We arrived in Normandy that spring in time for the anniversary observances of the liberation of France. Street posts, balconies and memorial parks were festooned in patriotic bunting, streamers and the national flags of France, Britain, America and Canada. And Germany!
“Why is the German flag with red, gold and black included?” I asked our tour guide on the trip.
“New theme this year,” she said. “Remembrance and reconciliation.” (more…)
The note came out of the blue. After retiring from Centennial College where I taught journalism and broadcasting for 18 years, I’ve only periodically run into former students. They’re the ones busily working as newspaper or radio reporters, videographers, editors, etc. Most of the time, I hear from the successful ones. Not from those struggling. Then, I got a note from a young woman named Farheen.
“I have been looking for positions to help me build my portfolio,” she wrote in her email to me. “But due to my lack of experience, I always fall short.” (more…)
The tension in the air was palpable. All the representatives of power – politicians, diplomats and corporate leaders – could see and hear the assembly of youth in front of them. The whole world was watching as young people stepped up, stood tall and condemned decisions of the day. They decried blatant abuse of that power and they shouted to the representatives of the establishment to change their ways.
“How dare you!” they shouted, in so many words. (more…)
About halfway through Meghan McCain’s tribute to her father last Saturday in Washington, D.C, the director of TV coverage of Sen. John McCain’s funeral cut away to a shot of the middle rows of mourners in the National Cathedral.
Beyond the three former U.S. presidents – Obama, Bush and Clinton – and past the Republicans who wereinvited, sat row on row of American military people. They didn’t appear to be military brass, but relatively young Marine, Army, Navy and Air Force veterans seated in solemn tribute to their hero.
“Look at the military ribbons across those chests,” I thought, and then mused, “what a powerful statement of the man, the politician, the real state of America.” (more…)
It began rather innocently as a group of students naively wanting change. It was the ninth year of the war in Vietnam. I was in my second year at Ryerson. The U.S. National Guard shootings of four students at Kent State had just happened. On University Avenue in Toronto, we joined others whose agendas were wide-ranging. Some wanted world anarchy. Others were Americans burning their draft notices. Most were like us, just students wanting to change things for the better. Then, things went haywire.
“The police are on horses,” somebody shouted, “and they’re coming at us.” (more…)
There’s generally at least one of these in every neighbourhood. This person is most often extremely well grounded in the community or has lived there for years. People next door or down the block all feel they could trust this individual with their mother or their kids. I had a proxy parent like this. Only I didn’t realize I needed her as a surrogate until I was a young adult.
I knew her as “Ma Ross.”
Actually her name was Betty Ross. She was born Helen Elizabeth Watson on July 11, 1920, in Toronto. When she was four, her father died. So, she was raised by a caring brother. Betty came of age during the Second World War, fell in love with an RCAF Spitfire pilot – when they danced on terrace of the Palais Royale on a night in 1940 – and waited for her beau, Richard Ross, to come home safely from the air war overseas. In the 1950s, I met Betty through her son, David, who’d become my closest friend in elementary school in Agincourt, Ont. But that’s not when she became my fill-in mom.
The comment was bold and brutal. The man on the other end of the phone was blunt and to the point. He pulled no punches. His voice was full of disgust.
“You’re lazy. You’re vagrants. You’re a bunch of hoodlums, drug addicts and anarchists” he said on the phone. “Get out of our park!”
It was an act of blatant intolerance. Mia, a factory worker originally from Asia, had been warming her lunch-break meal in the microwave oven in the staff kitchen. It had been the only comfort she was allowed, since her factory job was menial and since she lived with a son who slept all day and stayed out all night. Suddenly, she faced a factory foreman, who found the aroma of her homemade food offensive and he posted a sign on the front of the microwave to point that out.
“No foul-smelling food allowed,” was all the note said.