rotd: frederick douglass, prophet of freedom

Revolutionary thought of the day:

Douglass's great gift, and the reason we know him of today, is that he found ways to convert the scars Covey left on his body into words that might change the world.

David W. Blight, Frederick Douglass, Prophet of Freedom

This is what every abuse survivor, every war resister, every Truth and Reconciliation testifier, is doing: finding ways to convert their scars into change.

It's been a long time since our last ROTD! This book is clearly going to change that.

what i'm reading: jackie robinson: a biography

I finished reading this fine biography a while ago, but I've been having trouble writing about it. It was very good. If some parts were a bit too detailed for me (which is bound to happen if a biography is comprehensive), parts were thrilling, fascinating, sad, and very moving.

There are many biographies of Jackie Robinson out there, but Jackie Robinson: A Biography by Arnold Rampersad is said to be the most accurate and complete. Rampersad, who has also written celebrated biographies of Langston Hughes and Arthur Ashe, was the first author to have full access to Robinson's letters and personal papers, and to be chosen and authorized by Rachel Robinson. The letters are very significant, as Jackie wrote hundreds of them, to Rachel and many others.

For those who don't know, Jack Roosevelt Robinson was the first African-American to play major league baseball. It is often said that Jackie "broke the color line" — a strange euphemism, as if he broke the tape on a track, or made it through a barrier that no other Black American was good enough or lucky enough to crack.

The truth is that African-Americans were not allowed to play Major League Baseball, and the governance of the sport and almost all the team owners made sure they did not. Jackie Robinson was the first to have the opportunity to do so, and to say he made the most of it is a massive understatement.

Although Robinson's prime athletic years were behind him by the time he was finally allowed into the major leagues, he was named Rookie of the Year (1947) and National League Most Valuable Player (1949), played in six World Series, and helped the Brooklyn Dodgers finally best their hated rivals the New York Yankees in 1955. He was an All-Star in six of his 10 years playing major league baseball.

Robinson was a gifted, dedicated, and hard-working athlete. In high school and college, he excelled at baseball, football, basketball, and track. (His brother Mack was an Olympic athlete who won a silver medal in the 1936 Olympics, finishing second to Jesse Owens!) Robinson was also a straight-laced, religious, conservative man.

Before reading this book, I had no idea that Robinson's outstanding baseball career represents only half of his life's accomplishments. His later career as a civil rights speaker, writer, broadcaster, and fundraiser was equally fascinating. Robinson was the first Black television sports analyst, and the first Black vice president of a major American corporation. He helped establish the Freedom National Bank, an African-American-owned bank based in Harlem. He knew and worked with all the great civil rights leaders, actors, musicians, writers, and other celebrated African-Americans of his era. Although he survived many questionable business decisions, he always used his celebrity status to advance the cause of racial justice.

By all accounts, Robinson was an incredibly caring and compassionate person. When he played himself in the movie The Jackie Robinson Story, cast members remembered this.

On the last day, Jack made it a point to thank in person everyone on the set. Workers inured to the vanity of stars were astonished to see him climb a catwalk to shake hands with an assistant electrician. Then, late for training camp, he hurried to catch a flight to Florida.

Here's an interesting aside. Ruby Dee, playing Rachel

had one lasting regret: she had made Rachel too passive on the screen. "The moment I talked with her," Dee said, "I had the feeling I wasn't doing her justice. She was a much more outgoing person than I was portraying. She was twinkly-eyed, and I remember feeling, Gee, I wish I had known her before I took this part. She was a stronger woman than I portrayed. I had listened to too many directors about not undercutting the star. I hadn't imagined Rachel as she really was."

Two partners, and one of them was a white man

In Robinson's trailblazing and success in professional baseball, he had two partners: his wife and soulmate Rachel Robinson (nee Isum), and Brooklyn Dodgers General Manager and baseball innovator Branch Rickey.

There are far too many Hollywood-type stories of white people liberating people of colour, and I was dreading learning some awful truth about Branch Rickey, perhaps that he was not the hero that I thought him to be. The truth turned out to be even better than I knew.

Robinson understood that if he were to have an opportunity to play major league sports, some white person in a position of power would have to be involved. And Rickey understood that he had to keep his true agenda secret from everyone but Jackie. To the press, to team owners, and above all to Baseball Commissioner Happy Chandler, Rickey claimed he had only one mission: to field the best team, that would give the Dodgers their best shot at defeating the rival New York Giants and New York Yankees. But in private, Rickey was very consciously and very purposefully working for justice.

Rickey also understood that for any man to endure what was coming — the onslaught of racism that would descend from baseball players and fans, and the Jim Crow restrictions throughout much of the country — that man would need a steady supply of love and support, and lots of it. Rickey saw that Robinson had that, in Rachel. Part of Robinson and Rickey's deal was that Rachel Robinson would travel with Jackie and stay with him, from spring training in Jim Crow Florida, to his minor league days in beautiful (and accepting) Montreal, to road trips throughout the season and an apartment in Brooklyn the rest of the year. This had never been done before, and it was essential to the success of the men's great experiment.

From their first talks through most of his major league career, Jackie had two partners — Rickey, his father, mentor, and co-conspirator, and Rachel, his rock.

Jackie Robinson: A Biography offers the best description I've ever read of how utterly entrenched bigotry was in baseball, and what Rickey had to do as an owner to successfully fight it. Few white people have worked harder to further the cause of equality and racial justice.

The bigotry in Florida was so intense and unrelenting that Rickey moved Spring Training to the Caribbean — only to learn that Jim Crow was at work there, too! The Dodgers eventually built their own Spring Training facility so all their players could live and work together.

Lies and legend: not the Negro Leagues

I was surprised to learn that almost everything I knew about Jackie Robinson's baseball career was wrong.

I had been under the impression that Robinson's style of play, especially his aggressive basestealing, was commonplace in the Negro Leagues, and what was new and exciting to white spectators was old news to African-American fans.

Well... no. Robinson actually spent very little time in the Negro Leagues, and he generally disliked the experience. The organizations were lax and undisciplined, record-keeping was sporadic and unreliable, and salaries were tiny or nonexistent. Players needed jobs or sponsors, and rarely had the luxury to focus and train.

But beyond all that, Jackie wanted in. He wanted African-Americans to have the same opportunity to excel in professional sports, and in all professions, as white Americans. He didn't want separate. He wanted equal.

Robinson's sojourn in the Negro Leagues was short and not sweet. So where did he develop his aggressive style of play? His playing style was his own, and he developed it first as a high school sports champion, then as a college champion.

Lies and legend: cheek-turning, not so much

Another aspect of Jackie Robinson's story that I thought I knew, but had completely wrong, was why Rickey chose Robinson, out of all the other talented African-American athletes of his era. I thought it was because Jackie was always composed, didn't have a temper, and would be able to not react aggressively in the face of racism.

Robinson and Rickey supposedly agreed that Robinson would never talk back or strike back against players, umpires, or fans, and would never give the press, baseball owners, or fans an opportunity to accuse him of aggression. What's more, I had learned, turning the other cheek and repressing his anger for so many years took such a toll on Robinson that it contributed to his later poor health and early death.

Not only is this false, but during his playing career, Robinson had a reputation for being aggressive and out of control! This was greatly exaggerated in the press and largely undeserved, but the man was not docile.

Rickey chose Robinson because he was an outstanding player, very well spoken, a devout Christian (Rickey was very religious and this was very important to him), married, and lived a very sober life — he didn't curse, smoke, drink, gamble, or sleep around. The two men did have an agreement about Robinson not fighting back — but only for Jackie's first season in the majors.

After his first season, when Robinson won Rookie of the Year and was hailed as a hero by Dodgers fans and celebrated in the sports media, he had had enough of cheek-turning. He spoke up and fought back, enough so that he gained a reputation as a hot-head and a thug. (And thus began a longstanding tradition, ongoing to this day, of players of colour being labelled aggressive and bad-tempered while their white counterparts are called tough and gritty.) That same press compared Robinson unfavourably with his more placid African-American teammate, Roy Campanella. (Even Campy got sick of the cheek-turning, too, and busted out later in his career.) And again, to this day, the mainstream sports media likes its Black athletes docile and uncomplaining.

Here are some interesting excerpts that, although from different contexts, all speak to the same double-standard.

Unquestionably, Jack was becoming more assertive. He had now played three years in the Dodger organization. The idea would surface later, supported by Rickey, that at this point he formally released Jack from his 1945 agreement always to turn the other cheek and avoid fights. Rachel would deny that any special release was granted or sought; Jack had simply grown in stature and felt justified in asserting himself. "The idea that Branch Rickey had kept Jackie Robinson from exploding," Rickey's grandson Branch B. Rickey would say, "is nonsense. Branch Rickey was not on the field when someone spiked or hit Jackie. Jackie was not on a leash. It was Jackie Robinson who kept Jackie Robinson from exploding. He had given a pledge he believed in and he stuck by it — that's all."

In any event, Rickey's response . . . suggests that he now saw Robinson as his own man. "It was a tempest in a teapot," Rickey told the press, in his familiar rhetorical mixture of paternalism, condescension, loyalty to Jack, and a measure of insight into racism. "It's over the hill now and should be forgotten. Jackie's the same high-class boy he was the first year we brought him up. He's entitled to all the rights of any other American citizen. He's a great competitor and resents any violation of those rights. Perhaps he has lost his temper occasionally the same as any white player would do. But he's been sorry for it afterward and has used good judgment. . . . We couldn't have picked a finer boy than Robinson for our experiment of introducing a Negro into organized baseball."

Jack himself knew where blacks stood in the league. Perhaps black ballplayers were no longer seen as freaks, he told a reporter, but "one bad deed by one player right now can set the whole movement back, and I hope the boys coming up will be aware of that".

Of course, breaking in to the league was one thing — being treated fairly within it was another.

Campanella had his run-ins with umpires, but never dreamed of taking these disputes as far as Jack was prepared to go. In 1950, and the years to come, Jack battled with umpires over matters not simply of judgment but of ethics, in his growing belief that the umpires, all white, were abusing their power in order to put him in his place. Perhaps the worst incident of 1950 came during a game on July 2 at Shibe Park in Philadelphia. In the second inning, as Robinson walked testily away after taking a called third strike, the umpire, Jocko Conlan, suddenly piped up: "That strike was right down the middle." When Jack turned to face him, Conlan repeated the remark. Robinson then said something sharp to Conlan, who threw him out of the game. Jack exploded with a firestorm of abuse. Sure that Conlan and others were baiting him, Robinson wanted Ford Frick, the league president, to crack down on them. "Frick has given these guys too much power," he told the press. "Something's going to have to be done about it." [Dodgers Manager Clyde] Sukeforth supported Jack's position. "There is no question in my mind that the umpires are picking on Robinson," he declared. Sure, Jack liked to heckle—but "if Robinson were somebody else, no umpire would pay any attention."

. . . .

For Jack, the scratching and fighting began in the exhibition season. Unfortunately, the enemy was not a baseball team but an umpire — Frank Dascoli of the National League, in a game at Asheville, North Carolina. Called out at first by Dascoli, Robinson lit into him with heated words that continued after Dascoli ejected him. Later, Dascoli accused him of using ethnic slurs — "wop," "dago," and the like — in his tirade. The charge shocked Jack. If Dascoli was seeking to discredit Robinson, he could hardly have picked a more clever way, even as Jack, adamantly supported by the Dodger coach Jake Pitler, denied using such language. "Jackie would never use an ethnic slur, never," [Dodgers pitcher] Carl Erskine said. "And he was not a real umpire-baiter, compared to many other players. He disliked inconsistent umpiring, that was all. He was a superb, complete major leaguer, even when his skills were running down. He was a disciplined and spiritual person who would not have used ethnic slurs, period."

. . . .

Virtually all other players were seen as individuals; somehow, Robinson was always a symbol, both an individual human being and also a figment of America's guilty, shame-filled imagination. He was an exception even among the black players, whose conduct in facing the white world, during this first, tightly watched decade of racial integration, ranged mainly from congeniality, on the one hand, to rank obsequiousness, on the other. Only Jackie Robinson insisted, day in and day out, on challenging America on the matter of race and justice.

. . . .

In the Post, Jimmy Cannon wrote that "the range of Jackie Robinson's hostility appears to have no frontiers. . . . He is a juggler of a sort, flashily keeping feuds in motion like Indian clubs." Robinson had gone "beyond the borders of competition," alienating "even Brooklyn partisans with his undisciplined protests."

This was an extreme view of Robinson, one promulgated in the newspapers by writers who often both exaggerated his aggressiveness and also refused to admit, much less investigate, the pervasive racism he alone seemed willing to fight in baseball. But to Harold Parrott, writing long after Jack's death about a similar assessment of his state of mind, "this was definitely not the Robinson I knew at all, at all. Or that Pee Wee Reese and Ralph Branca and Carl Erskine knew, and will talk about." To Parrott, Jack had no friends among the owners except for Rickey, and few friends, if any, among the umpires; but almost all the players liked and respected him as a man. Certainly, to new Dodgers, black or white, Jack was usually an embracing human presence, a man who lived the Dodger ideal of family unity.

. . . .

Far from being a troublemaker, he was rather "an American who happens to be an American Negro and one who is proud of that heritage." Writing on behalf of black Americans, Jack insisted that "we ask for nothing special. We ask only that we be permitted to live as you live, and as our nation's constitution provides." Concerning segregated hotels, black ballplayers now stayed in "white" hotels in cities such as St. Louis and Cincinnati without these hotels losing trade, much less going out of business. "I wish you could see this as I do," he told Keefe, "but I hold little hope. I wish you could comprehend how unfair and un-American it is for the accident of birth to make such a difference to you."

As for being insolent, "I'll admit I have not been subservient, but would you use the same adjective to describe a white ball player — say Ted Williams, who is, more often than I, involved in controversial matters? Am I insolent, or am I merely insolent for a Negro (who has courage enough to speak against injustices such as yours and people like you)?" "I am happy for you, that you were born white," Robinson concluded. "It would have been extremely difficult for you had it been otherwise." (On August 7, for the third time in three weeks, Williams openly spat at fans at Fenway Park, some of whom had booed and insulted him. His club fined him $5,000, which he never paid, according to a Boston newspaper. The following month the state legislature itself acted: it approved a bill that would fine fans for using profanity.)

So where did I pick up these misconceptions about Robinson? From Ken Burns' epic documentary, Baseball. I loved the series, and generally love Burns' work, so I was sorry to realize he had misinformed me. It makes me wonder what else was inaccurate in that series.

* * * *

This was the first book in my "year of biography". After reading some excellent Wallander mysteries and skimming some new tween fiction, I finally got the Frederick Douglass biography from the library. I can see it will take me much longer than one year to read all the biographies on my list, especially since I need good breaks in between. Onward!

And hey, I wrote this about Major League Baseball's self-congratulatory celebration of Jackie Robinson way back in 2007: #42.

the north island restaurant report: where to eat in port hardy and port mcneill

I was sure that one of the downsides of moving to a small town in a relatively remote area would be a serious lack of food choices. I've been very happy to be wrong!

There aren't a lot of restaurants here, but what's here is very good -- well-prepared, fresh, tasty food, and excellent, friendly service. As with most things, I'm finding that having a few choices are enough.

I cook a lot more now, as there's no prepared food, and I'm also less busy and have more energy. Allan's been helping me with food prep, cutting up vegetables to store in the fridge. This was my idea, but he's more than willing to do it, and I find it hugely helpful. He's also been making dinner once a week, which gives me another break.

But when we're not eating at home, here's where we might be.

Port Hardy

Fire Chefs, also known as Captain Hardy's. Captain Hardy's was a fixture in town. It closed a few years ago, and new owners updated the menu and changed the name. But they also very wisely kept the name Captain Hardy's on one of the signs, so it's a restaurant with two names.

This place serves what might be the best fish and chips I've ever eaten. The fish is fresh and moist, the batter is feather-light, and perfectly seasoned. I keep saying that next time we eat there, I'm going to order something else, but I never do. But -- drumroll, please -- there is ramen on the menu! If it's good, I'll happily exchange the fried I shouldn't be eating for the noodles I shouldn't be eating. One thing for sure, if you like fish and chips, you will be very happy here.

Ha'me, and its neighbour Nax'id. These are the restaurant and pub at Kwa'lillas, the First Nations hotel in our town, also without a doubt the nicest hotel in the area. We stayed at a similar place in Vancouver a few years ago, a hotel that is also a First Nations social enterprise. We were hoping this meant good food, and we weren't disappointed.

Ha'me is the dining room, which is still quite casual, not at all upscale or formal in look or feel. Na'xid is their pub and lounge area, which is spacious and comfortable, the decor in muted gray tones with an elegant feel. We love hotel bar/lounges, and this is my definitely my favourite space in town.

The food is excellent. There's an emphasis on seafood, especially salmon and halibut, but there's also meat, pasta, salads, and so on. We've shared the salmon platter -- house smoked, candied, and cold -- and it's not to be missed. Allan has had a salmon burger on bannock, and a steak that looked very nice. Once again, I keep ordering the same thing: the hunter's platter, with elk-blueberry sausage (amazing), smoked duck, duck confit, and a few kinds of cheeses. I plan on trying most things on the menu, when I can get over that elk sausage.

Seto's Wok and Grill. Our local Chinese restaurant has been a very pleasant surprise. In Mississauga, and probably Vancouver, too, where there is a large Chinese community, this would be considered "mall Chinese food" -- very westernized. But the food is fresh, the vegetables are always perfectly done, never soggy, and everything is very tasty. My only complaint is that the menu is quite limited. But as with the overall restaurant scene here, what's there is good. We usually get take-out from Seto's on Sunday nights, and I end up eating it for three meals. I heart leftover Chinese food.

Sporty. Sporty's is our local pub. They have good sandwiches, burgers, and salads, and reportedly have amazing schnitzel, which I will soon try. They also have the best pizza in town -- which is not to say they have great pizza, but I gave up on great pizza a long time ago. (The only great pizza I found in Toronto or Mississauga was at more upscale Italian restaurants. Other than that, the pizza sucks.) Like everywhere in our town, Sporty's is friendly and accommodating. You can always get a good meal there.

Karai Sushi. Of all our dining surprises, this has been the biggest and most welcome: sushi! Quality sushi! Hidden away in a motel near the airport, there is a lovely Japanese restaurant, with an extensive menu and excellent food. I was beyond skeptical, but the online reviews -- and a rave recommendation during a manicure -- convinced me to try it. Now it will be challenging not to eat there weekly.

Cafe Guido. Guido's is a neighbourhood cafe, used book store, gift shop, local craft and artisan co-op, and community hangout. Guido's is Port Hardy. They serve amazing coffee and baked treats, along with freshly prepared paninis and sandwiches. Guido's also has a drive-through coffee booth, called G2, and there's a rumour that they're opening a Port McNeill location -- although the rumour may have been started by Port McNeill coffee lovers.

Port McNeill

Port McNeill is about 40 minutes down the road from us, a bit far just for dinner, but if we're driving past, or have business in town (or want to save a few cents on gas and fill our tank), there are some really good restaurant choices.

Gus's Pub. This is a large pub with an ocean view and great food. What more do you need to know? Gus's offers a classic pub menu, large selection of beverages, and super friendly service. Pay no attention to the person on Facebook complaining about the wings. I've had only excellent pub food there.

Tia's Cafe. I wish this place was in Port Hardy! Tia's is a large, friendly place for breakfast and lunch. When I'm in Port McNeill for library business, I always get coffee and lunch here. They serve classic coffee shop food with a slight Mexican spin. The food is always fresh and the coffee is great. When I ordered a salad instead of fries, it was green, fresh, crisp, and delicious. That speaks well of a place where people mostly order fries!

Archipelago's Bistro. We've only eaten here once, but I have not forgotten the melt-in-your mouth lamb shank and crispy roasted potatoes. I also attended a breakfast meeting here, and although I didn't eat (I was giving a presentation), I've been trying to dream up an excuse to have breakfast in Port McNeill ever since. Everything looked so good! Like most restaurants in this area, the decor is simple coffee-shop style, but the bistro is in the food -- quality ingredients, freshly prepared, classic dishes.

We have not tried the Northern Lights restaurant in Port McNeill. Online reviews all claim that if you ignore the roadside motel atmosphere, you will be rewarded with a great meal, but so far I have not had the nerve.

Seasonal picks

There are two seasonal restaurants, open during tourist season, that I look forward to trying. At the Cluxewe Resort (pronounced cluck-soo-we), the Cluxewe Waterfront Bistro is said to have the best food -- and the best views -- on the North Island. And the Seven Hills Golf Club, on the road to Port Alice, is supposed to be a great place for lunch.

Trust me

Lest you think I'm a hometown booster, there are one or two places I have not included here. I don't want to write bad reviews of local businesses, and I can't write an honest good review. If you're visiting Vancouver Island North and you're curious, drop me a line.

drive and hike to the ocean: san josef bay

Ever since we moved here, I've been fascinated with our town's proximity to Cape Scott Provincial Park. Cape Scott is a wilderness park, accessible mainly through the rugged North Coast Trail -- for very serious hikers, i.e., not us. But I've read that some small sections are more accessible for a day hike.

People rave about the beauty of San Josef Bay -- known locally as Sanjo Bay -- but always with a caveat: there's no easy way to get there. We pass the turnoff sign on Rt. 19 all the time, and knew that one day, we'd drive those 63 kilometres west on logging roads to see what was at the other end.

This past Sunday, we did it. What we found: a long drive, a perfect hike, and a magnificent beach.

All along the drive, you're in either deep forest, re-growth, or cleared areas. You pass frequent signs posted by the foresting companies, with the year the area was "harvested," then the year it was either replanted, spaced, or pruned. Sometimes you see "next harvest," which is 75 years after the last logging. I neglected to get pictures of these signs, and now I can't find any good example online. (I remember seeing similar signs when we drove around Washington's Olympic Peninsula on our 2002 west-coast trip.)

On the way to San Josef Bay, we drove through the tiny community of Holberg. There was once a military base here, then a logging camp. Now it's just a tiny dot on the map, too small even to be called a village. A former resident has a website dedicated to the community and the area.

We thought this sign was amusing.

First time I've seen a drive sign that wishes you luck!

As advertised, the road was deeply rutted and very slow going. We left our house at 10:30 a.m. and were amazed to see it was a few minutes before 1:00 p.m. when we reached the parking lot for the trailhead. It took 2.5 hours to drive 63 kms! (That's about 39 miles, for the metrically challenged.)

We ate the lunch we had packed at a picnic table, read the wolf warnings (two were seen by hikers about a month ago), and set out.

This was, for me, the perfect hike. It was nearly flat, through deep forest, perfectly quiet. Portions are boardwalked, which is awesome for both accessibility and staying dry. The trail is about 2.7 kilometres (1.6 miles), which is a good length, since you have to double back. (It's not a loop.)

Everything in the forest was blanketed in moss and ferns.

The trees are very narrow and tall. Every once in a while you pass a huge stump, which I assume is the original growth (although I don't really know). In the exposed ends of fallen trees, new trees are growing, along with mushrooms and ferns, and there are holes in which critters must make their homes. I enjoy seeing how a dead tree hosts so much life.

Towards the end of the trail, you catch glimpses of sandy beaches and small inlets through the trees. And then we heard it -- a distant roar. The trees weren't moving, so it couldn't be wind. There are no highways in the vicinity, so it's not the roar of traffic. It could only be waves. I got really excited! The ocean. Not the bay of Port Hardy or the Straight of the east coast of the Island. The Pacific.

The trail ends, you emerge from the forest to find a sweeping expanse of pristine, white-sand beach, and the Pacific Ocean. It is breathtaking. It didn't hurt that it was a gloriously sunny day.

We let Diego off the leash and he pranced around, even though he must have been tired from hiking. I had a good time trying to capture the scene.

Towards one end of the beach, there are caves and sea stacks (vertical rock formations visible at low tide). But after a long hike, then beach time, we couldn't take Diego all the way down the beach and back. As is, we felt we overdid it for him, and those sea stacks must be another two kilometres away.

The beach was nearly empty. Four or five surfers were testing the waves, and two separate families were relaxing with fires and a day tent.*

If we didn't have a hike and a long drive back, we would have stayed longer.

On the way back, we stopped to look at some roadside attractions.

A crushed car.

A shoe tree.

Next time, we might have to set out at dawn.

More pics from Sanjo Bay are here on Flickr.

* Small town alert: one of the families on the beach was my hair stylist and her kids. They passed us on the trail, but only said hi, and I didn't recognize her. I had an appointment the next day! When I arrived, she said, "How did you like Sanjo Bay?"

winter drive: alice lake loop

A few weeks ago, we took a scenic drive known as the Alice Lake Loop. We read there were various short hikes and natural attractions along the way. We may have missed some stops or turn-offs, as it really was mostly driving and very little walking.

On the other hand, in an area that is trying to reinvent itself as a tourism destination, any attraction, no matter how small, is included in the guidebooks and websites. So I don't know if the Alice Lake Loop is of mild interest, or if we missed some stops, or maybe a bit of both. I think we'll try again later in the year, and try to find more points of interest along the way.

The drive itself was interesting, as it is all on logging roads. That means minimal paving, lots of gravel, huge ruts and bumps, and very slow going.

Here's a sample of what we saw.

Tracks on a frozen lake.

Tiny waterfalls standing still.

Lakes like mirrors.

The area is known for karst, formations formed by water working on certain kinds of stone. It's an area full of caves, underground springs, and cenotes, which are natural sinkholes that contain water. We saw cenotes in Mexico, and the ancient people who lived in what is now Petra, Jordan, created them to store water after flash floods.

One noted karst formation is called Devil's Bath. It wasn't easy to photograph. It's a large cenote, visible from the logging road.

Another example of karst is called the Eternal Fountain. It was a lovely, quiet area off the main road, with several underground springs.

We saw many trees growing in this elbow shape. We don't know why trees do this!

Walking even a few metres from the road, you can feel that you're deep in a rainforest. Everything is covered in moss and ferns.

Every so often you come upon an area that appears to be freshly logged, not yet replanted. It has a look of brutal destruction, although much of the forest has been logged and re-grown.

The forest is so beautiful. All my life, I have found being in the woods so rejuvenating and restorative.

Diego likes the woods, too. Especially with yummy snow on top.

More photos from the Alice Lake Loop are here on Flickr.

"if you don't act like adults, we will": thank you climate strikers. thank you, thank you, thank you.

Friday's global student protest brought me so much joy.

And also sadness, because I often feel so cynical about our ability to stop climate change.

And also hope, because I won't succumb to that cynicism. I will fight it, and fight it, and fight it. Because our cynicism is the perfect weapon to be used against us. No evil genius could invent something more powerful than our own inaction.

This photo gallery from the New York Daily News is wonderful. Very New York-centric, but with a global flavour.

in which i am a local celebrity

Impudent Strumpet wondered if Allan and I were now locally famous. Well, apparently we are. Things I heard at the library: "I want to do a story on you."

The customer who said this is the owner, publisher, writer, and editor of the North Island Eagle, a community newspaper here. Instead of a story about me, I suggested a piece on some of the exciting things going on in our library. She one-upped me: a story about me and an invitation to write a library column. I am thrilled! This is an amazing and unique opportunity to promote our services. I've already turned in my first column.

There are actually two local papers here. The North Island Gazette is part of the Black Press Media chain, which publishes small local papers in western Canada and the US. The North Island Eagle is brought to us by the initiative and hard work of one woman.

Everyone reads both papers. In town, you can buy the Vancouver Sun, the National Post, and the Globe and Mail, but in the library, I've only seen customers reading the free newspapers. That may be more a function of expense than anything else.

For this story, the writer emailed me questions, and I basically wrote the story from there. She edited out any mention of why Allan and I moved to Canada in the first place. That seems like an odd choice to me, especially given the current US political context, which is highly unpopular in Canada. The story is the fluffiest fluff, but who cares: library column!

what i'm reading: solitary raven: the essential writings of bill reid

I'm supposed to be writing about the Jackie Robinson biography, which I finished weeks ago, but so far I haven't been motivated to do so. I finished another Wallander mystery -- my "in between" book -- but the next bio on my list, the new one about Frederick Douglass, hasn't come in yet. So I looked for something on my own bookshelf that I've been meaning to read, and found this: Solitary Raven: The Essential Writings of Bill Reid. It is fascinating, and by coincidence, feels very relevant.

We visited Vancouver for the first time in 2016, and I spent a morning enraptured in the Bill Reid Gallery of Northwest Coast Art, still completely innocent of the idea of moving to the west coast.* I love Reid's work, and wanted a meaningful souvenir from the visit. Knowing that Reid was a writer and CBC host before his first major sculpture commission, I purchased this book.

Reid's father was an American of European ancestry, and his mother was Haida -- a fact Reid first learned at age 19. He was 23 when he began exploring his Haida heritage. He studied art, sculpture, and goldsmithing at European art schools and museums, and later -- and for the rest of his life -- immersed himself in Haida culture. Reid's art synthesizes these two traditions into something unique, and for me, something incredibly powerful and beautiful.

Solitary Raven was edited by Robert Bringhurst, a formidable talent of whom I had no knowledge. Bringhurst also wrote an introduction to the book. Here is an excerpt that I found particularly potent.

Many readers may be equally surprised to see Reid, early in this book, speak of Indians as "them," Europeans as "us." Those, however, are the idioms he had learned -- and the person he learned them from was Sophie Gladstone Reid of the Qqaadasghu Qiighawaay, his Haida mother. For her it was the language of denial, but she taught it to her daughter and two sons as the language of acceptance. Two of them absorbed it without apparent question and went on to live unusually successful but otherwise quite normal urban lives in London and Toronto. Bill himself unlearned this language very slowly, suspicious to the last of eager joiners and wary of being one himself. Through art, and not through rhetoric or genetics, he became a Haida artist. But in 1985 -- as soon as the newly amended laws of Canada allowed -- he applied for legal status as an Indian. The petition was not granted until 1988, when he was 68 years old, but he had made his own decision. In February 1986, while addressing a provincial government commission, he asked the committee members a question: Why should the Haidas -- we Haidas -- want this particular morsel of wilderness left untouched?

This book is many things, but one of the most important things it is, in my opinion, is the story of a long and conscious journey from one pronoun to another.

Reid participated in some expeditions to rescue and preserve the great totems from remote, and now empty, villages, where, he writes, keepers of Haida culture had

become convinced that, permanently preserved, the poles would form a better memorial to the past greatness of the Haidas than crumbling to dust in the deserted villages.

Through this, I'm gaining an appreciation for Haida art -- which, according to Reid, bears as much resemblance to most totem poles we see today as Picasso does to paint-by-numbers. I'm also learning a bit about Haida culture, whose great society was wiped out, partly by white men's guns, and mostly by the white man's disease, smallpox. Survivors were then subjected to the abuses and humiliations that is the legacy of colonization.

Longtime readers of this blog know that I have an abiding interest in ancient and indigenous cultures. For a time I wrote about ancient civilization for a children's nonfiction series on history. I was constantly amazed at how much ancient peoples knew, and the complexity and beauty of their creations, all the more so when one considers how little they had to build on. This was true for every culture I studied, from all parts of the world.

The original people of North America are no different, but because they left no monumental works of stone or granite -- and because they were exterminated by the people who wrote our early history -- their ingenuity is much less familiar to us. Discovering more about the Indigenous people of the Americas is always fascinating but painful. Here's an example of the kind of thing I love. Reid's writing is wonderful -- evocative, accessible, breezy, but with heft.

We know they were a fine-looking people, with pride in their race and lineage, never permitting them to live simply on the bounties of their rich seas and forests. They were an ingenious people, using such unlikely materials as shredded cedarbark and spruce roots for basketry and clothing, and, with the most primitive of tools and an infinite knowledge of the materials, falling huge trees and creating almost entirely of wood a great material culture.

It was the sea that shaped the first, and to the end, the most beautiful of these creations, the matchless grace of the Northwest Coast canoe. The cedars grew tall and straight in the rainforests of the north, but it took the experience of generations of skillful men to change their trunks into seagoing boats, sometimes seventy feet long. The log was shaped and hollowed, and then, in the supreme example of primitive genius, the whole thing was steamed by partly filling it with water and adding hot rocks until the water boiled, so it could be spread to the proper beam. This gave the beautiful flaring curve to the sides, and the rough seas dictated the high bow and stern. And so as always, perfect function produced perfect beauty.

But it was when the practical skills and sure sense of design, born of necessity, were applied to the lavish heraldry of ceremonial life that the full splendor of Haida art was born. And though the white man brought disruption and eventual destruction to these people, he also brought a flood of new wealth and new tools to augment the stone hammers and adzes and the few iron knives they had had before. And so for a little while, during the first two-thirds of the last century, creativity on the west coast flourished as it never had before and perhaps never will again. In every village on the Charlottes [the Queen Charlotte Islands, or Haida Gwaii], totem poles grew in a rich profusion: forests of strange birds, beasts and heroic figures almost obscuring even the massive lodges they decorated.

This is a lovely book, full of beautiful photographs of Reid's work. I wish I could see and walk among the culture he writes about.

* Postscript: I am aware that Bill Reid had and has many detractors. I've read a bit of the criticisms, and find them irrelevant to my enjoyment and understanding of art. I respectfully request that you do not explain them to me here. Thank you for your cooperation.

walking the walk: if canada is serious about reconciliation, the senate must pass bill c-262

Canadians, contact the Senate. Urge them to work together to pass Private Member's Bill C-262, "An Act to ensure that the laws of Canada are in harmony with the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples". 

My own letter included at the end of this post, in the hope that it will help you write your own.

* * * *

Is Canada serious about reconciliation? The Truth and Reconciliation Commission concluded in 2015. The Calls to Action have been made. Recommendations have been made. How will Canada proceed?

Territorial acknowledgements, long a feature of labour and other progressive activism, have entered the mainstream. More Canadian children will learn about the system of forced family separation, indoctrination, and horrific abuse euphemistically called "the residential schools". Good, and good.

But what of Canadian law? What of business practices? Will it be business as usual, or will anything change?

The TRC offered 94 Calls to Action. How many will be implemented?

After all, Canada was one of only four countries to oppose the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples when it was first adopted in 2007. (The others are obvious: the US, Australia, and New Zealand.)

Almost ten years passed before Canada finally became a signatory to UNDRIP. But its principles have not been put into action in any meaningful way.

In its 2015 election platform, Justin Trudeau's Liberal Party pledged to change that. Not that we had any reason to believe them. First the Liberal government announced that Canada would drop its opposition to UNDRIP, and commit to "fully adopting this and working to implement it within the laws of Canada."

Shortly after that, Minister of Justice [sic] Jody Wilson-Raybould described the adoption of UNDRIP as "unworkable" and "a political distraction".

It wasn't long before Trudeau confirmed that, despite the tears, all was status quo: Indigenous people "don’t have a veto" about pipeline development and other extraction and energy projects. One of the key principles of UNDRIP is the need for governments to obtain "free, prior and informed consent" from Indigenous peoples prior to these projects. Is that going to happen in Canada?

This is a country that -- despite undergoing the Truth and Reconciliation process -- refused to accept the word genocide to describe its historic relationship with its Indigenous peoples. Instead, Canada used an invented phrase with no real definition: cultural genocide.

If you have any doubts as to whether the experience of Indigenous people in Canada constitutes genocide, here's an excellent piece to help you clarify. Writer Jesse Stainforth concludes:

I'm not so attached to my country to contort myself into defending our history of genocide — and I'd like to ask those who are: how would admitting that our country was guilty of this crime against humanity change your relation to this nation, to yourself, and to Indigenous people?

As of the closing of the TRC, the facts of the Canadian genocide of Indigenous peoples are now a part of the official record of this country's history, both for those who wish to face it, and those who wish to pretend it isn't there. These facts stand and will not change, because they are in the past. In the present day, it is only Canadians who can change — and will have to change — in order to acknowledge the disgraceful but fixed facts of our history.

So all this brings me back to Bill C-262. Responding to familiar objections, Amnesty Canada writes:

Bill C-262 is about moving ahead with implementation of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples in a principled and coordinated way. It does not attempt to turn the UN Declaration into a piece of federal law. Instead, it would create a requirement for the federal government to work with Indigenous peoples to develop a national strategy for implementation. This would include review and reform of existing laws. Critically, the Bill would require regular reporting to Parliament on the progress that has been made.

I confess I feel quite cynical about the prospect for meaningful change, knowing as I do the history of capitalism and of empire. The all-consuming profit motive will not be derailed, or even detoured, by ethical and moral concerns. But I won't let that stop me from trying.

If you look at the status of Bill C-262, it's not difficult to see what's going on. The Senate is engaged in a series of partisan stalling tactics as the clock runs down on the current government. If the bill is not adopted by the time a new election is called in October 2019, a historic and critical opportunity will be lost.

Canadians, contact the Senate. Tell them to stop stalling and pass Bill C-262.

Amnesty International Canada has the names and addresses here. Write a few sentences or a few paragraphs. Hit send, or print and send it off, no postage required. It is literally the least we can do.

* * * *

Dear Senators:

[A brief introduction. It's always good to include a couple of sentences about who you are, what you do, where you live.]

I strongly support Bill C-262 as an important tool to further reconciliation with Canada’s First Nations, and I urge all Senators to work together to make this important bill a law.

Bill C-262 outlines a framework for the Canadian government to fulfill its promise to fully implement the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), as called for by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Words are easy, but concrete actions require a clear plan to move forward. In order for there to be meaningful and ongoing reconciliation, Canadian laws need to reflect a commitment to the UNDRIP. Without this, reconciliation will never be more than words on paper.

Canada can never right the immense historic crimes against the original people of this land. But the Truth and Reconciliation Commission has given us hope for the future – if we begin to make their Calls to Action a reality.

There cannot be meaningful movement towards that goal if Canadian laws are still built on a foundation of colonization and subjugation. Bill C-262 provides a framework to take the next, necessary steps.

The House of Commons has passed Bill C-262. Now it’s your turn. I urge you to work with together to bring Bill C-262 to a vote in the current session of Parliament. I look forward to hearing from you about this important matter.