STOP

JUST STOP.

STOP killing children and civilians.

And find a will for peace.

Israelis and Palestinians are Cousins.

REMEMBER?

Crab Park Encounter

Last summer, strolling through Crab Park, I encountered people carrying paper plates of hot food and then saw the cue, at least 100 strong. Having time to kill I opted to join the freebie feed-in and just as I did was informed by a young woman that it was for abused native Indian lesbians only – some sort of support protest against deadbeat or violent men. I felt a little foolish for not noticing that the line-up was indeed all women with dark hair. (But I suppose the hot dogs might have been a giveaway.)

Oh well, something good did come out of this rebuke of my presence in line there. An inspiration I can only describe as profound and meaningful descended upon me with the weight of a pregnant dove. In keeping with my deep sense of social justice for all, next summer at Crab Park I will be hosting a freebie feed-in (pulled pork) of my own: for stuttering, beakless Jewish homosexual grandfathers with hairlips. (No ringers please.)

Donations of looky-loos will be gratefully accepted on site on behalf of the Foundation to Establish a Retirement Home for Exhausted Hollywood Vampires and Zombies and to offset the cost of memorial services for spotted North Korean lab rats.   

Lest We Forget

Today’s hero is Malala. This 15 year old spoke out on behalf of the girls and women of her homeland and around the world where they are oppressed and refused an education. A member of the Taliban crept up behind her and shot her in the head. Thankfully, she is recovering. The creep who shot her hasn’t been apprehended yet. Maybe we should look behind his mother’s skirt? Or the robes of his Taliban pals? In what dark dimension of thought do those a-holes actually consider the shooter a hero?

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Dear Editors

While rows and rows of nicely attired soldiers, cadets and veterans all handsomely parade in front of cenotaphs around our country this Sunday, would it surprise any veteran or members of veterans’ families if the Veterans’Affairs bureaucrats were throwing an in-house Bureaucrat Appreciation Party for their effective stonewalling of veterans’ services? The party bill, of course, to be picked up by the taxpayers who are naive enough to believe that their taxes are there to assist these war heroes and their families.

      With so much largesse to be had, maybe the ‘crats would also appreciate their own uniform to parade in? Maybe a flashy t-shirt emblazoned with a bird-flip in the shape of a cenotaph?  I have the design here. To order, given your usual time schedule, I’ll place inventory in all sizes in my warehouse of mothballs.

-Harry Langen, son of George (war hero),still waiting after seven years for Dad’s war record.       

That man pleading with eyes a’twinkling, with sweet, child-like forbearance and puppy-brows has a shank in his back pocket.

Harry Langen,

#107, 42 east Cordova Street,

Vancouver,

V6A 1K2

November 2, 2012

Re Multiculturalism, Language and the Canadian Society

Dear Mr McMartin:

Thank you for your piece on multiculturalism of October 25^th. I have also observed changes in the social mosaic of Vancouver; in my case since 1968 after arriving alone from Toronto. I recall in those days the debate about the Canadian identity. What or who is a Canadian? Having been the founder of the debating club at my high school, I was always up for a good mind-rattling discourse on vague ideas. Somewhat more mature now I view a society by the fundamental values it embraces and then how much the people actually live by those values. This living I believe will shape the identity of a country. Now as I scan the lay of that spiritual landscape, as it were, I am dismayed; and almost every day that distraught state of mind might deepen were I not to hold fast to my unreasonable optimism. While we native Canadians (I’m of an ancestry that arrived in Nova Scotia before Canada was called Canada in the mid 1700’s) fumbled around navel-gazing about who we are and what makes a Canadian,  successive federal governments swung wide the gates to well-heeled immigrants. At first blush, especially with the Honourable Pierre Trudeau’s effective pitching of that new word “multiculturalism,” we, the great grandchildren of pioneers, nodded our willing ascent and clapped ourselves on the back for our tolerance and new worldliness.

   That’s when, from my perspective, the bloodless revolution began. You mentioned in your column, “I don’t want to see these beliefs (Canadian) eroded.” Well, fella, this country is only one effective legal argument away from hosting on our turf Radio Communism.

   It has become painfully obvious to me as a man on the street that this huge influx of immigrants, from Asia particularly, did not, in the main, come here to enhance Canadianism.

   Generalization is not fair, I know, so I will join you in tip-toeing through this morass. I will write only about that which I observe. On Robson by Denman, the Koreans gather in cues for dinner. Always pleasant to witness the laughter of young people but where’s the sound of English? The East Indians gather in multi-family houses in Surrey and the smell of baked salmon, hot dogs or Canadian bacon (ahem) is hardly pervasive. Broiled tongue-in-cheek sometimes though. (Mine?) I don’t know where the young Chinese are tribalizing but with our Chinatown rotting on the vine, it isn’t Keefer or Pender streets. Night-time in Chinatown is akin to a stroll in Hiroshima, circa 1945. I can imagine what the tourists must think as they scurry away from that dead zone in favour of T shirt purchases in Gastown. The restaurateurs in Chinatown are scratching their heads perhaps wondering why service with a scowl didn’t quite cut it. The Filipinos on Fraser Street congregate in restaurants reinforcing their culture among themselves. And it’s especially disturbing to me to have to negotiate my way past or through or around the knots of young immigrants standing on the sidewalk outside their English schools, smoking and sharing their stories in guess-what language? Not mine.

   We are the words we speak. We are the words we hear. And language is a warm hand-made quilt. We are each of us wrapped in that unique culture, inherent in it is our history as a people. Maritime hospitality is still recognizable when you hear “Lord tunderin’ Jesus, pull up a chair!” There are still remnants of the hippie heyday on Fourth Avenue. The American draft dodgers have successfully integrated, their own accents being subsumed into our Canuckian mix.

   Two incidents, I unfortunately witnessed recently, speak volumes. An elderly woman, clearly in distress, was staggering on Gore street by Keefer by a red light. As it turned green, the drivers, almost ALL Asian, picked their way around her even after she fell on her face to the asphalt. No one stopped. I held out my hand to stop the traffic and approached the Asian elder. By then a store owner (Asian) finally peered out from his door and reluctantly came over to help me help her off the street. I then waved down a police car. I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath. She was ill. A young woman on an overcrowded Skytrain (Asian) was texting right by the door. As passengers were cramming themselves in, she stood her ground and all had to squeeze by her. The long curly hair of the lady in front of the texter was now in her face. She looked downright peeved but didn’t move.

   These incidents illustrate the absolute lack of Canadian politeness for which we native Canadians are so well reputed, even around the globe. But have we natives become so polite, almost to the point of collective obsequiousness, that we will allow our culture, our language to become extinct? Is my quilt burning?

   Allow me to conclude with a simple experiment we can all try at home. Take a big jug of clear water and add a dab of red ink. Shake. See how it goes a little pink? Now add a large dollop of red ink. Shake. Now it’s going red, n’est-ce pas? Now tell me: do we seriously believe that if we keep adding red ink that this jug will not lose its original colour altogether?

   When a Vancouver catastrophe hits all of us (i.e. the big quake), who do you think is going to be helping whom?

   Having been the victim of much social abuse over the years for my own uniqueness, it would not be fair nor true to call me a racist. Tolerance is defined as a. Leeway for variation from a standard. b. The permissible deviation from a specified value of a structural dimension, often expressed as a percent.

   As for me, the borders of my “leeway” are in sight. And my willingness to deviate from a specified value is verging exhaustion.

   You asked, Mr McMartin: “Are we stronger as a society?” Now you have one Canadian’s answer.