of us have grown up seeing bottle- feeding as the norm and it will take time to undo that perception. In the meantime, if you feel offended at the sight of someone breast-feeding in a public place, why don't you be the one to leave?

Copyright National Post 2001 All Rights Reserved.

I don't know who said that, but it's funny and my mother likes to repeat it, and it certainly has been true for say, Ted Kennedy. Some form of alcohol, perhaps not whiskey, led to Chappaquiddick, which many believe prevented him from winning the Democratic nomination for the presidency in 1980. Whiskey has sometimes prevented me from getting work done, if not taking over the world, and it has also -- rarely, of course -- caused me to say things I later regretted.

Or how about this: "The Irish you know, they're pigs. All pigs." That was Princess Margaret talking to the Mayor of Chicago, a city with a not negligible Irish population. She said this in the late 1970s, after her uncle Lord Mountbatten was blown up by the IRA. So maybe we can indulge her her bigotry.

Or Conan O'Brien, speaking to Pierce Brosnan: "I'm so glad you're Irish, because otherwise everyone would think Irish men could never be handsome."

Or this: "The Irish people are undisciplinable, anarchical and turbulent by nature." That's from Matthew Arnold and actually, I kind of agree. I know I'm all of those things and I'm half-Irish, so if we can extrapolate and make gross generalizations, then it's probably true of anyone with a drop of Irish blood.

Even Hitler was known to complain about his "loathsome Irish relations" when his sister-in-law Brigid and nephew Patrick visited him in Berlin.

My mother is not Irish, and for most of my life, whenever I have displayed any character trait that she deems unappealing, I get told that I am "just like" my father. As in, "you sound just like your father when you talk that way!" Or, "you're bad tempered, just like your father." Or, "you kids are all a bunch of know-it-alls, just like your father." Or the worst insult of all, "you kids are all 100% Irish!"

Well, of course, we're not. We're half-Norwegian, but the traits we get from that gene pool -- pessimism, suicidal depression, isolationism -- are all positive, I guess.

My father's family came to Canada from County Galway at the end of  the last century, like so many Irish, and settled out West, first in Saskatchewan, then in Winnipeg. There they founded the Canada Territories Company, which later became the Western Trust Company. The family enjoyed relative financial and social success in Manitoba, including an appointment as chief justice of the province of Manitoba for my great-uncle, John Evans Adamson. He was fondly known as "Judge Necessity," because necessity knows no law. But family lore tells us that he was more concerned, like many of the men in my family, with golfing than anything else.

Golfing, almost as much as alcohol and mood swings, defines the Irish. In the book, How to Be Irish, Even if You Already Are, authors Sean Kelly and Rosemary Rogers have included a special section devoted to golf in Ireland. There are some pretty swishy golf courses over there, including what is reportedly Bill Clinton's favourite, the Ballybunnion Golf Club in County Kerry. But, they warn potential tourist duffers, everyone in Ireland plays golf, not just the high and mighty, and they do so in true Irish fashion: "The natives wear more informal outfits than do the visitors, eschew caddies and carts, and take swings with fags hanging out of their mouths."

When my father was dying, he told us he wanted his funeral service to be held at a Kelly Funeral Home, because "Kelly is a good Irish name." He also told us he wanted to be cremated but that it was up to us to decide where to scatter the ashes. "Those decisions are for the living," he said. My siblings and I talked and realized the place dad had been happiest was on the links. Could we, we wondered, convince the people at one of the Ottawa-area golf courses he played, to allow us to scatter dad's ashes there? It was, after all, after collapsing on the greens that he was