emma peel's Open Salon Blog

What price loyalty?

Wed, 9 Feb 2011 17:02:03 -0500

Image courtesy of A1 K9 professional dog trainers.

"The subject who is truly loyal to the chief magistrate will neither advise nor submit to arbitrary measures." -- Junius

"You're loyal like a dog," a friend once told me. I'm still not sure if it was a compliment, but because she is one of my oldest and dearest friends, I chose to take it that way. In a postmodern world where relative morality is all the rage, my fascination with the perception and value of loyalty remains intact. I was taught early in life that loyalty is one of the benchmarks of a moral person. Loyalty to spouses, friends, family, church, employers, employees and country was a given. Of course, even then not everyone was loyal, but to be disloyal was considered a much greater transgression than it is now. That time was not so very long ago. The expression "a man's word is his bond" was not steeped in irony and accompanied by a sneer.

The dictionary defines loyalty as faithfulness, steadfastness, devotion, allegiance, trustworthiness and dependability. Mothers are almost always devoted to their children, they're hard-wired that way. Siblings may fight bitterly, then defend one another with equal passion. Spouses are not so loyal -- infidelity and divorce rates tell a grim tale. Since the downsizing/race-to-the-bottom mentality of North American society that began in the 80s, employers and workers are rarely loyal. Employers still demand loyalty, but increasingly, they are not getting it. Despite decades of employee downsizing in the midst of record profits to move operations to Third World countries -- so much for loyalty to country -- or to "streamline," employees still struggle with conflicting feelings about those who sign their paycheques. This is less true of younger workers probably because they've watched their parents lose jobs, and they're born of a generation permeated with the materialistic narcissism of the "I've got mine, Jack" dominant culture. And yet many of the young people I teach still express a need to be loyal, even if they know it won't necessarily be rewarded.

It's a dog's life

What inspires blind loyalty in some people and not others? Some suggest that it's a fear of abandonment. People who haven't known much stability in their lives cling to what they have even if it's toxic to them. Others attribute a more healthy kind of loyalty to strong moral character, but as my friend noted, what's the point of being loyal to people who don't care about you? I think it's more complicated than that. People want to be loyal because it is easier to live with degrees of certainty than in a vaccum. Most of us yearn to believe the best about people no matter how many times we've been disappointed. It is possible to be aware of human frailties and remain loyal, although it's not always easy. This is where honour, another old-fashioned concept, comes into play. Those who scoff at loyalty tend to view life through a lens of "what have you done for me lately?" rather than collaboration to the benefit of both parties. There is also loyalty to self. For me, this means staying true to my principles no matter how much harder it is than doing what others want. This has cost me jobs, money, romantic partners and even friends, but I have not regretted it -- much.

In an age as cynical as ours, loyalty is often dismissed as old fashioned, self-destructive and even stupid. And yet the dog, revered for its loyalty in western culture, remains man's best friend. Nobody said human nature was easy to understand.

All the lonely people

Fri, 5 Nov 2010 22:11:49 -0400

Many years ago when I was a reporter for a daily paper I covered a visit by Mother Teresa to the small northern Alberta town of Lac la Biche. I have never been religious, nor have I ever been a supporter of hers, but she said something to the thousands who flocked to see her that hot spring day that has always stayed with me. She commented that while the land we lived in was vast, and vastly wealthy, we were poor. Poor in the sense that we suffered from the affliction of loneliness that causes so many of us to languish and waste away, hidden in nursing homes, trapped in our houses and apartments, shackled by sorrow, shame and self-defeat. Her words resonated with me because loneliness, then and now, has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Yet I am one of the "lucky" lonely.

I am not part of the legions roaming the streets, invisible in their poverty, homelessness and despair, nor am I shut away waiting to die alone in a place where strangers are paid to take care of me. I am, however, a woman who is no longer young and rapidly becoming invisible in ways that underscore the fate of most women in a culture that reveres only fertile and beautiful females. Every year I age, I matter less. The same is true for men after a certain age, but it's true for women cruelly soon. The loneliness of no longer mattering is palpable when I walk through my mother's nursing home where women are predominant. It is a presence as thick and suffocating as a too-tight collar. I make it a point to talk to residents other than my mother there; the men, many of them too proud to make the first move, and the women, whose eyes focus and shine when they are spoken to individually. I often think of my favourite Katharine Mansfield short story, Miss Brill, when I wonder about the possibility of ending up a discarded old woman. Today, I haven't been able to get the lyrics of The Beatles' Eleanor Rigby out of my head.

Being alone is not the same as being lonely

As Donna Carbone noted in her recent post, loneliness is an epidemic that infiltrates all age groups and income levels with devastating physical and psychological effects. Seniors are the most obvious victims, but many children, teenagers and adults also suffer its torments. But loneliness is not the same as being alone. I enjoy being alone, and have spent literally weeks by myself. I've gone on long trips to Third World countries where no one spoke English, not even the few tourists I encountered. When I first moved to Vancouver, I was so devastated by the loss of my career that I spent months in a grief-stricken fog with only my cat for company. The loneliest time of my life was when I was in a successful job and a long-distance relationship; the second-loneliest when I was a young teenager with no friends because I had just moved to a new city. I remember going to see The Who by myself and being taunted by a group of teens who seemed personally affronted that I was alone; indeed, as far as I could tell, I was the only unaccompanied person in the large arena. When I became a journalist and critc, I was already used to travelling and eating alone, never mind attending films, plays and concerts by myself. As a woman, I was also used to being alternately harassed or ignored for the social crime of being a "lone" female. I was given bad tables in restaurants and overcharged, accused of being a prostitute and asked to leave when I entered the bars of hotels where I stayed, treated nastily by other women and men in authority –– it was all part of traversing the everyday world.

I have been told that this ease of being alone, if not lonely, is not "normal." I once worked with a middle-aged woman who was terrified of spending a weekend alone because in 62 years, she had never been completely alone. That is unfathomable to me. Even now, I spend a lot of time by myself because my workaholic husband is either at work, or shut away in his office when he is home. I'm still socially "single" most of the time even though I have many friends.

Alone on a mountaintop

This is unheard of in some cultures. When I spent time in Indonesia and other Asian countries in the late 80s and early 90s, I was surprised that almost no one went anywhere or did anything alone. It used to annoy me when strangers would ask, "Where are you going?, or would sit right next to me at the top of a mountain when we were the only people there. Then I learned that not only were they just being friendly, practicing their English and occasionally trying to sell me something, they could not comprehend that I wanted to be alone. So strong was their sense of family and community that the thought of a woman travelling with no man and no children was utterly alien to them.

We don't necessarily share that community connection in western culture where the emphasis is on individualism and materialism. The more we have, or don't have, the less connected we are to our neighbours and community. This is the spiritual poverty that leads to the terrible loneliness Mother Teresa spoke of, a loneliness borne of fear that ultimately robs us of lives well lived.

Writers are artists who deserve respect

Wed, 29 Sep 2010 16:09:20 -0400

I can't accept the notion being bandied about at OS that anyone who writes anything is a writer. Yes, they may have taken pen to paper or clicked a mouse, but by the same logic, anyone who has ever sung in the shower is a singer, and anyone who has ever taken a picture is a photographer. This need to discount achievement seems peculiar to the arts, and it's hardly new. No one would think of saying that they are a doctor merely because they've taken someone's temperature, or a mechanic because they've changed a tire. So why this peculiar cultural goal to denigrate people who spend their lives striving to perfect their natural talent, hone their craft and their raison d' être whether it's painting, writing, dancing or composing? I truly don't get it.

There's a probably apocryphal story about the Canadian writer Margaret Laurence who wrote many award-winning and wonderful novels. She was at a party and as often happens with people who have struggled to earn their living from writing, someone (a neurosurgeon in this instance) came up to her and said something like, "When I retire, I'm going to take up writing. I know I'd be great at it. Anyone can do it." To which she replied something like: "When I retire from writing, I think I'll take up neurosurgery. It's got to be dead easy."

That pretty much sums up how I feel about people who insist that anyone can be a writer just because they write. It doesn't help that I deal with clients all the time who say things like "I'd do this myself but I just don't have time" and then try to either not pay, or insist that because "anyone can write," try to diminish the value of the work. They wouldn't dare try that with their dentist or even their grocer. But somehow, the arts just don't count as a serious endeavour or a profession that can literally take a lifetime to perfect. Nope, being a writer is something anyone deserves to be called whether they work at it or know anything about it at all simply because they've written something.

That is an insult to people who work incredibly hard at writing because it tells them that what they do is so unimportant that anyone can do it without even trying. Try equating that with your own profession or job and see how good it feels to be told that it requires no skill, no dedication, no work, it just somehow, magically, "is" and of course, it's "good."

This discounting of what it takes to be a serious writer is apparent everywhere. Successful online (and even offline) publications think nothing of offering people with impressive writing careers less than a cent a word to write for them. Or more frequently, they offer nothing at all, just the "thrill of the byline" and "exposure." They're all over Craigslist and the Internet, but they are also in other industries. This idea that "anyone can write" is contagious. I have students who insist they can learn nothing about writing from me (or anyone for that matter) because they are already so good that the next stop for them is Vanity Fair or The New York Times. All they need is the degree or certificate. I have almost been convinced at times until I look at their assignments or at the online publications where they write. When other students ask me how to be better writers, I know that they have a fighting chance because they realize that getting good at anything requires practice, hard work and willingness to listen to and work with others who just might know more or be better than them. Natural talent also helps.

Before you get out the tar and feathers to ride me out of here on a rail for being elitist, angry and bitter, please consider this: I have spent countless hours since I joined OS nearly two years ago commenting on all kinds of blogs and posts. I will literally read anything from the back of a cereal box to a blog rife with spelling and grammatical errors if the author has an authentic voice and an engaging style. I've learned a lot from emerging writers who often aren't afraid to take chances, or don't know that what they're doing is "wrong," yet somehow make it work. Everybody has to start somewhere and OS is as good a place as any. Most of those bloggers would never assume that they are in the same league as someone who's spent a lifetime writing even if that person has never been paid for it. They know that writing is hard work, but also the most fun you can have without laughing.

I have been writing nearly all my life, paid or otherwise, and I hardly dare to call myself a writer because there are so many much better writers than me here and elsewhere. My goal has always been to surround myself with people who are more talented than I am. They inspire me and I learn from them. They raise my bar and keep me sharp. Very few writers are ever completely satisfied with their work, but sometimes we realize it's the best we can do in the time that we have.

I was always taught that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well. I will go down fighting on this issue of what it takes to be a writer even if it is a losing battle, and it is if all the cultural indicators can be believed. The dismissal of the sacrifice involved to truly achieve something as an artist -- a writer -- is just plain wrong. It shows a profound lack of respect. Without respect, no one, no matter what we do, can flourish. Not even window washers.

Gang rape: Facebook shares the spoils of crime

Fri, 17 Sep 2010 23:09:40 -0400

A couple of nights ago a former student of mine posted some images on Facebook. The title was something like Guy Gets Revenge on His Girlfriend. I accidentally clicked "Like" before going to view it but half-way into the process, I decided it was too much bother to open it. Then I got a PM from a former OS member expressing surprise that I had clicked "Like" and wondering if someone had taken over my account. I "unliked" it and blocked my student. I still wasn't aware of what the content of the video was, and didn't think about it again until I heard a news report about a 16-year-old girl who'd been drugged and gang raped at a rave party near a suburb of Vancouver while some boys/men photographed it. The graphic images went viral on Facebook. Turns out that was what my student had shared. Facebook is not taking the images down as of this writing. The RCMP has asked some people posting them to take them down, but many have refused.

The photographer and another young man have been arrested and released. Sexual assault charges will likely follow. Canada does not have the crime of rape any longer; the law was changed to assault to reflect its violent nature. But what about the additional violence inflicted upon this teenage girl as a result of the images of her being sexually assaulted by 5-7 men over a 20-minute period going viral? Or the comments by total strangers, many of whom accuse her of taking drugs, deserving what happened to her, and lamenting that she wasn't hurt more badly? Some wrote that the victim is a "Straight up WHORE," a "complete slut," and another suggested, "Cmon who's not down for a gang bang?" What about the students at her high school, many of whom were at the party, who expressed little sympathy in on-camera and private interviews and voiced the opinion that they "heard" it was consensual. I guess it didn't occur to them to ask or wonder how a person can give consent when they are drugged and their memory is seriously impaired. The girl had no memory of the assault and only found out about it after someone recognized her in the photos on Facebook and went to the police. She had gone to hospital for her injuries, but it's not clear what she thought had happened. This kind of memory lapse is common with date-rape drugs, which can have a hypnotic effect.

Socially corrupt

The sergeant in charge of the case called the sharing of the images "socially corrupt" and begged people not to continue doing it. Her appeals have fallen mostly on deaf ears. So have police threats that distributing the images is child pornography since the girl is underage. Today the victim's father talked about what this nightmare is doing to his daughter and her chances of recovery. They're not good.

Some of you may be thinking: so what? Stuff like this happens all the time on the Internet. I urge you to think of it this way: imagine the worst thing that could ever happen to you with or without your consent. Now imagine it being spread across the Internet with hateful, sexist comments, some courtesy of people you might even know. Imagine that these images are out there permanently and could re-surface at any time. Imagine creepy strangers on the other side of the world getting a vicarious thrill at your pain and thinking of you as nothing more than a piece of meat to be abused. Imagine that you are absolutely powerless to do anything about it. Not even the police can help you.

We've come a long way baby

As an post-secondary educator, I know that there are a lot of good teens out there. I also know that peer pressure makes people of all ages behave in ways that they wouldn't behave on their own. But I have another question. What are the suburban parents of these teens thinking when they are out all night? Why haven't they taken their teenagers' cell phones and computers away to prevent these images being disseminated? Who's running the show? Or are they responsible for teaching their children that people, especially women, have no value, and that there are no boundaries and seemingly, no consequences for immoral -- yes, I'm going to use that old-fashioned word - and even criminal actions. That anything you do is OK as long as you get away with it. If someone gets hurt, that's their fault.

In the meantime, a young girl is suffering the most horrible public humiliation possible at the hands of these heartless and conscience-free dregs of humanity. If she survives her ordeal somewhat intact, she will be a (likely) unheralded heroine of the Internet era where the survival of the fittest is the rule, not the exception. We've come a long way baby.

UPDATE: Facebook has removed the images as of Sept. 18.

As tears go by -- a Saturday re-post

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 21:06:31 -0400

After great pain a formal feeling comes

After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?

The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

–– Emily Dickinson

I've been thinking a lot about crying. Not simply because I've been exploring some unresolved grief around childhood events, or because the level of pain and suffering in the world is becoming even more unbearable, although those are reasons enough. No, I am contemplating the shedding of tears as an indicator of emotional health, of thawing the frozen feelings I've harboured deep inside for most of my life. My thought processes crystallized when I read Outside Myself's post. What she wrote about crying struck a chord deep within me, a chord that reverberates and cannot be ignored.

Crying should be easy. After all, we cry right after being born, when we don't get our diapers changed quickly enough, or get the candy or attention we want. My step-granddaughter cries if I speak to her carelessly -- her feelings are sensitive and easily wounded. My eyes sting, and I remind myself that she deserves better from me. Teenage girls shed torrents of tears over boys, love songs and slights real or imagined. When we grow up, we cry over lost loves, lost jobs, disease and deaths of loved ones and pets. So why was it that one day in my 40s I realized that I hadn't cried in so long that I literally couldn't remember the last time? I am not counting the false tears that brim when a sappy song or TV commercial manipulates our emotions. I mean crying as in tears rolling down cheeks and flat-out sobbing, although I don't think I've ever really done the latter. One of my most painful memories is remembering the harsh sound of my grandmother sobbing the day my father died. I had never seen her express that much emotion before.

The tracks of my tears

I chose the "tough," predominantly male profession of journalism, which suited my belief that crying was "weak" and "unprofessional." I thought poorly of women who cried in the workplace, and privately discounted friends who cried easily . No matter what happened, what horrific apsect of human behavior I saw and reported on, the sexism I endured on the job, I never cried. I didn't cry when I was fired without cause although I later learned that my not crying was considered proof that I wasn't really all that upset. I saved my scant tears and self-rage for the car and later, my bedroom. My grief had long ago festered into depression and anger and only rarely emerged as sorrow.

Shortly after I was constructively dismissed, I moved and left my former life behind. I remained stoic, yet inside I was starting to crumble. I'm not sure exactly when or why it happened, but one day I found myself sitting alone on my couch with tears streaming down my face. For a while, it seemed that I could not stop mourning the loss of my previous identity. I mentioned to a friend that I had to wear sunglasses on even rainy days to hide my eyes because I never knew when the tears might start. She replied that I should wear them as long as I had to. She reminded me that tears are cleansing, that they purify the soul, and that they are as necessary as breathing, sleeping and eating. My tears stopped without warning, and the old defenses mounted again. I cried discreetly when my brother died three years ago, but mostly I was in shock and remained that way until late last year. My grieving process for the many losses in my life finally began as a result of working with a Budhhist therapist and a life coach when numerous forms of conventional therapy had failed.

Now I am happy to report that I cry freely, sometimes too freely. I cry while listening to music, while reading about atrocities committed toward people and animals, while reading OS, while driving, while looking at old pictures or reading poetry, while cooking dinner -- just about anything sad, beautiful or sentimental can start the tears flowing. I still don't cry easily in front of other people but I attended a workshop recently where in fact, I cried without shame or fear of what others might think. And I fought back tears during a recent dinner with a close friend when she casually mentioned my cat, the late great Marvin Grey, who died six years ago.

My feelings are no longer paralyzed but float close to the surface. It is a new and exhilarating experience. In fact, I enjoy crying so much that I've invested in waterproof mascara. Best of all, I no longer worry that I won't be able to stop crying. Instead, I worry that the tears will some day stop without warning and I will be frozen once again.

The Tracks of My Tears

Smokey Robinson & The Miracles

People say I'm the life of the party
Cause I tell a joke or two
Although I might be laughing loud and hearty
Deep inside I'm blue

So take a good look at my face
You'll see my smile looks out of place
Just look closer, it's easy to trace
The tracks of my tears
I need you, need you

Since you left me if you see me with another girl
Seeming like I'm having fun
Although she may be cute she's just a substitute
'Cause you're the permanent one

Outside, I'm masquerading
Inside, my hope is fading
Just a clown, oh yeah since you put me down
My smile is my make-up I wear since my break-up with you