the cassandra pages

On Guns, Men, and Fear

7,000 pairs of shoes were placed on the U.S. Capitol lawn on Tuesday to symbolize the number of children killed by gun violence in the United States since the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in December 2012.

This week I've read three loosely related articles that I wanted to recommend to others who may be thinking, as I am, about the continued and unabated rise in U.S. gun violence, the factors that drive white male rage, and the rise of far-right political ideologies in the western world. These are all thoughtful pieces, well worth your time. I'm trying to educate myself about where these trends can actually go, if unchecked, but also to understand the forces that attract people to guns, violence, and far-right ideologies in the first place. Not all gun violence is the same: many of the school shooters have been male loners who have targeted white children, and have not subscribed to a particular political ideology, while other mass killers have been politically motivated. Most, however, seem to have felt powerless in current society, and turned to guns as the ultimate means of expressing themselves.

Why are White Men Stockpiling Guns? Scientific American (thanks to Lorianne DiSabato at Hoarded Ordinaries for the link.)

According to a growing number of scientific studies, the kind of man who stockpiles weapons or applies for a concealed-carry license meets a very specific profile. These are men who are anxious about their ability to protect their families, insecure about their place in the job market, and beset by racial fears. They tend to be less educated. For the most part, they don’t appear to be religious—and, suggests one study, faith seems to reduce their attachment to guns. In fact, stockpiling guns seems to be a symptom of a much deeper crisis in meaning and purpose in their lives. Taken together, these studies describe a population that is struggling to find a new story—one in which they are once again the heroes.

White Supremacists are Increasingly Using Public Banners to Spread their Message New York Times

From May 20, 2017, through this Monday, the A.D.L.’s Center on Extremism found, there were 72 such episodes. Before that period, the A.D.L. had not documented any white supremacist banners since Dec. 11, 2016...Most of those documented in Thursday’s report were racist or anti-immigrant in nature, with messages ranging from “America first: End immigration” to “‘Diversity’ is a code word for white genocide.” Others were anti-Muslim (a banner displayed on an overpass near Dearborn, Mich., home to one of the largest mosques in North America, read “DANGER: Sharia city ahead”), anti-Semitic (“UNjew HUMANITY”) or misogynistic (“Feminists deserve the rope”).

The Fascist Movement that Has Brought Mussolini back to the Mainstream The Guardian

"CasaPound presented itself as the house of the ideologically homeless too. Iannone said it offered “a space of liberty, where anyone who has something to say and can’t say it elsewhere will always find political asylum”. It adopted a pose of being not a part of the debate, but the receptacle of it. It reminded some of Mussolini’s line that “fascism is the church of all the heresies”.

 

A friend from a while ago, now an Episcopal priest, had a mantra I've never forgotten: "All anger is fear; all fear is fear of loss." While it's an oversimplification, it holds a lot of truth -- as I've found when asking myself, at times, what is the source of my own anger. And of course I'm angry when I look at the news of the world and, especially, in my former home of America. When I look deeper, I can see that this anger has its roots in a profound sense of fear that the entire fabric of American life is unraveling, and that the principles on which the country was founded have been irrevocably undermined. There has also been fear for individual people I know and love, including members of my own family, and myself by extension.

Of course, for a fairly large number of other Americans, the exact opposite fear is evoked: they feel that America was founded for, and should be run by, white men like themselves, and that immigration and racial diversity, as well as equality between men and women, and open acceptance of gender diversity, are all grave threats to their country and their own safety, security, and identity. Many liberals seem to believe the pendulum is going to swing back to some sort of tolerable middle, if we could just get rid of the current administration.

I think that's incredibly naive. The cat is out of the proverbial bag, and growing into a hungry, noisy, muscled tiger that can't be domesticated. Perhaps it will always stay on the fringes, growling and occasionally coming into the village under cover of darkness to claim some victims. You can believe that if you want to; history has often showed us otherwise. When human beings are afraid, they resort to behaviors that always blame, demonize, and eventually dehumanize "the other", allowing unacceptable acts. Those range from the establishment of police states (which can be overt or subtle) that excuse and allow the breakdown of privacy laws, to covert and open wars and genocide, to deportations and incarceration of people on ethnic or religious grounds, to forced interrogations and torture, and the rise of fascist political movements that make formerly illegal actions not only legal, but accepted as necessary.

And, as the article about the resurgence of neo-fascism in Italy points out, the new alt-right is clever and astute, opening itself not just to a narrow political spectrum, but as a home for anyone who feels forgotten, voiceless, politically disenfranchised. The leaders are savvy about media and popular culture, using unlikely strategies to reach converts, as well as squishy messages -- drawn even from left-wing causes -- to popularize their groups and their message.

Canadians tend to look south across the border with a kind of well-meant, pitying bemusement, and we all tell ourselves, "that couldn't happen here." Maybe not - I certainly hope not - but there are far-right groups in Canada too. Until twenty years ago, I never thought I'd see what is happening in the U.S. happen there: I thought the people would never allow it. I was completely wrong. It's possible that #TurnThemOut will triumph in the U.S. mid-term election, but the power of groups like the NRA will continue, as will the spinelessness of most members of Congress who care more about being re-elected than about children's lives, and who refuse to stand up against hate crime, hate speech, privacy violations in the name of "security", and torture -- to name just a few of the actions that ought to be completely unacceptable and illegal in a modern democracy.

Regardless of what country we live in, we have to see clearly that western democracies are presently under a serious threat. This does not mean that those governments were formerly blameless, without major issues, blind spots, and ongoing grievous sins that that they have failed to address throughout their own histories. I think you know what I mean. But we have to open our eyes and stop fooling ourselves that the forces that threaten the very underling principles of freedom and equality will slink back into the darkness, as the world becomes more migrant and more brown: they won't.

We need to remember, over and over, that only pressure from the grassroots will ultimately change governmental policies. The far-right is, after all, a grassroots movement that has been emboldened by the likes of Trump and Bannon and the resurgence of neo-Nazi and fascist groups worldwide: they are angry and fearful people who are racist, misogynistic, anti-Semitic and anti-Muslim, believe in white supremacy, and see their worldview threatened by immigration, black presidents, women in power, diversity in formerly white cities and towns that threatens to become diversity in one's own family. Why do progressives tend to trust in top-down solutions? Why do we think that a vote alone is enough to combat such an ideology? We had eight years of Obama's presidency and what we are seeing now is not an aberration, it is in part a backlash by people who absolutely hated seeing a black man in that office.

It's been proven that people who experience and live with diversity have the most positive attitudes toward those who are different from themselves. It's also true that we tend to form into groups and communities with those who are like us. This makes it obvious and imperative that diversity must be encouraged by individuals, and be brought by us to all our organizations and social structures -- families, churches, informal and formal civic groups, workplaces, institutions and organizations. Within these structures, we can bring awareness to the ways in which we ourselves fail to see with the eyes of the other. Some people have hidebound attitudes, but it is crucial to believe that fundamental changes of heart are possible -- the ability to change is one of humanity's greatest attributes. If talk doesn't get us anywhere, we must openly live within the spirit of our convictions, and by doing so, we can actually gradually effect lasting, long-term change: I've seen this over and over again in the greater acceptance of homosexuality and gender diversity over the past few decades.

So some questions for today are these: how many friends do you have who are of different religions, different ethnic origins, different genders or sexual orientations? How often are you in the position of being in the minority, of listening to and learning from others who are different from yourself? How do you bring your own changed and evolving views back to your family, your circle of friends, your workplace, and the organizations to which you belong?

All of Us, Together

Today and every day, until there's no need for such a day.

Thoughts on Travel

We've just come back to Montreal from an intense, eye-opening, two-week trip to Sicily. I'll be writing more about our experiences over the next couple of weeks, but first I wanted to say a few things about travel in general, because I've been thinking about that a lot during this trip.

I feel extremely fortunate to be able to travel. It was always a goal for J. and me, but with a few exceptions, we put it off: as self-employed people it was hard for us to get away for extended periods of time, and travel requiring airfare has always been expensive. We lived frugally for many years in order to be able to put money aside for later in life, and I'm grateful that we're still in good enough shape to be able to enjoy the kind of adventuresome travel we like to do. Nevertheless, I know I'm lucky, and that there are lots of reasons why many people never get to go far away, or choose not to.

Unlike my husband, who had traveled in Europe and the Middle East when he was young, I grew up in a family and among people who didn't travel much at all, and though I longed to go to faraway places, I was afraid. Not of flying, which I've always found exciting, but like my mother and other family members I had fears of getting sick or lost or being unable to sleep, and there was no one to give me the confidence to prepare well, then just go, see it as an adventure, and deal with whatever happens. You have to learn to travel, and it wasn't until I met J. that I had someone to trust and confide in who helped me overcome those fears. I loved big cities, but was nervous about them, especially getting round on my own, but eventually I got over that, too. I can still remember the thrill of accomplishment the first time I went off on my own in London, and found my way without trouble: it's given me a lifelong affection for that city. People who meet me now may see me as worldly, urban, confident and sophisticated, but there was a time when I certainly wasn't any of those things, and I have a lot of empathy for people who find travel daunting. Those fears still live inside me, and once in a while they still surface.

Travel, for me, is a privilege and a responsibility. If I'm lucky enough to go somewhere, I try to learn as much as I can, and to absorb that experience deeply so that I can share it in some way, do something with it that isn't just for myself. Some people travel inside their own bubble, like the loud, inconsiderate, demading tourists we all sometimes encounter. Some people seem like they aren't really seeing anything, just capturing each sight -- or themselves in front of it -- on their phone or iPad so they can show their friends they were there. I guess I see travel more as extra-ordinary time: an opportunity to leave normal comforts and routines aside, be vulnerable to experience, to suspend judgement, and to be open to the potential for internal change. I love the feeling of heightened sensory awareness, of having to figure complex things out and make quick decisions, of trying to communicate in unfamiliar languages and make connections simply as one human being to another. I like projecting myself less, and listening and seeing more.

J. and I have chosen not to stay in fancy hotels or eat out a lot. Because we are sometimes in locations where there is poverty, we keep a low profile, dress down, and try to blend in, even though it's obvious we aren't locals. Usually we stay in apartments or small b&bs where we can cook meals from food bought in local markets and do our own laundry; we try to bike or walk as much as we can, and to take care of ourselves rather than expecting to be served. I'm concerned about the carbon cost of air travel, but also realize that the money we spend in local economies like Mexico is helpful for the people there. I don't feel guilty about traveling, but I think we need to be aware of what we're doing and the impact it has.

I also realize that we are seen as immensely privileged by many of the people we meet: I am able to come into their place and go away again; I have money and freedom and opportunities that many people, both here and there, will never have. Being sensitive to these emotional complications is a significant part of travel for me, and I hope it informs what I write and what I draw or photograph -- or choose not to.

The more places I go, and the more our world becomes divided between haves and have-nots, the more I find myself thinking about these issues. Sicily is surrounded by the Mediterranean; its proximity to Africa and the Middle East has affected its entire history as well as the present. Refugees are not a theoretical concept to be debated, but an everyday reality. Mexico City has been hit by devastating earthquakes; its people live with corrupt government, injustice, grinding poverty, and constant violence.

I've been deeply affected and changed by what I've seen, not just as a witness to the present but to the layers of human history that travel reveals. I'm never sure what to do with it, but I don't want to merely collect beauty and ignore the awfulness. I need to find ways to hold and express both, because our world is, and has always been, made of both darkness and light.

Thinking with Merton about America's Predicament

The Orange Line has fancy new cars, and whenever I get on one of these shiny trains, I feel like I must be one of the first passengers. That's why when I sat down early yesterday morning, it was a surprise that the empty seat was warm. I hadn't seen anyone exit, so they must have gotten off at a previous station. Of course, I told myself, thousands of people have already taken this train, it is no longer brand new. But the strange feeling of someone else's presence persisted, along with my musings about the places our bodies temporarily occupy in an urban environment, only to be replaced by another anonymous body, and another.

When I am on the train, I'm often going downtown to sing, or returning from singing, and though I seldom wear earphones or use my phone, bits of music play repetitively in my head. Yesterday I was going to the cathedral to sing a complex modern Mass in the morning, and later, music by Orlando Lassus, and I have noticed that this awareness sometimes makes me feel special. But the warmth of the empty seat, and the presence of the other passengers, reminded me that no one is any more special than anyone else, or, rather, that we are all equally special, even though I may have been the only person on the train who was thinking that.

The Montreal metro platforms aren't crowded on Sunday mornings, but as the trains arrive, they make me think of Mexico City, where the opening and closing mouths of each train disgorge and swallow up vast quantities of human beings. There, too, I often remember Thomas Merton's words: "What if everyone knew that they were going around shining like the sun?"

Merton wrote those words after having a spiritual experience -- a revelation of oneness -- on a street corner in Louisville, Kentucky, one day when he had left his monastery of Gethsemanii for a medical appointment or some similar reason. I had a similar revelation while waiting at a deli counter in a grocery store in Hanover, New Hampshire, nearly twenty-five years ago, and from that point on I have known that I am connected to every other being; that we all possess, at our core, the same divine spark (Merton called it "the eternal diamond"); and at the same time, that we are each entirely unique, special, precious, beloved. It's not explainable in words, and so I will not try; it's better (while still being impossible) to try to live out of that awareness in all of one's relationships. But it is also clear to me, as it was to Merton, that most of humanity goes around unaware of who they actually are, and of the potential for love, compassion, harmony, beauty and joy for which we are made. Babies come into the world open and trusting and full of potential -- but then other people and the world begin to impinge, and the separation, alienation, and undermining begin, accompanied by a gnawing hunger for love and for something ineffable that we sense is out there. All our lives, we remember the grandmother or father, the teacher, the friend who saw the spark within us when we were young, who saw us as we really were, who recognized and tried to nurture the best in us. And all our lives we suffer because of those who did, and do, the opposite. Under good circumstances, or sometimes against all odds, some people find their way and manage to live lovingly toward others and toward themselves, in spite of setbacks. Most struggle. And a few slip into the darkness and become capable of terrible things.

--

We can blame society, parents, religious institutions, educational and justice systems, the economic situation into which we were born, racism, homophobia, misogyny: all are part of the systems that maim and destroy people. Today I read a number or articles about guns in America that sought to prove that gun control was the answer to that country's epidemic of violence. But until a society looks beyond the gun to the hand that holds it, into the mind that picked it up and felt the need to buy it, and beyond that mind into the forces that not only made the gun easily available but created the desire to be prepared to shoot and kill, there is absolutely no hope for change.

Let's be clear. This is a country that fought a devastating, bloody, and still unresolved civil war war over the right of certain human beings to own and enslave other human beings. It is a country that committed genocide on the native peoples. It is a country that has treated all its "enemies" who were not white and European as sub-human and unequal, and still does -- and steadfastly refuses to discuss any of this history or to acknowledge the legacy of violence, injustice, and inequality that is interwoven and perpetuated in its national narrative. America definitely needs gun control. But what it needs more is a gigantic mirror.

Thomas Merton's life and thinking were profoundly influenced by the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the nuclear arms race, which he saw as potentially the most terrible development in human history, not just because of its ability to create Armageddon, but because of what the existence of such weapons does to the human psyche. Merton was born in 1915 and died, accidentally, at age 53 in 1968. I was a teenager then, certainly influenced by growing up just after WWII, by the Cuban Missile crisis and the continuation of the nuclear arms race, then by the Vietnam War and the social upheaval of those times. My life has already been a decade longer than Merton's. I've seen the failure of the anti-war movement to significantly endure past the mid 1970s, and have been dismayed by the rise of corporate power, the increasing disparity of wealth and opportunity, the militarization of American society, the persistent threat of nuclear war, and the incredible lack of compassion for immigrants and anyone who is "other", as well as our own poor and disenfranchised. The wrong turn after 9/11 has plunged the world into much greater instability and fear, and gravely altered American society: much of what we are seeing today has felt predictable to me for a very long time.

And yet, the sense persists that humanity evolves on a time frame that I cannot see or comprehend. I've just been reading some ancient history, about Greek and Roman city-states in other parts of the Mediterranean. The cruelty of the tyrants and states in those days was on a scale that we can barely imagine. When a city was conquered, its entire population was often destroyed, or sold into slavery. And these were not uncivilized or unsophisticated people, they were often, as the writer put it, "educated people who spoke Greek and simply ran afoul of the massive inferiority complex of the Romans toward the Greek world." We don't physically enslave entire populations now, or crucify 6,000 slaves along the nation's most prominent highway, as the Romans did after a rebellion. We do other things that, on the surface, at least, seem less devastating and less cruel. 2,000 years of history have not taught a majority of human beings to share, or to lose, or to resolve difficulties without resorting to violence in our words or actions toward others, or by turning that energy against ourselves in destructive ways we don't even recognize.

--

So I am not particularly optimistic about humanity in general in the short term, but individuals can actually live differently if we are willing to keep our eyes and hearts open, and resist the temptation of following the herd. We can do a great deal for one another to make these times more bearable, especially if our relationships go deeper than the general discourse on social media. We can find strength as well as solace in the arts, in our work, in the natural world, in learning, in openness to difference and ways and people we do not know. We can learn to see and refuse the violence in our own selves, nipping it before it flowers into malevolence that affects our own spirit and those around us. We can try to be the people who see the best in each other, and encourage that, especially in the young.

There is so much work to do. Please, let's get on with it.

Comfort and Discomfort in the Business of Art

Last month I had a pastel selected for an international juried exhibition here in Montreal, sponsored by the Pastel Society of Eastern Canada, an organization I joined earlier in the year. The opening was last night, and I had to do quite a bit of work to get ready for it. Framing the piece, of course, but also doing a number of tasks I've neglected because I have not exhibited at live exhibitions for a long time, in favor of sharing my work online here and on social media. For instance, I didn't have business cards for my studio, or a website specifically for my art to list on them, or on my artist's profile with this or other organizations.

Since closing my Etsy shop, I've been mulling over what I wanted to do about offering my work for sale, and decided that it was a question of respecting myself and my work: it should be priced properly, and presented and offered in a way that reflects me honestly and clearly.  That meant creating a new website from scratch. I completed it a few days ago, and it's ready to view on computers or phones.

 

It was an illuminating process: in choosing the work for the site, I realized for the first time, really, that I have actually created a cohesive body of work over the past several decades, even though I haven't been able to devote myself to it with sustained focus until recently -- which has been a frustration throughout my adult life. I think the person behind the work comes through, too, and that was a surprise and a happiness; I was also able to see new directions, which I think is often the result of various kinds of retrospectives or collections.

I do need to participate in exhibitions, and perhaps look for gallery representation, but I have mixed feelings about both, as many of us do who are online a lot. Exhibitions are still prestigious, but they're also expensive and time-consuming, and yield limited results. Sharing work online makes so much sense for me, not just because it is easy, but because the connections and the community are an integral part of what art-making means to me. Watching a body of work develop over time - your own and other people's - is rewarding, fascinating, and a privilege. I love being in touch with younger artists and encouraging them, while also being pushed into new places, and included where I would not otherwise be. And in turn, I'm encouraged by artists of my own age and especially by older friends who continue to do excellent work and challenge themselves: I want to be just like them, as long as I possibly can. I have found more kindred spirits online than I ever did in real life, even in a big city like this one, and it doesn't matter at all where we are.

Here in Quebec, language issues continue to be somewhat of an obstacle, or at least a stumbling-block, for me. There were very few anglophone artists represented in last night's exhibition, and when I went down to the Old City a few days ago to help with hanging the show, I was the only anglophone among a number of people not just from Montreal (where we are all used to dealing with not just two but many languages) but from provincial Quebec where French is spoken almost exclusively. I can manage in French, but my lack of complete fluency limits me; my name-tag gave me away as English before I even opened my mouth. So I felt awkward, the odd person out among many people who already knew each other well and had a cultural connection; I tried my best to be extroverted and friendly, but by the time I came home I was exhausted and a bit discouraged.

At last night's opening.

This is an ongoing issue of living in a bilingual culture that is not my own. In the choir, we are a mixed group of French and English speakers, but unified by sharing the common language of music, and working hard, like a team, toward a common goal. I have never felt excluded or unaccepted there in any way. But when joining mainly-French groups, I have sometimes felt a subtle sense of being on the outside, and even of exclusion. I'm not looking for that, as some people do, but I've been here long enough to know that prejudice does exist and that it has nothing to do with me, personally: like all racism, it stems from systems of superiority and power that are actually rooted in fear and insecurity. Here, they reflect a history of injustice and inferiority where the positions were once reversed. Many anglophones deal with these issues by living in English-speaking areas and joining English-language artist groups, but we live on the French side of the city, and have tried to find our way within it.

Being truly fluent in French would help, but it would not change the underlying dynamic: prejudice and closed doors are a fact of life here for almost all immigrants, except the French-from-France who are alternately resented and fawned over. It's particularly difficult for immigrants who speak French as a second language to find work. As an American, I am actually less subject to prejudice than the English Canadians who once ruled and dominated Quebec. Neither the French nor the Americans wanted to remain subjects of the British; we had our "revolutions" at different times, but I think we often feel we have more in common.

For the most part, I try to ignore the prejudice: to be friendly, and assume I will be liked and accepted for myself. For the most part, that's been true. It would have been a lot harder if I had come when younger and tried to find employment or start a business. As it is, I love Montreal for its multi-culturalism; I feel at home now. But when I come up against these subtle walls, it reminds me how vastly worse it is for so many, and confirms my empathy for immigrants and refugees, for people of color, for other women and LGBT people around the world. I actually have a lot of empathy for the Quebecois who were repressed by the Church and by the English. Of course they want and deserve their own language and culture -- but at what price? Prior to the upcoming elections, the Liberal provincial government passed a law banning face coverings for those in public jobs or receiving public services -- which includes using public transit. The law is aimed squarely at the tiny minority of Muslim women who wear the niqab or burka, and its purpose was to woo the most conservative, pro-separatist, racist voters who normally don't vote Liberal. It's a stupid, wrong-headed, misguided law that won't stand up in court, but it is an indication of the racism that persists, particularly outside Montreal. Fortunately, a majority of people strongly disagree, and will continue to fight for inclusion and fairness.

Last weekend, we were in the U.S. visiting friends and family, and my heart broke for the difficulties many of them are facing -- from fear of nuclear missiles to soaring healthcare premiums -- and the daily political climate in which they're forced to exist. Coming up against this darkness in daily life reinforces the openness and diversity of my online life, and how much it matters to me. I have friends all over the world, united by shared humanistic values, and by the desire to express ourselves artistically through various media. I often have no idea, nor do I care, about my friends' color, sexual orientation, or religion. I care about their lives; I care that they are open to me and in turn I try to be open to them.

Art, seen in this way, is much more a language than a business. And so I've reached this conclusion: that my art feels right when it is priced to fairly reflect the work that has gone into it -- and also when it is given away.

#MeToo, no disclaimer needed

Last night, a phenomenon unfolded on Facebook and Twitter, as one woman after another changed her status to "Me Too" or #MeToo, announcing publicly that she had at one time been sexually harassed or assaulted. I posted my own "Me Too" around 8:00 pm, and watched as friend after friend followed suit. Dave Bonta called it "a harrowing evening." Yes, but I was not as surprised as some of the few men to comment have been. Neither were the other women. Why? Because we've all known, or at least suspected, how endemic this is, and how difficult and futile it has been to speak out about it in our own lives. Even so, as I saw the status updates from women I've known and cared about, online or in person, my primary emotion was sorrow. I could handle the fact that it had happened to me, not once but several times. But seeing that it had also happened to so many dear female friends made me weep. "It's practically all of us," I wrote to a friend in Nova Scotia. "I am so sorry. Me too," I wrote to many others, and many wrote the same to me.

It has been painful, but freeing, to see this groundswell of courage and solidarity. If the revelations about Harvey Weinstein and the American Groper-in-Chief have contributed to women's solidarity on this issue, that is at least one good thing.

Then came the predictable push-backs: that we need to point out that most men are good, or that really the hash tag should be "all of us" because many men have been abused too, or that feminism has caused a lot of anger which has been directed at men and is a form of harassment.

One writer who thinks hard about these things said she was uncomfortable because "this puts the onus of speaking out / creating change on the women who've experienced harassment or assault instead of on the men who did the harassing or assaulting."

On the first points, yes, of course most men are not perpetrators. I've always had good men in my life who have loved and treated me gently. But we don't need to say that right now, and we don't need to apologize or add disclaimers: this is not about them. Why can't we hear people speaking out about a specific abuse or oppression and simply put ourselves aside for a moment and empathize with the victim and what she is saying, at significant cost to herself, and the effect it has had on her life?" Black Lives do Matter. Indigenous Lives Matter. Women's Lives Matter. Each of these should be a very simple concept. It is not about "Your Life Matters" or "All Lives Matter;" it is about acknowledging racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia and other abuses for what they are, and sitting with that, and with those who have suffered. Period. I don't expect black or indigenous people to offer me a disclaimer, nor should they. I will write a post about empathy in the future, it's something I've been wanting to do.

But for now, I want to address just the last point. As for being uncomfortable with placing women in the position of speaking out, I think we don't need to worry. Women have already shown how strong and resilient we are; we have survived millennia of being treated as property, used, harassed, and assaulted -- and then shamed and blamed. We have endured unequal opportunity, unequal pay, unequal education, glass ceilings -- and verbal abuse for being strong, smart, accomplished, and capable. We have borne children, kept food on the table and home life together while also working jobs; we've nursed the sick and dying, and cared for the elderly and the weak in the face of wars and famines and refugee crises. I think we can handle speaking out, and furthermore, we have to seize this moment and do so.

It is a delusion to expect the people, whether male or female, who hold, benefit from, and use sexual power to be the ones to correct the system: that has never worked in the history of the world. What works is when sufficient numbers of an oppressed or victimized group finally have enough courage to speak out about what has happened to them, and to stand up together for openness, transparency, and change.

In this moment of revelation, courage, and solidarity among ordinary women -- like me, and like your own sister, wife, mother, daughter, colleagues and friends --  there are just a few appropriate responses for men and women alike: "I am so sorry that happened to you. I applaud your courage. We need to do better as we raise our children." Down the road, we need to change a great deal about our society, but it starts with telling the truth about what has happened to us so that the magnitude of the problem can be revealed.

Eclipse

 

 

Which side are you on?

President Trump's remarks in support of the alt-right are worse than despicable: they signal what is to come if he stays in office. I've just written or called all the members of the Vermont congressional delegation, where I vote, and I urge you to do the same. If I were in the U.S. today I'd be out on the street with a protest sign and working with whatever coalitions I could on behalf of all marginalized people -- which means everyone who is not white, straight, and male.

It's absolutely incredible to me that America has a president who openly supports neo-Nazis and white supremacists with so little effective opposition. It is not surprising to me that he was elected, or that these elements in American society have come out into the open, because I have always known they were there; only those who have existed in homogeneous, naive, privileged bubbles could have missed this in their lives in America. Yes, the Democrats and a few Republicans have managed to block his legislation, and the courts have overruled his most egregious anti-immigration orders, but where are the people who will actually finally stand up and stop this? Where is our own Desmond Tutu, Martin Luther King? Where is the present-day Edward R. Murrow, speaking out against McCarthyism? But let's not stop there. Where and who are you? Because the time has come when each of us must face the decision to stand on the sidelines, or to actively resist, shelter, and protect those who are being persecuted: Jews and Muslims, people of color and of non-European ethnicity, the poor, women who are not protected by their wealth or association with white men.

And I'm sorry, but isn't enough to write hand-wringing Facebook and Twitter posts to our like-minded friends, or even blog posts like this. Are you willing to go to Washington, or to protest neo-Nazi book burnings in your city, or police brutality against blacks, or hate crimes against Jews or Muslims? Are you willing to go to city hall, to write letters, to organize your neighbors, to stand on a street corner with a sign, to call and write your representatives not just once but every week? Are you willing to protect, comfort, and shelter those who are and will be persecuted?

I've been an advocate and activist for peace and non-violence all my life, but I do believe that there are values worth fighting to protect. My own father, still living, risked his life as a tank driver in WWII to fight against the fascism that Trump is now championing. I just spent a weekend with five Jewish people my age whose families came to America from Germany, Austria, Russia, and Egypt to escape the Nazis; some members did not survive. My mother-in-law's family was killed in the Armenian genocide; my father-in-law's Arab family only survived the Ottoman persecutions of Christians because a Muslim leader protected them; they immigrated to America, were educated and assimilated, and now face prejudice and persecution. Where does it end? What an irony and obscenity it is to have a president, 80 years later, whose definition of American "greatness" has nothing to do with freedom and equality for all people, but instead bases his definition on rampant capitalism, exclusion, racism, homophobia, misogyny and privilege solely for the benefit of wealthy white males exactly like himself.

Do not kid yourself: 80 years after that World War, there is a war for the soul of western democracy. Which side are you on, and what are you willing to do? People everywhere -- white people in particular -- and not just in the U.S., have to speak up, stand up, and demand that our democracies work the way they are supposed to. One thing I have learned in my own fairly long life is if you wait for "the system" to quietly fix things on its own, nothing will happen, and the voices of fear will always drown out the voices of justice, fairness, and reason. A government of the people, by the people and for the people only works when the people themselves stand up for what is right, and not only demand the changes they want to see but make the decision to BE and LIVE as courageous people of justice and inclusion in the face of dark forces.

A beach of shells

For the past couple of weeks, I've been painting shells that I've collected in recent years on the beaches near St. Augustine. First, three small watercolors, each one of a different scallop, with a tiny smooth shell beneath. On July 4, I started a much larger painting, of many shells, arranged on a plain page; the impetus for this arrangement seemed to come from some deeper place in my subconscious. Why? I wondered, as I finalized the composition and set pencil to paper. What am I doing here?

The Fourth of July came on the heels of two other national holidays - Quebec's St-Jean-Baptiste on June 24, and Canada Day on July 1. The separatists always come out in force for La Fête St-Jean, along with the less-political French-Canadians who simply want to celebrate their heritage. By contrast, Canada - which turned 150 this year - barely seems to know what to do to celebrate itself, since the question "What is Canada?" often yields only amorphous answers, or stereotypes involving parkas, snowshoes, hockey, and beer.

On Canadian holidays I still feel mostly like the observer and recent, mid-life immigrant that I am. We went down to the Jacques-Cartier bridge on Canada Day to watch the fireworks, and the moment they finished, the heavens opened and there was torrential rain, drenching the thousands of people on the bridge in a few minutes. I looked around: as usual for the fireworks, here was a microcosm of Montreal: French and English-speakers, Indians, Asians, Middle-Easterners, Africans; older people like ourselves, family groups, teenagers in packs, couples with small children and babies. Everyone was laughing and chattering in their own languages, and smiling at the strangers near them. The initial dash to get off the bridge soon turned to a slow splashing stroll, and a kind of collective merriment. I was so wet I could feel water streaming down my legs inside my jeans from my soaked underwear; like almost everyone else, we had no umbrella, no hoods or jackets. By the time we finally got to our bikes, at the end of the bridge, the downpour had stopped, and we cycled home. Now, that experience seemed Canadian: the lack of drama or hysteria, the acceptance of nature's unpredictability, the good mood in the face of it. But you can't encapsulate that, it's merely a feeling, one that I not only recognize from being here for more than a decade, but share -- like a lot of other inexpressible things about Canada and Quebec -- because it feels natural to who I am, to who I've always been.

America, on the other hand -- what was anyone to make of July 4th this year?  The celebratory spirit seemed muted, but I felt even more removed than usual, and wrote to a friend that I felt I was "done with nationalisms of any kind."

 

Instead I stood at my work table that day and made the careful, detailed under-drawing for the new painting, and thought about the beach above St Augustine: a shell beach, with a perfect gradation from intact shells close to the water's edge, to smaller and smaller water-worn pieces, and finally coarse shell-sand forming the dunes. Each one of those shells, I realized, represented one organism, one life, in numbers that seemed much more profound than the clichéd impossibility of "counting the grains of sand." Who was I, I wondered, in the face of all those lives that had been lived: one human in the year 2017, bending down to pluck a dozen shells from the beach and put them into her pocket to bring back to Canada, far to the north, a cold place surrounded my frigid oceans where not one of those organisms could have survived for very long?

 Maybe, I thought, the multiple shells in the new painting represented some sort of subconscious move away from a focus on the individual, brought on by my reflections about July 4th and America. The shells are a sample that represents an entire beach, which in turn is a sample that represents the life of an ocean. They have characteristics and vital needs in common, yet are extraordinary and beautiful in their uniqueness.

Later, though, as I worked, I began to realize that the shells in the painting were also symbols for me of the refugees who have arrived on Mediterranean beaches, both dead and alive: people we have labelled collectively but who are -- as a few striking images have shown us - individuals with personal and deeply-affecting stories.

I wrote more about nationalism, immigration, and politics, but on re-reading deleted it: too heavy-handed, and maybe even too obvious.

Let's just say that the more I travel and the more people I meet from all over the world -- all of us arriving, some more battered than others, on these beaches of our lives -- the more I see my personal story as one of many, and that our shared humanity is a far greater connection than any arbitrary division, especially when it is those divisions that are so often responsible for conflict and exodus. I'm much more interested these days in trying to express my feelings about the interconnected world, which includes the preciousness of each anonymous human and non-human life. As the poet Gary Snyder wrote: “The size of the place that one becomes a member of is limited only by the size of one’s heart.”

Examining the reasons why.

Lately I've been going through old blog posts from around the time we were moving between Vermont and Montreal, before we'd made the decision to move permanently, as source material for a possible project. This morning I've been reading posts from the winter of 2004-2005, and it gives me no pleasure to see further evidence of why I named my blog "The Cassandra Pages." Here's one such paragraph, written on January 19, 2005, the day before George Bush was inaugurated for his second term:

"I disagree with much of the American left, who seem to feel that if they only can regroup, "reach out" and spin their message differently, the balance will shift to them. This is, I feel, both naive and limited, and except for a few outstanding individuals, it will have neither authenticity nor sufficient authority to really change policy or opinion at a root level - either in Washington or in the heartland. The true change required is enormous, and will take generations: it has to take place in the American psyche - including the hearts of many who "vote Democratic" but live lives that are exploitative and consumptive and do not embrace truly understand the diversity and interdependence of our world. Even more difficult, that change of heart has to include conquering the power of fear."

I wrote a long political post about current times that I've just deleted; I'll leave it at that, and you can draw your own conclusions.