Categories for Feature

Comments (0)

It’s more like an ordeal, than a year. That has been 2020. 

In A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens famously declared that “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” 

But you can’t really say that about these times. They are the worst in living memory. There is no glorious revolution to celebrate, as Dickens did. 

The three horsemen of the current apocalypse are well-known: the coronavirus, the collapse of the world economy, and the lethal racism that seemingly permeates too many institutions. It is not an exaggeration to say that these three things have reordered our present view of the world. 

Indeed, against those three things – Covid-19, global recession and widespread systemic racism – many have been measured. Many have been judged. 

Many have been found lacking. 

So, Donald Trump will lose in November because he has failed the test of all three. He called the coronavirus “a hoax.” He repeatedly promised an economic rebirth that never came. And – because, he is in his essence a white supremacist – he badly miscalculated how to respond to the historic rebellion against police racism and brutality. His response: threaten to send in American troops to confront the American people.

But others are in the process of being judged, too.  And not just in the United States. 

In the middle of an unprecedented global uprising against racism, Conservative leadership candidate Erin O’Toole issued an unambiguous dog-whistle, proclaiming he wanted to “take Canada back.” From whom, he didn’t say. He didn’t have to: his is, and was, the party of the barbaric practices hotline. 

Justin Trudeau was caught wearing racist blackface, and was so completely lacking in self-awareness – so incapable of shame – he later turned a Black Lives Matter protest into the backdrop for a photo op. Plunging into a crowd on Parliament Hill when, just the days before, he had exhorted us all to keep away from crowds. 

The RCMP, once our proud national police force – once even a symbol of the country itself – is being judged, too. As the Mounties’ leadership plays semantic games about what “systemic racism” means, its membership shoot an Indigenous woman to death during “a wellness check.” They gun down an Indigenous man in a New Brunswick street – why, we do not know. And they brutalize and beat another Indigenous man – a respected chief in Alberta – in a parking lot. All this, from a police force whose Commissioner told the Globe and Mail “we don’t have systemic racism,” before reversing herself.

Many media have done a commendable job documenting all of these serial failures by those who are supposed to know better. In the grinding, grueling Spring of 2020, our media have mostly served us well. 

Not CBC, however.

CBC recently decided to destroy the career of Wendy Mesley, a Gemini-winning journalist who has worked at the national broadcaster for 40 years.  Her offence? To express concern about a possible panelist who might use the N-word. 

Mesley did not say the word on air.  She was in a private meeting with CBC staff, discussing the suitability of the guest who might say it.  She expressed disapproval.

That didn’t matter to the craven, dissembling cowards who run the CBC.  They summarily cancelled the remaining episodes of Mesley’s show, and suspended the award-winning journalist.  Mesley had apologized, quickly and unambiguously.  Veteran CBC journalists like Neil MacDonald and Bruce Dowbiggin had come to her defence. But the CBC’s “leadership” was undeterred.  Mesley was gone, and few expect her to come back.

This would be the same CBC, of course, who once gave a platform to the founder of the American Nazi Party to spew white supremacy and anti-Semitic bile on-air.  The same CBC who brought robed Klansmen onto a show to advocate separation of the races.  The same CBC who hosted Anne Coulter, who calls non-white immigration “genocide.”

The same CBC which, not long ago, gave an uncritical platform to Gavin McInnes, the founder of the white supremacist Proud Boys.  While the clueless CBC host did precisely nothing, McInnes advocated “issuing a bounty” on Indigenous people.  McInnes – who had previously written “Ten Things I Hate About Jews” for Rebel Media, and called Muslims “sandbox savages” – was permitted by CBC to spew racist invective without opposition, without context.

The CBC, in its scramble to look tolerant, now looks like something else entirely: a farce.

We live in profoundly troubled times.  We are at risk of losing much to a troika of grim threats – coronavirus, recession, systemic racism. We need leadership.

Too often, this year, we’re not getting it.

 

 

Comments (6)

When you read this important essay, keep in mind that Kristin Rayworth was obliged to apologize to me, retract, pay my legal fees, and make a donation to Equal Voice on my behalf.

That says plenty. So does Mr. Hehr.

More than two years have passed since I faced the #MeToo accusations that led to me resigning from Cabinet. While it has been a whirlwind, I have taken pause every day since to reflect not just on the accusations, but how I have lived my life.

This came into sharp focus a month ago when the woman who accused me of sexual harassment in 2018 apologized for making libellous statements about Canadian public figure Warren Kinsella. She falsely claimed that he had abused women and hit his wife, and was forced to retract these statements. Kinsella wrote an article that provided some context for all of this, and you can read it in the link below. Here’s how he closed it: “… to Kent Hehr, wherever you are: I now wonder whether you deserved better. I wonder that a lot.”

http://warrenkinsella.com/2020/04/apology-by-kristin-raworth

When I read this, my mind immediately went to the classic Clint Eastwood film, Unforgiven. My favourite scene is when Eastwood’s character, an aging outlaw killer, stands above the corrupt sheriff who pleads, “I don’t deserve this, to die like this. I was building a house.” Eastwood’s character replies, “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it.”

I stand by what I wrote to Canadians in the spring of 2018. The same woman who accused Kinsella alleged, when I was an MLA twelve years ago and she worked at the legislature, that I had called her “yummy” in an elevator. I did not, and do not, recall ever meeting her. I certainly don’t recall ever saying “yummy” to her (or to anyone, for that matter).

In response to this accusation I wrote, “I have never been perfect but have always strived to do better,” and this remains true today. The important question for me is whether I could become a better person from the #MeToo movement. The answer has proven to be yes.

I used to think that I could call myself a feminist simply because I was a progressive. I thought it was enough that I believed in equal pay for equal work, a woman’s right to choose, and national daycare. I thought it was enough that I ran in elections under the Liberal banner, as a champion of women’s liberation and gender equality.

But it was not enough, not even close.

I have learned that it matters not just who you affiliate with, but how you speak and listen. Being a progressive is a choice each and every day, to fight for certain values as well as to live by them. It meant looking at my own behaviour and language. It means humility by consistently choosing to be humble. It means renouncing attitudes once taken for granted.

The truth is: I have acted inappropriately at times in my life—sometimes inadvertently, sometimes by choice. I grew up playing hockey, and if there was ever a place for toxic masculinity to fester it was in the dressing room. Everything centred around sex; it was far from healthy or respectful, and I willingly took part. I spent more than my fair share of time sitting around a pub table where improper conversations about women were commonplace.

I didn’t see, or try to see, the inherent harm in what I thought was harmless banter. This was wrong. Even as an elected politician, I could revel in a bad joke with friends, colleagues and my own staff. I realize now more than ever that this was also wrong. I take personal responsibility, and what I stated in 2018 doesn’t just stand: it takes on new meaning for me every day.

Here’s another quote I love from Unforgiven. The Schofield Kid says, “Yeah…well, I guess they had it comin’.” Eastwood’s character replies, “We all have it comin’, kid.” I agree: sometimes we do have it coming, whether we deserve it or not.

At 50, there are more days behind me than ahead. I’ve learned during my time rolling this earth that, while “deserve” may have nothing to do with it, forgiveness does. I hope to be forgiven and I want to forgive others as well.

Comments (4)

Comments (1)

Dr. T. Douglas KINSELLA, CM, BA, MD, FACP, FRCPC.

Like some men, and as was the practice in some families, my brothers and I did not hug my father a lot. As we got older in places like Montreal, or Kingston, or Dallas or Calgary, we also did not tell him that we loved him as much as we did. With our artist Mom, there was always a lot of affection, to be sure; but in the case of my Dad, usually all that was exchanged with his four boys was a simple handshake, when it was time for hello or goodbye. It was just the way we did things.

There was, however, much to love about our father, and love him we did. He was, and remains, a giant in our lives – and he was a significant presence, too, for many of the patients whose lives he saved or bettered over the course a half-century of healing. We still cannot believe he is gone, with so little warning.

Thomas Douglas Kinsella was born on February, 15, 1932 in Montreal. His mother was a tiny but formidable force of nature named Mary; his father, a Northern Electric employee named Jimmy, was a stoic man whose parents came over from County Wexford, in Ireland. In their bustling homes, in and around Montreal’s Outremont, our father’s family comprised a younger sister, Juanita, and an older brother, Howard. Also there were assorted uncles – and foster siblings Bea, Ernie, Ellen and Jimmy.

When he was very young, Douglas was beset by rheumatic fever. Through his mother’s ministrations, Douglas beat back the potentially-crippling disease. But he was left with a burning desire to be a doctor.

Following a Jesuitical education at his beloved Loyola High School in Montreal, Douglas enrolled at Loyola College, and also joined the Royal Canadian Armoured Corps. It was around that time he met Lorna Emma Cleary, at a Montreal Legion dance in April 1950. She was 17 – a dark-haired, radiant beauty from the North End. He was 18 – and a handsome, aspiring medical student, destined for an officer’s rank and great things.

It was a love like you hear about, sometimes, but which you rarely see. Their love affair was to endure for 55 years – without an abatement in mutual love and respect.

On a hot, sunny day in June 1955, mid-way through his medical studies at McGill, Douglas and Lorna wed at Loyola Chapel. Then, three years after Douglas’ graduation from McGill with an MD, first son Warren was born.

In 1963, second son Kevin came along, while Douglas was a clinical fellow in rheumatism at the Royal Vic. Finally, son Lorne arrived in 1965, a few months before the young family moved to Dallas, Texas, to pursue a research fellowship. In the United States, Douglas’ belief in a liberal, publicly-funded health care system was greatly enhanced. So too his love of a tolerant, diverse Canada.

In 1968, Douglas and his family returned to Canada and an Assistant Professorship in Medicine at Queen’s University in Kingston. More than 35 years later, it was at Kingston General Hospital – in the very place where Douglas saved so many lives – that his own life would come to a painless end in the early hours of June 15, 2004, felled by a fast-moving lung cancer.

Kingston was followed in 1973 by a brief return to Montreal and a professorship at McGill. But an unstable political environment – and the promise of better research in prosperous Alberta – persuaded the family to journey West, to Calgary.

There Lorna and Douglas would happily remain for 25 years, raising three sons – and providing legal guardianship to grandson Troy, who was born in 1982. At the University of Calgary, and at Foothills Hospital, Douglas would achieve distinction for his work in rheumatology, immunology and – later – medical bioethics.

He raised his boys with one rule, which all remember, but none observed as closely as he did: “Love people, and be honest.” His commitment to ethics, and healing – and his love and honesty, perhaps – resulted in him being named a Member of the Order of Canada in 1995.

On the day that the letter arrived, bearing Governor-General Romeo LeBlanc’s vice-regal seal, Douglas came home from work early – an unprecedented occurence – to tell Lorna. It was the first time I can remember seeing him cry.

As I write this, I am in a chair beside my father’s bed in a tiny hospital room in Kingston, Ont.,where he and my mother returned in 2001 to retire. It is night, and he has finally fallen asleep.

My father will die in the next day or so, here in the very place where he saved lives. He has firmly but politely declined offers of special treatment – or even a room with a nicer view of Lake Ontario.

Before he fell asleep, tonight, I asked him if he was ready. “I am ready,” he said. “I am ready.”

When I leave him, tonight, this is what I will say to him, quietly: “We all love you, Daddy. We all love you forever.”

[Warren Kinsella is Douglas Kinsella’s eldest son. His father died two nights later.]

[From Globe’s Lives Lived, June 15, 2004.]

Comments (12)

Justin Trudeau paused. Above his black mask, the famous dark eyes flitted around the crowd.

It was Friday, and thousands had gathered for a Parliament Hill protest against racism. They stood close together, the protestors did, trying to get a glimpse of Trudeau, who was surrounded by a phalanx of security.

Trudeau spotted cameras to his left, and pointed in his direction. Satisfied, he slowly eased to one knee and bowed his head.

His only black cabinet minister, Ahmed Hussen, had been walking a few paces behind Trudeau. He got down on one knee, too.

They remained like that for eight minutes or so, the amount of time it took a Minneapolis  police officer to murder the African-American named George Floyd.

The cameras recorded every moment.

Hypocrisy, as always, is Justin Trudeau’s fatal flaw. Every politician becomes a hypocrite, if they remain in public life too long.

But Justin Trudeau has taken hypocrisy to a different level entirely. His hypocrisies are so big, so monumental, so glaring, they practically have their own weather system. They have their own time zone.

He said he wanted more women in public life, and then he brutalized and exiled the two smartest women in his cabinet – Jody Wilson-Raybould and Jane Philpott – simply because they wouldn’t do what he wanted them to. Which was break the law.

He said he wanted to emancipate Canada’s indigenous peoples – and then he defamed and demeaned the aforementioned Wilson-Raybould, a proud Indigenous leader. He sneered “thanks for your donation” to another woman, one who simply wanted him to make good on his promise to end the mercury poisoning at Grassy Narrows First Nation.

He said he objected to racism in the Conservative Party – and then tapes and photos emerged, showing Trudeau wearing racist blackface at least three times. Only when he was caught did he apologize.

He said he would return integrity and transparency to public life – and then he secretly took expensive gifts from a wealthy lobbyist. He repeatedly tried to stop the criminal prosecution of a big Quebec-based donor to his Liberal Party.

And on and on. Hypocrisy, thine name is Trudeau.

But the election result seemed to humble him. He got fewer votes than his nearest competitor. He lost his Parliamentary majority. He got quieter. He got a bit somber. The change suited him.

Then the pandemic hit, upending everyone’s life. Trudeau’s performance wasn’t flawless. He had to retreat when a plan to dramatically increase his powers became a controversy. He was criticized for traveling to be with his family, across a provincial border.

But, in the first few weeks of the pandemic, he didn’t do badly. He sounded sincere. He sounded concerned about Canadians. He came up with some good policies to help them.

And, over and over and over, he urged people to stay at home and maintain social distancing.  He said – over and over and over – that nothing was as important as that.

On April 1 – April Fool’s Day – this is what Justin Trudeau said: “The biggest variable in shaping projections is you and your behaviour. While many of you are staying home and limiting grocery trips, many are not. We must do everything we can today and tomorrow to set us on the right path for next week and the week after.”

Reporters asked him why he hadn’t released more coronavirus data, like Doug Ford had done.

Trudeau responded: “Highlighting the range isn’t as important as getting an analysis of what we’re likely to face. It’s all directly linked to how people behave today. That’s why it’s so important that people stay home and continue with social distancing and stay two metres apart and minimize movement so we can get through this in the best way possible.”

See that? “Stay home and continue with social distancing and stay two meters apart.” He said that sort of thing a lot.

And then he showed up a gathering of thousands of people. Him, Prime Minister Coronavirus Blackface.

At times like this, it is fair to wonder what Justin Trudeau is thinking. Does he think he should take a knee for black people, after having been caught repeatedly defaming them? Does he think he should use a crowd of people as a photo op, after having told them all to “stay home and continue with social distancing and stay two meters apart”?

Does he think about how profoundly, irretrievably hypocritical he looks? Does he even think at all?

On the very day that Justin Trudeau had his Black Lives Matter For Photo-Ops, I went to see my mother in Toronto.  She was behind a fence, wearing a mask. I have not been able to hug her for three months.  She has not been able to hug any of us. She is often sad and lonely.

My mother likes Justin Trudeau, but not on this day. She asked me if I had seen Trudeau at the protest. I nodded.

“I am so disappointed in him,” she said. “Why should young people listen to him now? He looks like a hypocrite.”

And that is what he will always be, too.

A hypocrite.

Comments (56)

Comments (5)

Fifty-two years ago today, he died. More than half a Century.

In my family, he was our uncrowned King. We were living in Dallas when they killed him, and I can still remember my Mom and Dad crying.

The bust on the right was found in an antique shop in Brighton, Ont. The photo on the left is of Bobby and his son Bobby Kennedy Jr., with whom I worked on an anti-tobacco file. On it, Bobby Jr. wrote: “Warren – see you on the barricades. Bobby Kennedy.”

Fifty-two years. So much would have been different – and so much better.

Comments (19)

Riots across the country.  Dozens of them, every night.

Blood all over the streets.  Broken glass crunching underfoot.  Tear gas and smouldering police cars combining to produce a stench that is as unbearable as it is unforgettable.  Fear is everywhere, tight as the zip ties on a protestor’s wrists.  

The protestors? After night and night of this, they are spent but still unable to sleep. Like someone once sang, they ain’t got no swing – except for the ring of the truncheon thing.

Hundreds injured.  Some killed.  More than $100 million in property damage – lost to looting and arson and destruction, much of it done by whites with no skin in the game.  As it were.

The United States is at war with itself.  Like Dr. King once said, a hundred lifetimes ago, the “nation’s Summers of riots are caused by our Winters of delay.”  They will continue to happen, he said back then, “as long as America postpones justice, equality and humanity.” 

The postponement of justice, equality and humanity has been presided over, in the main, by the Republican candidate for President of the United States.  A vile, contemptible shadow of a man, whose default position is racism and and sexism and hate and dark conspiracy theories.

It’s his metier.  In this Summer of Riots, it works for him.  Always has.  He’s been here before.

The Republican nominee decries the riots, but he secretly revels in them. Every brick thrown, every car torched, every small business reduced to ashes – they are re-electing him.  

And the Republican smiles, his prophecy nearly complete.

In all, there have been 159 riots.  In Buffalo, the riot started on the East Side.  Some black teenagers had been breaking some windows on William Street.  Within hours, 200 riot police are dispatched, and the street battles commence in earnest. The following day, it gets worse, with cars flipped over, stores looted, graffiti spray-painted everywhere. This time, 400 police are on hand. By the end, forty blacks are seriously injured – nearly half from bullet wounds. 

In Newark, two white cops arrest a black cab driver, who has signalled to pass a double-parked police car.  They arrest him, viciously beat him, and take him to the 4th Police Precinct, where he is charged with assaulting the officers and “making insulting remarks.” Residents of a nearby public housing project see the unconscious taxi driver being being dragged into the precinct, and a large crowd gathers outside.  Rocks are thrown; clubs are brought down on black bodies.

Within hours, a march is organized to protest police brutality in Newark. Looting commences, and spreads quickly along Springfield Avenue, the business district. Molotov cocktails are thrown; buildings catch fire. Shotguns are issued to police. They are told to “fire if necessary.” So, a woman is killed in a fusillade of bullets directed at the window of her second-floor apartment. Things get worse: there are more riots, looting, violence, and destruction.  Many, many are hurt; some are killed.

That is just Buffalo and Newark, but it’s happening all over, like some grim newsreel footage of a broken country, falling to pieces.  

Hundreds converge on the house where the Republican presidential is huddled behind drawn curtains.  The Republican summons a senior aide, and says he wants “ideas about how to push the line.”  The aide is delighted.

He says the turmoil outside can be “made into a huge incident, if we work hard to crank it up.” It could be a “really major story,” he says, that “might be effective” on Election Day.

And so they get to work.  Having decided to stoke a racial backlash, and then ride it to victory, the Republican Party’s candidate for the presidency threatens the rioters at every opportunity. The rioters are filled with “bitter hatred” for all that is good in America, he says.

“It will get worse unless we take the offensive!” he thunders.  “We must restore order!”

By now, a columnist’s sleight of hand may have been revealed.  The Republican presidential nominee above is not Donald Trump, it is Richard Nixon.  The year is not 2020 – it is 1967 and 1968, when Nixon was catapulted into the White House by a white middle class that has grown terrified of race riots on their TV screens every night.

Dr. King, in those quotes up above – in that speech he made at Stanford in 1967, speaking to a mostly-white audience about the Watts riots in Los Angeles – also said that “riots are the language of the unheard.” And they are.  They don’t just spring out of thin air – riots happen for a reason.

But they are also “socially destructive and self-defeating,” Dr. King said.

And if we’re not careful, they may re-elect Donald Trump.  

Just like they elected Richard Nixon.

Comments (37)