Thursday, July 4, 2019

Happy 4th of July!


I first came to the United States when I was 18, arriving at Harvard as a particularly clueless freshman from a provincial town in interior British Columbia. Some exposure to America is inevitable no matter where you are, but I had scant first-hand experience - I didn't know any Americans and day-for-day, I think I had spent longer in Germany than in the US. America was big and somewhat scary unknown, the homeland of McDonald's, Hollywood and the military-industrial complex.

I figured I should rectify that knowledge deficit and saw in my classmates a golden opportunity to get smart about the country quickly. Meeting people for the first time, they would often lead with where they were from. Of course, some places were over represented - you'd meet New Yorkers by the bushel, New Englanders (which usually meant Boston + college towns) by the score, Bay Area Californians by the gigabyte. But Texans weren't uncommon, and the more exotic states (meaning Nebraska and Kentucky, not Alaska and Hawaii) popped up in ones and twos. I'd tell them I was from Canada and didn't know much about the States, and they'd be more than happy to tell me all about their country. Here are some of the answers I got (recovered from long passed memory, so apologies if you were one of my informants and I'm remembering it wrong):

America is all about the hustle. You can come from anywhere, be whoever you want to be, do whatever you want to do, and nobody cares as long as you keep up, work hard, find your opportunities and break through to become successful and really be somebody. (New Yorker, but I also heard this from Chicagoans)

America is a place where you know your neighbors, you look out for one another, you build up your community and you always have time to help. It's small-town sports teams and going to church just to say hello. (Small-town Minnesotan) 

America is a place where no one can tell you what to do. You can stand your ground and do things your way and you don't have to bow and scrape to anyone if you have a place of your own - and there's room for everyone, because the space is boundless and the sky is high and big. Also football. (Texas, obviously)

America is about diversity, about multi-culturalism, about eating sushi for lunch and pho for dinner. You can put together your own values and have whatever lifestyle you want and everyone can do their own thing as long as they respect the others around them. It's about getting out in nature, whether you're hiking or surfing or just lying down in a park. You don't have to follow traditional rules because America is about the future and not the past. (California)

America is barbecues with your family, fireworks on the 4th of July, being an Eagle Scout, believing in something larger than yourself and being willing to sacrifice for it, like your grandfather's did back in World War 2. It's about being able to have a good life - two cars, a nice house, money enough not to worry about it - and being willing to work for it and protect it. (Oklahoma or basically any non-coastal suburb)

America is about getting up if you've been kicked in the teeth. It's about not taking no for an answer and being willing to fight for everything you have. It's about doing it yourself, because no one will help you. (Native American)

You might expect people from different parts to give different answers - different experiences breed different perspectives - so then I'd ask them about the other answers I got. I'd ask the New Yorker about what I heard from the Texan, the Texan about what the Californian told me. Almost universally, the response was a dismissal, sometimes polite (Midwesterners would say, "oh, well you know, those guys are different") sometimes less so ("rednecks don't count," "Californians aren't really Americans") followed by a double-down that their particular definition was what it REALLY meant to be American. 

This felt like narrow-mindedness at the time. It started making more sense as I spent more time in the US and seeing different parts of the country. The same flag flies everywhere, but life is very different from place to place, each region with its own accent, its own food, its own skyline, its own pace. A country is a very abstract thing - some symbols, some laws, some shared stories and a distant government that you ignore until it does something to get you mad. Looking back, I realize that when I asked about America, my classmates weren't describing a country, they were describing their home, which was the thing about America that they really felt connected, really treasured and really loved. And all of their homes were different.

With this realization came the awareness of a bigger question - if America means all these different things to all these different Americans, than what keeps them together? What keeps all these people, with all of their different ideas about what their country is or should be, together?  

Enter Waylon Jennings:


"America" is his patriotic national ballad (if not obvious from the name), and both the song and video are remarkable. This is an old song, from 1984, inspired by the Los Angeles Olympics among other things, and Jennings claimed it was one that he was particularly proud and fond of. 

For the millenials reading this over their avocado toast, Waylon Jennings is old-timey country. He was born on a farm outside Littlefield, a nowhere town in West Texas.

This is the google image - a tiny church (Baptist, of course) and a lot of nothing

His father started as a farm worker before opening a grocery. His mother changed his name to spite a Baptist preacher. He dropped out of high school. He wasn't an early Billy Ray Cyrus - he didn't move out to LA, he didn't Hannah Montana his children, he didn't do reality TV, but he did do the voiceover for the Dukes of Hazzard. What I'm getting at is that he's about as perfect a red state cultural figure as you can get, but just think about the song, just look at the video. 

"Well I come from down around Tennessee, but the people in California are nice to me," he sings. "My brothers are all black and white, yellow too, and the red man is right to expect a little from you, make a promise and then follow through, America."


The video features all of the usual country imagery - cowboys and tractors, vistas and crop fields - but to illustrate who he means by his brothers it shows an urban basketball game, bringing in young men that, in a different red state production, might just be extras mowed down by a righteous Charles Bronson. And this right before he acknowledges that America still owes a debt to the Native Americans.

Unlike other patriotic ballads, there's no glorification of the military - instead, you have a line recognizing the grace and decency of the United States in granting amnesty to those who left the US to avoid the draft during the Vietnam war. 

The countless different places - the countless different homes - that make up America belong together only when they believe they do, and "America" shows how you build up that belief. Don't deny your own identity or your own culture, but reach out to bring in everyone else and that means showing the patience, understanding and generosity to take them as they are before asking that they do the same for you. This song isn't woke or politically correct, it's not an exercise in virtue signaling. In 1984, political correctness wasn't yet even a sparkle in a liberal professor's eye, and some people will be quick to pounce on his terminology (to borrow from a great movie, Red Man is not the preferred nomenclature - Native American, please), and every note drips with American pride and sincerity.

This sentiment feels absent from contemporary America, where it feels as though different national subcultures are at each other's throats all the time, eager to dominate or purge those who disagree with them. But things may not be as bad as all that. A few years after I graduated college, I found myself in grad school at Berkeley (I know, even worse) at a 4th of July barbecue. We were all critical of American policy, and there was a lot to be critical about - the Iraq war was raging, the Patriot Act had just been passed, and George W. Bush had won reelection, with all of us feeling acute frustration and disappointment. As we waited for the hamburgers to grill, someone suggested something to mark the holiday - given that we spent the rest of the year complaining about the US, maybe each of us should name one thing we admire or appreciate about America. We stood awkwardly in a circle waiting for someone to start, inhibited more by social anxiety than by lacking anything to offer. As soon as some one made the first move, things went quickly. The question went around the circle once, then twice, then three times, a mounting inventory of America's virtues that was only interrupted when someone started an argument about football teams. 

On this 4th of July, wherever you are, I hope you can feel some of that Waylon Jennings spirit.

Happy Independence Day!  

Monday, July 1, 2019

Theses on Canada Day

I know nobody asked, but this year I felt it was my grown-up duty to share some thoughts about our country on Canada Day.




Canada is doing enviably well



It’s important to maintain a sense of proportion – by any comparative standard, Canada is a functional and decent country. Canada’s economy is prosperous and dynamic, its society is tolerant and inclusive, its politics are responsive and responsible and its state is gentle and restrained. This is worth recognizing and preserving.

Don’t assume things will stay that way

Please don't vote for her, ever

There’s nothing locked in about Canada’s relative success. Canadian political institutions are young and only half-formed – leaders strengthen them when they respect their democratic, inclusive spirit but can also undermine them by exploiting technicalities and loopholes to win political fights. The first time a leader pulls off a dirty trick – whether proroguing the Parliament or going around a Supreme Court decision – it comes off as a dick move, but it can rapidly become just another political tactic, with Canadian democracy permanently compromised.

The rule of law is a big deal

They're like nine nerdy Santa Clauses. Their present for you - your rights.
Governments control armies. They can give orders to police. Put differently, they have power. Corporations and rich people have a different kind of power – they control the livelihoods of their employees and impact the lives of consumers, especially if their business involves essential products or creates pollution and waste that the public has to deal with. They have the money to buy influence and run roughshod over individuals. Law exists to control power to prevent, or at least limit, its potential for abuse. When the law is optional, especially in regard to powerful actors, regular people lose the only civil, peaceful protection they have against abuse.

Some people don’t get to be selfish



There’s an argument that you hear all the time – everyone is selfish, everyone is only doing what they do for personal gain, everyone is a sell-out only in it for the money. When you hear this you can be 100% confident that it applies to the person making it and 0% confident that it applies to person being accused. There are professions that are so important to public life that those serving in them cannot just be in it for themselves without everyone suffering. Doctors have a responsibility to their patients that cannot be traded away. Lawyers must put the law before their bottom line, police officers must respect the public. Scientists and intellectuals must put intellectual integrity above profit opportunities. Politicians… well, those guys are pretty selfish but at the very least they must defend the political institutions that give us responsible government and individual freedom. And they usually do (except maybe the politicians)! Picking anyone of those careers involves years of work, training and embracing a code of ethics. Even if they come with an attractive paycheck, the calling must always come first, and when it doesn’t it’s not a trivial matter to be waved away with “well, everyone is selfish” but a cause for investigation, censure and punishment.

Multi-culturalism is a remarkable achievement, a great benefit, and absolutely essential for Canada…



Multi-culturalism is presented as one of Canada’s greatest social achievements – and it is! From its inception, Canada included people from different ethnic, linguistic and religious backgrounds and the fate of the country hinged on finding a way to develop solidarity and unity between groups of vastly different backgrounds. Incrementally, beginning with the imperfect and unequal accommodation of French Canadians into a British colony, Canada increased the inclusiveness of its society, first bringing in white ethnics from other European backgrounds, then non-white immigrants from around the world. To create a sincere, unifying national feeling among Canadians from such diverse backgrounds is a unique accomplishment that eludes countries like the US and Australia. The benefits that Canada and Canadians gain are immeasurable – Canada has gained economically, culturally and socially. The food is better, there’s more choice and diversity in the arts, companies have larger talent pool to draw on and an easier time connecting to international markets. Leaders and official media celebrate these gains, urging Canadians to celebrate multiculturalism – and they are right!

…but it can also be a pain in the ass.
But, while (I reiterate) multiculturalism is an overwhelming positive force for Canada, what media and political officials never admit is that it can be a real pain in the ass. I know, because every time I meet someone – whether it’s a customer service rep or a new acquaintance – I see how they have to struggle with my Polish surname. It can feel alienating to walk into a neighborhood café and hear every conversation carried out in a language you don’t understand, or to deal with a friend’s religious dietary restrictions, or (especially if you’re older) to have to avoid saying “Merry Christmas” to strangers just in case they don’t celebrate the holiday. One of my closest, dearest, oldest friends married a wonderful woman that has also become very dear to me – I was not allowed at the wedding ceremony because it was a religious event of a faith to which I do not belong. That stung, though they did host a wonderful reception that was open to everybody. Another friend became strongly Christian as an adult, and suddenly board game night at his house involved Bible trivia. Multiculturalism means putting up with this kind of shit on a continual basis and it can only work as long as Canadians continue to extend patience, understanding and tolerance to everyone, even when there are particular beliefs or lifestyles or practices they don’t understand or approve of.

Living in a free society can be just as much of a pain in the ass

It isn't either/or...
...you have to tolerate both.
Individual freedom for ourselves is an unmitigated good – in Canada, you can pretty much live however you want, as long as you can afford your lifestyle and you aren’t abusing anyone else, and those around you have to put up with it. Individual freedom for everyone else can be a real drag – you have to put up with their choices, which might be annoying or even offensive to you. It takes more than liberal laws to make a country free – people also have to put up with (constantly) other people’s choices that they don’t like with grace and maturity. This means not only Christians dealing with gay pride parades and blasphemous entertainment (The Life of Brian then, Good Omens now), but also LGBT activists and atheists putting up with the disapproval and moralism of conservative Christians, without trying to invoke official power – be it the government, the courts, or (ugh) Twitter – to punish the other side. So long as disapproval and distaste don’t practically constrict individual freedom or threaten force, they are just expressions of the freedom of the other side. Squeezing out the space for different groups to disagree and dissent peacefully without reprisal won’t change any minds – it will just lead to an escalated conflict with worse and worse sanctions, one which your group (whatever it may be) has no guarantee of winning, and everyone’s individual freedom ends up undermined. As long as the other guy is willing to put up with your shit, the tolerant, inclusive, decent, dare-I-say Canadian thing to do is to put up with theirs.

It’s not wrong to be proud of Canada…



I think Canada is a pretty great place, all the more so since I live abroad. When I return here, I feel at home, at ease, if not optimistic than a little less despairing about the future. There are many Canadians who feel a great sense of pride for their country and its history – and they are right! The creation and construction of this country and its unique society are accomplishments worth celebrating.   

…but Canada is not an innocent country

There's a reason they aren't smiling...

There are also many Canadians who believe that Canada as a state has perpetrated great injustices, including genocide, and continues to do serious harm to individuals and communities it is supposed to represent and protect – and they are right! I can prove it with a single, simple question – is Canada a country? History is a bitch – countries are created through war (in Canada’s case the colonial wars between the French and English as well as the much more destructive, undeclared war against indigenous Canadians). They expand through treachery and violence. They grow rich through exploitation, both of workers and the environment. They tear up unspoiled wilderness to create cities, farms, mines and factories, dumping pollution and trash into the land, air and water. They become strong through repression and the patronage of powerful private institutions (corporations, religious hierarchies, coalitions of rich people). Countries behave honorably only when their people intervene against those trends to force change. Otherwise, governments take the path of least resistance, which usually involves a bulldozer and police in riot gear.

Indigenous Canadians are right to be angry



The strength and wealth of Canada has gone together with ruthless policies towards the indigenous Canadians who were once the sovereign masters of this land. For Canada to become what it is, they were disposed, displaced, disenfranchised and discarded. While enlightened governments were institutionalizing multiculturalism and making lives better for other Canadians, indigenous Canadians experienced forced assimilation, neo-colonial paternalism and (often malign) neglect. They are the last group to be fully included in Canadian society and the awareness of the damage that Canada has inflicted on their communities has made it weird. Most of the historical crimes against them occurred far enough in the past that no one is alive that could be held responsible, and the scale of what happened dwarfs any realistic restitution. The murder and disappearance of thousands of indigenous women and girls was labeled a genocide in an official report, a loaded term but how else to describe the destruction of a community on such a scale without justice or accountability? I don’t know what can be done about the past, but for Canada to keep becoming a more honorable and more decent country, non-indigenous Canadians must acknowledge that past and pressure the government to work equitably and fairly with indigenous leaders to ensure that indigenous Canadians have the same security, opportunity and freedom as everyone else.

Democracy only works when we acknowledge fact, even when it complicates our beliefs



A fact is something that’s real whether you believe in it or not – a belief is only real when you embrace it. There are questions – is drinking wrong? Does God exist? What happens when we die? – that cannot be answered with facts, only beliefs. Most questions – what causes climate change? How do we pay for Pharmacare? Are energy sector jobs worth the environmental and economic cost? – come down to facts that can’t be believed away. You can influence the future of Canada with your vote, but unless you take the time to learn some facts you’ll just be shooting in the dark.

Some people know more facts than you do



I don’t know how a car works – magic? Something something pistons? A different kind of magic? – but I know that there are people who do and I go to them with my car questions. Other people can answer other types of questions – where did all the cod go? What’s going to happen when the Earth heats up? What’s going on in the Middle East? – because they’ve spent a lot of time and energy mastering the related facts. It can take a lifetime to master a difficult subject and it can involve a great deal of sacrifice. A research scientist is someone who is smart enough that they could have become a lawyer or succeeded in business, but they gave up that income and those opportunities to pursue complicated knowledge through years and years of study. If they have reached a conclusion – especially if thousands of them agree on a conclusion, with the data and analysis to back it up – you should listen to them and not a meme on facebook from someone peddling a quack cure or an industry-supported policy change.

This may all seem like a lot of work – putting up with cultural practices you don’t understand, tolerating other people’s terrible life choices, checking your beliefs against actual facts and having the humility to learn from people who may know more than you. Maybe it is, but that’s what it takes to be a responsible grown-up, and the pay off is incredible – we get to keep Canada as the remarkable country that it already is and make it even better for the future.

Friday, December 6, 2013

Happy St. Nicholas Day!

First Memories

Often I will ask people about their first memories. There are several reasons why I do this, not all of which are devious. It's a relatively unusual type of question, especially as an ice breaker, so it gets people to lower their defenses; likewise, few people have a pat answer, so they have to think, to recall, and then they provide you with a genuine anecdote, which may not always be interesting but is usually true. It also asks them to remember their early childhood, so it regresses them to a time where they were more open, more direct and more trusting. The result is sometimes amusing, occasionally memorable, but always an insight into the character of your companion. I can still remember on of my friend's stories, of riding around in a grocery cart along with the shopping, a few items in easy reach. Her distracted mother was focussing on other things, so she completely missed her toddler devouring all of the florets off of a bunch of broccoli, that is until she arrived at the check out and pulled a bundle of gnawed green stems from out the trolley. There is also, of course, Louis CK's first memory, of a childhood bowel movement so epic and intense it booted his conscious mind online in the middle of it. From those beginnings, it's difficult not to identify a touch of inevitability to the course of his life and career.

The reason why first memories are of particular interest to me is partly because of my own early childhood. I have lived through grand adventures and momentous events, most of which occurred while I still a drooling, gurgling baby and therefore have no recollection. I was born in late Communist Poland, a year or two before the first outbreak of the Solidarity movement, as the old system spiraled down in terminal political and economic decline and the benighted Poles began to mobilize against it in massive, non-violent protest. My parents tell stories of the lives ruined by blacklists and repression, of cities made grim at night by austerity-induced power cuts that blacked out cities of millions, and of sad socialist stores offering nothing to their long-queuing customers but salt and vinegar. I remember none of this. Nor do I remember the scheme my parents hatched to deliver us from that system - one which they believed would go on forever or, at the very least, outlive all of us - by gaining passports to work in Nigeria. I imagine the scene of my mother screaming at the immigration official who initially withheld the documents for my sister and myself, or the first flight to Lagos where we changed planes in Tripoli where, as a result of a spat between Qaddafi and his erstwhile Soviet allies, bearded Libyan storm troopers, bandoliers of ammunition slung over their chests, formed a wall to block the untrustworthy Eastern Bloc passengers from the domestic side of the terminal. I know that I fell seriously ill in Nigeria, probably with malaria, and that my father flattened our VW bug in a major car accident that he, mercifully walked away from, and that my sister was once stranded at school by a negligent neighbor and had to walk across a completely unknown suburb with only three words of English, picking her course through instinct and desperation. I know this, but I do not remember any of it, any of Nigeria at all - not the markets, not the riots, not the rains, not the call of the muezzin. We returned to Poland after I had turned three, but this was to a brief and final visit before we left the Eastern Bloc a final time, illegally and irreversibly. My parents wanted to say farewell to their families, to see them one last time before what they believed would be a life-long separation. It was summer in Krakow, and I remember none of it - not the castle, not the oak trees, not the protests and lamentations of my grandmother who accused my father of abandoning her and his homeland for that woman, as she called my mother. Poland would loom in my life as the source of my culture and identity, but I took none of it with me when we left, my infant mind still innocent and clean. Nor do I recall our anxious escape - our papers were in order, thanks to a return ticket to Nigeria via Vienna, so in theory nothing should come up. In practice, the train ride from Krakow to Vienna through Czechoslovakia was a torment of tension for my family, hearts jumping each time the compartment door opened, panic mounting as border guard in the middle of the night patrolled the corridors - with dogs! Snarling, angry hounds - rousing people to check documents, occasionally demanding passengers off of the bus to unknown fates. It was tense for my family, but not for me - I remember none of it, and apparently I slept through the worst of it, snoring cozily in my seat while guards barked orders and a German shepherd growled at my sister. And then we arrived in Austria...

Herzlich wilkommen!

Austria I do remember, though not all of it. I do not recall our arrival into Vienna, and I do not know all of the details of our reception there. The choice of Austria was deliberate and crucial. The passports my parents had finagled for us by working in Nigeria were our ticket out of Poland, but the visa regimes in Western countries were then - as they are today - strict and remorseless for poor-country nationals who had not gone through proper channels. As fugitives from communism, proper channels were unavailable to us, so we had to rely on asylum to protect us from repatriation. The Austrians, witnessing the brutality of the suppression of Solidarity right on their doorstep, had announced their willingness to extend asylum to any Polish citizens who arrived on their soil. This wasn't a painless process, however - the first step was getting to Austria, thankfully now behind us, and the second was to present yourself to Austrian authorities for processing and evaluation. This was conducted, with the famous German sensitivity and consideration, at Treiskirchen, a massive holding center that had previously served as a prison and a Soviet army barracks. Dutifully we arrived there, presented our papers and stated our case, filling out the appropriate paperwork and answering questions through my father's deeply imperfect German. Once processed, we were assigned to a room - more of a cell, really - that we shared with another family. Of them I know nothing, where they were from, how long they had been there, what became of them. All I do know is that were there when we arrived, and remained there when we left.

We waited in the cell as the bureaucracy scrutinized our case and decided our fate. I do not know what the rule of Trieskirchen was like - this was still before I had any memory - but I know we were locked in at night, and our freedom severely curtailed. We did not know how long we would remain there - some people, even ones with perfectly reasonable cases, would languish in detention for months, uncertain if they would be sent back or not. One day passed, and then a second, and then a third and we were mercifully delivered from detention - asylum had been granted, and we were restored to liberty, even provided with housing, food and a small daily allowance in a refugee center in Baden, a spa town at the outskirts of Vienna, a delightful toy box of a village, complete with parks and castles and palaces and strudel. This was strictly temporary - the Austrians were generous with refugees but had no appetite for immigrants, and the rules of our status required us to find a third country that would accept us permanently. Even if temporary, though, Baden was a lovely and welcome refuge, and the beginning of a new life of freedom and opportunity.

I want to pause here to underline that fact - it was the Austrians who welcomed us into the fold of free and prosperous nations. My whole subsequent life - growing up in Canada, where I could learn French and English at school but still be proudly Polish; pursuing my education in the United States, where the best university in the world extended me a scholarship to put that degree within reach; the countless opportunities for travel, for creativity, for work and for joy that followed - is a consequence of that Austrian decision to take in this nervous and awkward, close to penniless Slavic family that had no friends or family in their country, no connection at all beyond (perhaps) a common humanity and a few European cultural ticks. If they had opted to reject our application - which was certainly within their power - the consequences would have been as grave in the other direction. My family would have been deported to the untender mercies of an sympathetic Communist government, with prison inevitable for my parents (possibly, though not probably, at a camp), leaving my sister and myself to drift between relatives, raised, in all likelihood, by elderly grandmothers made even frailer by their heartbreak at the fate of their children. I am prone to irony, sometimes bitterness, and there are hatreds I cherish in my heart, but even I am not so churlish as to deny the incalculable debt of gratitude that my family collectively and I personally owe to Austria and the Austrian people - thank you. That is all the reward I can realistically offer, but the appreciation and the gratitude is pure, and deep, and sincere.

That said, the Austrians are a f*cked up people.

Dungeon Daughters

Reductio ad Nazium is a rhetorical tick best avoided, but allow me to briefly point out that Austrians were over-represented in both the Nazi party and the SS, and that the government overthrown to make way for the Anschluss was not a cuddle-worthy liberal democracy but a nasty and repressive fascist despotism that disagreed with Hitler only about the relative centrality of the Roman Catholic Church and specialness of the Austrians with respect to the rest of the German Herrenvolk. So I'll put that aside, although Jörg Haider, the deceased Austrian far-right political leader (whose movement won 28% of the vote in the last election), did not when referred to SS veterans as "fine fellows," and enumerated a list of felonies with a perfect correspondence to Slavic and Balkan ethnicities. But I'm better than that, just as I'm too good to flush my colon with vodka-enemas before speeding off to visit my mom in my Volkswagen sports car (even his automotive taste had hints of the Third Reich), predictable killing myself in a speed induced car accident as I gun through Alpine passes at twice the already generous 70km/h speed limit.

But let us leave politics and instead concentrate on family, that most wholesome of institutions. Since 2008, not one but two cases of dungeon daughters were discovered in Austria, and I'm not even including Natascha Kampuscha who, though held captive and abused for more than 8 years, it was by a man who was not her father. Two different fathers were found to have raped, beaten and I prisoner their own daughters in their own homes. The Fritzl case is more famous, as Joseph Fritzl build an actual dungeon to imprison his daughter for 24 years, and then went on to father a clutch of children with her, half of whom he raised in the regular home, while the other half spent their whole lives in a dark, windowless cell with their sister-mother. No less horrifying but less well know is the case of Gottfried W., who kept his two daughter locked in the basement for 40(!) years, subjecting them to violence and sexual abuse until he became too frail to force himself on them. Now go and watch the Sound of Music.

But putting aside politics and incest, let us turn to Christmas, that unifying, European celebration. Though the whole continent celebrates the season, individual cultures do it in different ways - some limit festivities to Christmas Day, others celebrate on Christmas Eve, while most Catholic countries join the holiday to the feast day of St. Nicholas (December 6th). While British children are used to having Santa Claus descend down their chimney December 24th to put gifts in their stockings, Catholic kids on the continent have him pay a visit to deliver gifts on the 6th. Other variations abound - in Poland, we eat carp, while Scotts have Christmas puddings. Christmas trees are Scandinavian, while bells and chimes come from France and Italy. Every country has its own Christmas foods, Christmas songs and Christmas decorations. But only one country, Austria, has a Christmas demon.

Enter der Krampus

If you are imagining a naughty elf, pointy-eared and mischievous, playing pranks around the Yuletide holidays, you are wrong. If you are imagining a grumpy goblin, fattened on stolen cookies and cakes, pilfering presents and tracking snow into the house, you are wrong. If you are imaging a full-on devil, horned, cloven-hoofed, sheathed in coarse black hair, pornographic tongue lolling through needle-fangs, congratulations! You're on the right track. You just missed the birch switch he carries in his hand to beat children, and the iron basket on his back for storing them and dragging them back to Hell. There is nothing cute or harmless about der Krampus - he is a predator straight from the nightmares of the European barbarians, preserved as a punisher-God by a uniquely perverse Alpine people, who decided that he would fit in perfectly with the festive and giving spirit of Christmas. In Austria, you see, he is Santa's companion, traveling with him to scourge the naughty children even as the virtuous ones are rewarded. And the Austrians love der Krampus - while he shares December 6th with St. Nicholas, the nit of the fifth - Krampusnacht - is his alone, and men throughout Austria don their Krampus-clothesen to run amok spreading holiday terror. In Austria, apparently, it really doesn't feel like the Christmas season until the hills ring with the screams of children.

We had arrived in Vienna in late Autumn, when I was three and a half. We were processed and settled in Baden, where the fall and early winter were resplendent in their beauty, though for this I have to take my parents word. The Austrians were generous and thoughtful, and only became more so as the Christmas season approached. As a Christian gesture towards the refugee families, they arranged a celebration for Saint Nicholas Day, with mulled wine and cognac for the parents, and free child are and a visit by Santa Claus for the kids. Predictably for a three-and-a-half year old, I was ecstatic at the prospect of meeting Santa Claus, who I knew as a magic-working Father Winter, who would arrive, dispense avuncular cheer, and deliver presents for all of us. No one briefed me about der Krampus. The other kids had been briefed - maybe they were older, maybe a little more in tune with the local culture, but for one reason or another they just knew. I did not.

My parents were seated in the lounge area, canoodling over a mug of spiced wine. I was with the other children, huddled by the door, waiting for our promised visitor. The Austrian staff were very good at stoking our anticipation. There were false alarms just designed to keep us on edge, and then an announcement - Santa Claus was getting close! I strained up on my little tip-toes hoping to peep him through the windows. The other children crowded another few inches in, and hushed. Another announcement - he had arrived at the building! More straining, and an even more intense quiet. Then, with a violent suddenness, the door was flung open, and through it leapt -

- a goat horned, cloven-hoofed, coarse black-furred Devil beast, brandishing a birch switch at us, bellowing through a fang-toothed jaw. My world became very still, though I was aware that I was surrounded by cheering, jumping, laughing children, as horror and terror dueled for primacy in my child-mind. The terror was the simple, animal fear of being devoured by a superior predator, and it was fierce. The horror was more abstract but no less real - I had not forgotten about Santa Claus, and the fact that this infernal abomination strutted and jabbered before me could only mean one thing: it had murdered, and possibly devoured, Father Christmas, and if the magical personification of holiday generosity could not withstand this monstrosity, what hope could I have? That is what I thought. This is what I did: I spun on me heel and launched myself away, running (toddling?) as fast as my chubby child-limbs could take me.

For a moment, let us shift perspectives - don't worry, the terror will return - and consider the scene from inside der Krampus-suit. A young man, in the seasonal spirit (and I mean schnapps as much as cheer) and looking for a bit of excitement volunteers to do some kid and entertain das refugee-kinder at the asylum center. Tipsy, hopped up on performance adrenalin, he leaps inside the meeting room and launches into character. The kids love it, screaming and hopping, pretending to be frightened, running around, begging for attention. And there's this one, right in the middle of the group, a fair-haired, cherub-cheeked Polish boy, who seems to be getting in the spirit more than the others. A natural actor, he's managing to look genuinely terrified - what a great improv partner! We have the makings of a memorable scene here! So when the boy turns and bolts, what do you do? Why, you go after him of course!

I looked over my shoulder and with existential fear that rose from bowls through my limbic system, that I felt in my lungs, in my heart, all over the surface of my skin, I realized that der Krampus had fixed his gaze on me, and gave heavy-hoofed chased as I tried to run away. I felt increasingly desperate, hysterical. What chance had I if Santa Claus had fallen to this creature? A precocious awareness of mortality settled over, physically numbing my nerve endings. This, I thought, was it, this was how it ends. But at that moment a sliver of hope breached the terror - my parents! Mom and dad! I knew they were in the adjacent room - perhaps if I found them, they would succor me from the beast, with parental powers that eclipse even those of Father Christmas. That is where ran, out of the children's room and into the parents lounge, filled with impossibly tall adults that blocked my view, with der Krampus still hot on my heels. I picked my way past people, though to me all they were were obstacle-legs keeping me from my destination, until I found their table, and sprinted as fast as I humanly could (so really not very fast) until I was close enough to throw myself beneath it, and wrap my arms around my mother's knees. Eyes closed tight, I had reached my last best hope for safety. Der Krampus had followed me, and I could hear him growl and hiss, I could sense him circling the table, threatening me, unbanished and unafraid. He would even duck down to snarl and threaten me in his hideous Krampus-voice. That was bad, but I could hear something else as well - laughter, the unmistakeable cadences of maternal mirth and paternal guffaws. It dawned on me that, far from challenging der Krampus, they were laughing along with him, finding a source of great amusement in my inevitable dismemberment and devouring. All hope fled, and the hot fear that propelled me to their table was superseded by the cold certainty of death. It was then, probably that I began sobbing, and those tears alerted my parents that this wasn't - had never been - play to me, but genuine shock and horror. Wiping tears of mirth for their eyes, they patted my shoulder and asked the nice young man in der Krampus-clothesen to maybe go back to the other kids - this one had had enough.

For this part of the story, unlike the rest of my account, I do not need to rely on second-hand sources but can write it entirely from memory. Indeed, this is my first memory of the refugee center, of Christmas - of life.

Life - it's where you're promised Santa Claus only to be delivered into the paws of of Austrian devil-beast while your parents laugh.


Merry Christmas! 

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

So... Someone asked me about Ayn Rand...

Ah... Ayn Rand. Well, I'm glad you asked. My feelings about Ayn Rand are a little conflicted. On the one hand, I hate her. On the other hand, the hatred is so pure, so righteous, so complete and so entirely justified that it energizes me, brightens my mood and fuels a rich, satisfying inner life of revenge fantasies so baroque in their cruelty and lurid in their detail that I would feel a little diminished without them. 

Which is to say that I consider her to be not so much a terrible writer or a bad thinker (though she certainly is those) but a uniquely monstrous human being, a soul so bereft of the basic empathy and compassion necessary for a healthy emotional life that I am certain she never truly loved anyone, not even herself, and was certainly incapable and undeserving of receiving love from another person. 

However, my sentiment towards her would be pity and contempt if that were the extent of her offences, but rather than living out a bitter, solitary life as an empty husk passing as a human being, she produced this massive corpus of literature which went on to become enormously and destructively influential, kind of like an entire library of economic-political Mein Kampfs. She is famous for declaring altruism to be evil (indeed the root of all evil), selfishness to be good (indeed the root of all good), capitalist-entrepreneurs to be hero-saints from whom all progress emanates and whom we should all venerate, coddle and flatter. Note that this is not a utilitarian argument, but one she makes from first principles, so that by definition anything that plutocrats do is noble, even if their business plan calls for poisoning babies, destroying the Earth's climate or trafficking in sex slaves (because, after all, if the free market didn't want you to be chained to a bed raped by passing truckers for $30/throw, Samantha, then you wouldn't be here) then it is just, while conversely everything that the state does, be it provide healthcare and education, build and maintain public works, or enforce standards for consumer protection, is a monstrous tyranny on par with the Holocaust. Her ideal government would consist merely of a powerful military to keep out other meddling states and a court system where business could hash out contractual disputes. Everything else would be provided - or withheld - at the whim of the ultra-wealthy, who would render to the rest of us with what they saw fit, and which would certainly be more than we deserved, gaggle of "moochers and looters" that we are. 

If any of this seems familiar, it is because she has become the official philosopher of the capitalist-libertarian strain of American Republicanism, as well as asshole bankers 'round the world. Rand Paul, Republican senator from Kentucky, is named after her. Alan Greenspan, intellectual fraud/Wall Street crony/got-away-with-it corrupt Fed chairman, was a personal disciple of hers, spending years attending meetings of her cult-like inner circle, and referencing her work throughout his public career. 

As a bibliophile and a lover of knowledge, I find this an odd thing to say, but I wish that her books would all be burned and her ideas suppressed through brutal, vicious, exemplary violence. I am imagining auto-da-fé of fraudster bankers dragged up in chains to be burned on pyres of Atlas Shrugged. Atlas Shrugged is a terrible book, incidentally, with absurdly rendered characters that resemble human beings in the way that the moon crater Petavius resembles the Great Rift Valley; over-wrought turgid prose whose misanthropy almost qualifies it as hate speech; sex scenes that read as celebrations of anal rape; and all this spread over a flabby and self-indulgent 1000-page expanse. 

So... yeah. That's what I think of Ayn Rand. If I could wish away the existence of a single historical figure, it would be Adolf Hitler. If I got two, it would be Hitler and Ayn Rand. 

much love (but not for Ayn Rand),
Kuba Wrzesniewski

Sunday, January 8, 2012

The Great Debate


As part of my catch-up homework on the leadership race, I recently sat down and watched the first NDP debate, from December 4th. In its entirety. In French, and English. See what I put myself through for you, gentle reader?

The large number of candidates meant that each was limited to a few minutes speaking time, and could do little more but introduce themselves and give a taste of their personality and policy preoccupations. Echoing that brevity, here are two-line assessments of debate performance before I go more in depth on the debate. I am listing candidates in reverse order of debate impressiveness.

Robert Chisholm - No French, already out, 'nuff said.
Romeo Saganash - English was a problem for him, and I got the sense that the language barrier limited him to repeating platitudes about working together and looking out for everyone. Then I heard him in French, where, very eloquently, he said the same things.
Martin Singh - Not as crazy as I expected, given that he came from nowhere and has never held office. Still not really qualified though.
Paul Dewar - Turns out he's not a great public speaker, and lost it a bit when Topp went after him.
Niki Ashton - Poised, attractive, confident, young. A little too Tracy Flick for me.
Brian Topp - Good in French and English, comes off as issue-smart and straight-talking. But when he went after Dewar, he looked a little thuggish.
Nathan Cullen - Young MP from BC, not Niki Ashton young but at 39 still a little youngish for leadership. Great energy, policy smarts, wicked humor (calling the prisons bill "Stephen Harper's housing plan"). Keep taking those French lessons though.
Peggy Nash - Composed, polished, made a case based her record and showed she knew her issues. A little cautious, like a female Thomas Mulcair.
Thomas Mulcair - Composed, polished, stands on his record, really knows his policy. Good at looking leaderish, and avoiding misstatements. A male Peggy Nash, but in this race tie goes to the Quebecer.

The theme of the debate was "Building an Inclusive Economy," which the candidates took as an invitation to shoehorn in the word "inclusive" as often as possible in the first five minutes of the debate, and thereafter drift from issue to issue based on their individual strengths and favored talking points.

As is typical in Canadian debates, language proficiency was front and center, coloring the rest of a candidate's debate performance. It turns out that Romeo Saganash can't debate well in English, which hurts him a lot. Peggy Nash, Paul Dewar, Nathan Cullen and Martin Singh can't debate well in French, which hurts them, but a little less. Robert Chisholm, to speak ill of the departed can't debate well in English or at all in French, which prompted him to withdraw his candidacy by the end of December, specifically citing his lack of French as the reason.

Otherwise, the collegial atmosphere (at one point Cullen emphasized that he was in "violent agreement" with his rivals) and large number of candidates made this a superficial, low-impact affair. The only hint of conflict all night was a run that Brian Topp took at Paul Dewar, implying that Dewar was relying on deficit spending to fund his proposal for an East-West energy grid. Dewar was baffled by the question, and shocked at the breach of the peace. He was also kind of right - no one had even implied deficit spending until Topp brought it up. From pure theatrics, the episode was probably a wash - Topp looked like a bully, and Dewar looked flummoxed.

The debate helped sort candidates into tiers, and add an element of live testing to the war of position within the party as they vie for endorsements and the support of established constituencies. Based on both factors, the only three viable leadership candidates seem to be Topp, Mulcair and Nash. Dewar has a solid party profile, but he'll need a strong performance in the next debate if he wants to convince members that he can lead a national campaign against Stephen Harper. Nathan Cullen has great potential, but seems too young and lacks a base inside the party. Niki Ashton is too young - 29 is young even for an MP, and it would be unprecedented for a leader of a major party. Romeo Saganash needs some more seasoning - he just entered Parliament in 2011, and needs to grow into national politics and improve his English public speaking. Martin Singh needs to go back to Nova Scotia and win his riding - he hasn't made his bones yet in party politics, at least not on the national level.

For those interested in watching for themselves, here's the link: CPAC - Video on Demand

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Gambare, Koara kacho!


I am a well-informed, well-traveled, highly educated individual, rarely surprised by anything anymore. Coming across this movie (it's an ENTIRE movie), my crust of jadedness cracked and once again I realized anything is possible in this world.

Note that just because he's an adorable koala doesn't mean he doesn't have to deal with real executive problems, like a cheating wife. But it does mean that he can totally get away with public urination.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

The Crowded Field...

With the exit of Nova Scotia MP Robert Chisholm from the leadership race (it turns out that learning French might, you know, take a while), the field drops to a still crowded eight. This includes five veteran MPs from across Canada (Niki Ashton, Nathan Cullen, Paul Dewar, Thomas Mulcair, Peggy Nash), another freshly-minted MP coming out of the 2011 Orange Wave in Quebec (Romeo Saganash), the current president of the NDP Brian Topp, and activist, Nova Scotia pharmacist, Sikh community leader and overall no-chancer Martin Singh.

Some of these figures are political veterans with decades of experience in NDP politics - Peggy Nash and Paul Dewar especially - while others are relatively new (Niki Ashton is 29, meaning that her time on earth is shorter than Nash's union experience. Fascinatingly, Ashton wasn't an orange wave MP, but made her way in 2008). None of them are household names in Canada, and many are completely unknown outside of diehard NDP circles. Over the next week, I'll be looking in to their records and their statements to give you a sense of who they are.

This will be an interesting contest - every segment of the party has its champion among the candidates, and individual rivalries will play out in the context of generational ones (NDP membership skews young and old - idealistic students and retirees - giving younger candidates a shot at top posts) and in the sudden prominence of Quebeckers in what was until recently an anglophone, prairie-and-union political party. Finally, with the chance at governing more of a reality than ever before, candidates will have to convince the rank and file that they will not only represent their interests in Ottawa, but that they can beat Stephen Harper at the polls. So stay tuned...