Let’s say I was a man.

Being a man, if I walked out of my house tonight wearing boxers, most people would think it was funny. Sure, some people would be confused. Others would laugh, maybe give me some high-fives.

In comedy movies, men in underpants is a punchline.

But I’m not a man, and the sight of female flesh is almost never a punchline — at least, not so long as it fits our culture’s definition of what is sexually desirable. So if I were to walk outside my house in underpants and a bra, people wouldn’t think it was funny.

They might, however, think it was “trashy,” “skanky,” “slutty” or just plain demeaning. Pick a word, there are certainly enough of them. And they all mean the same thing.

The primary weapon our culture uses against women is sexual devaluation. And once women are seen as sexually devalued, we are seen as fair game for whatever may befall us.

“If you dress like a slut, you’ll get treated like a slut.”

Or however you want to put it.

Culture reminds us, every day, that in order to retain sexual valuation and thus be defended from sexual violence, we have to keep our flesh in check — shown just enough to make us visually appealing, but hidden enough that we aren’t “giving it away” or “degrading ourselves.” (Even if violence does not happen, we are held responsible for the gaze of others.)

Here’s my central issue (among many) with this icky little double-standard: it is based on the assumption that women’s bodies are inherently sexual objects, that naked female flesh defaults to sexual whereas naked male flesh does not, and that it is thus inevitable and necessary that women take precautions to hide this sexual bait from men who would do them violence.

False. Wrong. Totally and completely wrong.

Confront someone with this double-standard, and they’ll often assert that it is biological inevitability, an immutable fact of the species that human women are to be looked at, and human men are the ones to do the looking.

But that is demonstrably false.

In fact, how sexually we perceive the female body is entirely cultural. We don’t have to look far to identify numerous indigenous cultures where the sight of any naked female flesh is wholly unremarkable, and certainly not titillating; on the other end, there are cultures which view a naked female ankle as be sexually inciting. In the middle, there are many cultures in which varying levels and occasions of non-sexualized nudity are tolerated.

Treating women’s bodies as sexual objects is not part of our biology. It is part of our culture. And the culture, if you permit the profanity, is fucked-up.

Especially when it comes to victim-blaming.

Let me make this clear: in the context of sexual assault, victim blaming is a manifestation of sexualized hate against women.

Just world theory is bad enough without the misogyny. But what is most dramatic about victim blaming in rape cases is that it is reserved, almost exclusively, for victims that fit our society’s definition of sexually desirable, or at least sexually available.

For instance, while victim blaming can and does happen in almost any case of sexual assault, it is far more prevalent when the victim falls loosely into a category of women who are deemed sexually available to men.

If an 80-year-old woman is raped, people are generally disgusted. If a woman with cognitive or severe physical disabilities is raped, people are most likely to be horrified. If a young child is raped, people are shocked and furious.

But if the survivor of sexual violence is post-pubescent but pre-menopausal, if she is apparently able-bodied and neurotypical, the amount of sympathy observers have for her begins to drop precipitously.

There’s the sexual devaluation weapon again: if she is a chaste mother of three who is raped by a stranger in her own home, she may avoid the worst of it. But if she is a young woman who was raped when she was socializing, she will be met with every possible reason in the book about why she should have known better.

And if she is a woman of any kind who is raped by a friend, partner or spouse — far and away the most common profile of a rapist — then it is assumed that she is not smart enough to know the difference between regret and rape.

Because a sexually available woman, our culture says, is a sexually devalued woman. And sexually devalued women are not considered worthy of our society’s empathy or protection. They are not even considered worthy of feeling the same pain, fear and trauma as women who are “really raped.”

Read these comments again.

Read them, and remember this: victim-blaming, all victim-blaming, is an act of making excuses for rapists and criminals. If you have ever said anything remotely similar to the comments linked above, then you have made our culture a friendlier place to be for rapists.

And most rapists rape more than once.

They rape more than once, because they know they will probably get away with it. Because they know that so long as they rape an acceptable target, cops, culture and courts will scrutinize the victim first — beginning with the headline.

You want to talk about being soft on crime?

Exhibit A: these people who, whether they admit it or not, treat rape against certain broad categories of women as an understandable crime, one committed by a red-blooded man against a woman who failed to properly cover and protect herself from an inevitably sexual gaze.

This is what Slutwalk is about, by the way.

We can debate if Slutwalk is the most effective way to share this message. We can discuss the impact of the word, the logistics of reclaiming it, and the ways in which Slutwalk struggled as a movement of inclusion.

But if you are debating that Slutwalk is bad because women should learn to cover themselves up and “take responsibility” for themselves, then you are not expressing an “honest” or “realistic” or “responsible” opinion.

All you’re doing is defending a violent status quo, and protecting the rapists who make it so.

Thanks, and keep up the good work.*

* Terrible, awful, harmful, hateful work.

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At first the sound seemed like screams of horror. Turn up the volume, furrow my brow, and it rang more clearly as shouts of joy. Then the tone rippled, and twisted, and shook out cries of confusion.

Was Troy Davis alive? Was he dead? Was there a stay? Just a delay? Was he, as Mia Farrow said, really lying on the gurney with the IV in his arm when the United States Supreme Court issued the words that spun out his life just a little bit longer?

The rumours spread and I, swayed by the cries of “stay” and the jubilant exclamations of NAACP leaders on Democracy Now’s live feed, played my small part in spinning one of them. Mea culpa, indeed. Melissa, learn thee when to step away from the Twitter feed.

But this is why I rarely watch live news video outside executions.

For me, when I’m watching a safe distance from the death chamber, the emotions — the nail-biting tension, the elation, the heartbreak and, yes, the horror — play out too similar to watching a movie. The hero is doomed, and saved, and maybe doomed again. Pentobarbital. Vercuronium bromide. Potassium chloride. End scene.

But then the credits don’t roll and the dream doesn’t end. This is a real man’s life, and it could really be ended in six minutes and twenty-two seconds. Usually, the dispassionate nature of legal proceedings is one of the strengths of our justice system; but when it comes to printing out the paperwork and counting down the minutes to a killing, those cold procedural nuances become monstrous.

This time, I watched. Not for my personal conviction of innocence, or guilt; in a way, though the spectre of the innocent dead is the most difficult weight to shoulder, there are even bigger burdens the death penalty confers on its bearers. None of us can ever know the absolute truth. But tonight, we can all be witness to something that now has been done, and can never be undone.

Isn’t that why we seek justice in the first place?

To quote Amaeryllis on Twitter: “Justice is served at conviction; beyond that is just a test of our humanity.”

One day, one day we will pass that test. I believe this to be true. It’s just a long, hard road to get there.

Recommended reading:

+ The Innocence Project: Has exonerated 17 death row inmates based on DNA evidence. Begs the question of what truths exist amongst the thousands of death row inmates in the U.S. for whom no DNA evidence ever existed, or for whom DNA evidence was lost.

+ Trial By Fire: The New Yorker’s award-winning investigation into case of a Texas man executed for the deaths of his children, which explores some deep problems with the reliability of evidence in arson cases.

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Today, CBC Manitoba highlighted concerns about the new Birth Centre from a woman who lost her newborn son in 1996, due to medical complications.

I don’t know Ms. Dorber, but my heart goes out to her: it appears hers was a very sad story.

Still, I’m disappointed over how this dialogue emerged. The CBC article highlights that “some are questioning” the Birth Centre’s “safety.” To support that, they present Ms. Dorber’s concerns: it’s clear those fears stem from her own experience of tragedy. But while living through tragedy can indeed impart a certain kind of wisdom, it doesn’t make someone a medical expert, and it does not mean that their concerns can or should form the basis of a troubled dialogue about a largely separate issue.

As they say, the plural of “anecdote” isn’t “data.

But we do have data on the safety of midwife-attended births, though that data is not referenced in the CBC story. In general, the data points very strongly to the fact that planned home- or birth centre-births attended by midwife professionals is as safe or safer than hospital births; it reinforces the fact that midwives are extremely capable medical professionals who are highly educated in facilitating safe births for mothers and infants.

What worries me is that this story plays into tired tropes about the “safety” of midwife-attended birth, tropes that are still hurting our health-care system, and all for nothing: several erroneous statements in the CBC story are left uncorrected. As Tanya observes:

She answered the question: “Were you considered a high-risk pregnancy” by saying, “No no. Just age.” What?! Age is a major risk factor! This is not ageist to say: if you’re over 35 years old, your pregnancy is considered high-risk. Period.

On one hand, it occurs to me that there are so many people who are misinformed about the safety of midwife-attended birth (the comments on the CBC story deliver more of that), perhaps it’s a good thing that these concerns were brought into the open. Perhaps it’s a good thing that we can address them and have this dialogue.

That’s the optimistic side of me speaking, here.

The cynical side of me suspects that the way this dialogue emerged has just knocked back the long and often fraught process of normalizing normal birth, by allowing whispers and worries about “safety” to slip silently into the minds of those who have little chance to hear otherwise. Ms. Dorber’s tragedy does not appear to have a systemic link to the new Birth Centre, and it appears that the issues that caused her son’s death are unlikely to have relevance to this new institution.

So I say: until we have data on our own Birth Centre, let’s judge its potential for safety on what we already know about the safety of similar birthing choices, and not give power to fear drawn from elsewhere. That, I opine, is the best and most responsible approach for women and the babies they bear.

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This is Kyro Martin. As you can see from his gentle yet slightly dazed expression, he was a very sweet dog, but somewhat lacking in the smarts department.

 

I have very few pictures of my beloved old friend in my condo; my dad found this gem and others today, and emailed them to me.

Oh, I do miss him.

Kyro left this world in November 2007, at the very ripe age of 18. A couple of days later, I went to Oregon for the second time in my life. It was the beginning of an adventure that took me to the highest highs and the lowest lows. Kyro never got to see any of that, though. In his steady little way, he helped carry me through my childhood and some tumultuous teen years (are there any other kind?), but he bowed out for that chapter. He was tired, and deserved the rest.

Job well done, old friend.

In his final years, his bladder control became somewhat suspect. To compensate, we found him a diaper. To line the diaper, we had to try stuffing it with the absorbent innards of several products: my dad still laughs to remember the time he walked up to the Shoppers cashier with one hand full of maxi pads, and the other full of Depends.

Oh, the things you’ll do for a dog.

He was worth it though, worth every silly or frustrating moment. When I was just a little girl, we used to play in my room for hours, creating our own little world. I grew up, but he stayed the same: once, maybe six years ago, I was pacing up and down the stairs during a long phone conversation. I turned around and realized he’d been dutifully following me up and down the entire time, perhaps two dozen times up and down the stairs in all, even through the arthritis that had stiffened his legs.

That’s love, innit?

There’s no real reason for this post: just had to put a tribute up to my old pup, because he has never been forgotten. Feel free to use the comments to share your fondest memories of your own furry folk — the ones you never forget, no matter how long it’s been since you said goodbye.

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As James Turner wrote, the first step is admitting there’s a problem.

Here’s a problem for you: when the tests come back, the news is bad as can be. That dark mass they found, it’s cancer. It’s eating at your insides. “What do I do now?” you ask the doctor. “I’m in pain, I’m sick, I can’t eat.”

The doctor pulls out his prescripton pad. “In that case,” he says, “Here’s a script for some painkillers. Take them every day. I’ll see you in four years.”

If that was it — if that was all he did — you would fire your doctor.

So why is it that, when it comes to violence and poverty, we allow our leaders to numb the symptoms without treating the disease?

Because there is a cancer in our city: it’s addiction. It’s eating the heart out of whole neighbourhoods. Addictions play a major role in almost every ill in society. Crimes committed by desperate addicts, or by the power-hungry gangs that feed them, or by the child victims of fetal alcohol spectrum disorder. Poverty made worse by the growling mouth of an addiction that must be fed — an addiction that, to some, is the only thing that makes poverty bearable.

And how many police resources are taken up by tracking down drug dealers and responding to substance-involved domestic disputes? How many justice resources does it take to clear those cases and incarcerate the offenders? How many hours of social work does it take to monitor children seized from homes where addiction has taken hold? How many health-care dollars go to healing people suffering the physical symptoms of their addiction?

Too many, too much.

Fact: these things will not end, until the addictions do. We can keep seizing children from situations of addiction-fuelled neglect and abuse. We can keep adding police, keep busting more drug dens and dealers. It won’t really change anything. As long as there is a market for drugs, there will be a supply. It’s like a terrible arms race that never ends, no matter how many billions of dollars you sink into it. Just ask the Americans.

There is, however, one obvious way to reach armistice: help people beat their addictions.

That’s not a simple task, but it is a possible one. We know, generally, how addictions work. We know what kind of supports — medical, psychological, community — post the best success rates in getting people clean and sober. And yet, addictions treatment is massively underfunded. Wait lists to get into funded treatment programs are sometimes enormous; outside those programs, there are not nearly enough community supports to meet the demand.

Why? Is it because the very subject of addiction makes us so uncomfortable that we cannot bear to look too long at this bleak malebolge into which so many people fall? Is it because it’s too hard to help get them out?

Or, a cynical voice whispers, is it because crack addicts don’t vote?

In the current provincial election, only the Liberal party has made addictions a major part of its platform. This is puzzling to me. You simply cannot have a productive discussion about solving crime, poverty and health care without also including addictions — not as the only solution, but as a major player in all those things.

The fact that such discussions are almost always held without that inclusion hints at something more concerning. At best, it’s apathy — and at worst, it’s a decision to sell the electorate on tough sales pitches about fighting crime and poverty, instead of trying to sell them on real solutions.

But if we’re serious about making things better for everyone, then we will start treating the cancer, instead of just pushing down the symptoms. Otherwise, we never will be healed, and we’ll be singing the same song twenty years from now.

I think it’s time to change our tune.

(Goodness. How can you tell I am frustrated and cranky tonight?)

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It’s hard to believe, sometimes, how much time goes by between one post and the next. It’s even harder to believe when I know, for a fact, that I have five unfinished drafts of posts that I stayed up late nights battering out on my keyboard.

With each, something stopped me from hitting “publish.” Exhaustion with the subjects, maybe. It’s alright; there will be time (for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea.)

But lo, I come bearing news: on Wednesday, Sept. 7, I will be joining the Winnipeg Internet Pundits on UMFM Radio! What fun!

I’m looking forward to the show — these are some of my favourite blogger-persons! They graciously invited me to join them this week to talk about a little bit o’ this and a little bit ‘o that; expect to hear some chat about my sleeve-worn love of Osborne Village and about all the ideas we gathered about improving media in Winnipeg.

So please, if you enjoy this blog and haven’t tuned in to the Pundits before, turn your dial or online radio to UMFM starting at 5 p.m. on Wednesday, Sept. 7 to enjoy my dulcet tones.

—-

Perhaps my next blog will be about the tattoo I gifted to myself on Saturday. Because I love it. Because it reminds me of something important, something that gets twisted and forgotten when fractious bits of day-to-day make drifts against the windows.

Imagine you’re reading it from my perspective, and it makes more sense.

Or maybe that’ll just end up another unpublished draft in the never-ending virtual pile.

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Today, a quick blog post to give some props.

On Friday, CBC Radio and AYO Antigang hosted a fresh little event on the radio and across social media. The format was simple: you could post questions for aboriginal youth on Facebook or Twitter, and they were answered live by the crew from AYO*.  You can read some of the questions and answers on CBC Manitoba’s Facebook wall if you scroll down a bit here.

I loved it. Loved reading it, loved the set-up of it, loved the fact that the answers were unfiltered. The major news media in Manitoba (other than APTN) needs to do stuff like this more often.

One of the most pernicious ways that a society enforces its hierarchies of power and privilege is in determining who is heard, and who is allowed to speak. In Canada, the major media invests a lot of time and ink talking about aboriginal youth, but much more rarely is the talking done by them; when it is, it is usually filtered through the intermediary of a reporter or an editor.

This isn’t going to cut it.

The time for almost exclusively talking to and about aboriginal youth in the major media is past. Now it is time for us to listen. And it doesn’t come a moment too soon: in 2008, the median age for aboriginal people in Manitoba was 24;  the median age for non-aboriginal people was just over 40. By 2020 — not too far away — estimates predict that up to 40% of school-aged children in the prairies will be aboriginal.

The demographics alone tell us that continuing to relegate aboriginal youth voices to the sidelines in major media is a terrible mistake. When the media is not representative of the people in its coverage area, it cannot effectively speak to the issues and experiences and needs of those people. And if it can’t do that, then its relevancy begins a fatal decline.

But it’s more than that.

To me, it comes down to this: if we don’t understand each other, we’re never going to get anywhere as a society. And we can’t understand each other if we can’t be quiet for a time and listen to what others are saying. There is much hand-wringing over the future of aboriginal youth in the non-aboriginal community: as AYO and CBC Manitoba demonstrated on Friday, aboriginal youth really don’t need that type of concern-trolling. They are very capable of speaking for themselves, and their experiences and their ideas for the future.

What they need, and deserve, is to be heard.

There are a lot of open spaces for young aboriginal voices happening in Manitoba — APTN or Streetz, for example. But in the broad news media? Not enough, not yet. But Friday’s opportunity to connect directly with aboriginal youth set a pretty good example of how we might be able to change that — if only we believe enough that the change needs to happen.

* A hat-tip here to AYO’s Michael Champagne. I stumbled on his blog some weeks back, and have enjoyed his energetic dispatches on community organizing and political engagement immensely.

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It’s uh, hump-day. Which means there’s no better time to do a linky-post, and share some love with all sorts of readable things — starting with a collection of local blogs marking Jack Layton’s passing from a variety of perspectives.

As always, feel free to share your favourite blog discoveries (local, national, international) in the comments.

ON JACK LAYTON

+ Cherenkov: “His death is no more or less tragic than any other, but it has great significance to the country on a political level.”

+ John Dobbin: “We will need to know the health of our political leaders.”

+ West End Dumplings: “He wielded that cane a la Freddy Mercury’s mic stand.”

+ Revivedrev: “We need to reflect on the real human being, the contradiction.”

+ Michael Champagne: “I am a young person who is ‘at-risk‘…  Now I believe that I can make a difference by sticking to positivity and hope. Because of Jack’s example.”

OTHER LOCAL NEWS

+ Langside Times with some lovely photos of positive graffiti tags in the West End.

+ James Turner is giving out awards now, to Crown attorneys who stand out in attempts to deter crime.

+ Cherenkov’s been on blogging fire lately, with bits on the hacienda-ization of St. Mary’s and a Venn diagram of Winnipeg radio stations, which also is totally true, and a must-read perspective on the retirement of Manitoba Hydro CEO Bob Brennan.

+ I can honestly say that it’s never occured to me to think about the pedestrian impact of yield lanes. Happily, One Man Committee took a moment to consider the issue, and his thoughts on it are worth a read.

+ Rise and Sprawl popped out of quiet to remind why getting people living downtown matters.

+ Put your clever ideas out to pasture: we have officially found the greatest Winnipeg Tweeter ever. I’m not entirely sure who’s behind it, but I will say that this is one of the most fantastic ways to blend social media and history I’ve seen yet.

INTERESTING STUFF

+ Cracked’s latest article on Eight Tiny Things That Stopped Suicide is sweeter than that website’s normal funny fare, but there’s an important point there: suidical behaviour is generally acute. So sometimes the tiniest things we can all do in a day — a “just because” phone call, a random show of affection or concern for a total stranger – can help carry someone out of that stage. The New Yorker’s classic feature Jumpers recounts a story of how one man who committed suicide left a note saying that he was walking to the Golden Gate Bridge – and if one person smiled at him along the way, he’d turn around and go home. Given some of the tough headlines Winnipeg has lived recently, it’s worth bearing in mind.

+ A bit old, but still good: dating site OK Cupid compiled a ton of data to demonstrate the relationship between race and online dating, and it’s seriously thought-provoking in the way only raw data turned into bar graphs can be. It also turns out OK Cupid releases a whole lot of interesting data — for instance, like how all of us Twitter users are randy little singletons.

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I finally got around to reading Christie Blatchford’s comment on Jack Layton’s passing.

It seems an odd piece. At some points, I ken to what she’s getting at, and respect the gumption it took to put it out there for public consumption on this, the rawest of days. Some of her observations may sting in that context – but I’m glad they were said. I like the beginning; I love the end.

But somewhere in the middle the tone — and the targets — suddenly shift. She takes a few wild swings that connect only with air; the cumulative effect feels disjointed. It’s like she couldn’t quite decide whether the piece was intended to resist the inevitable posthumous recontextualization of Layton’s life and career, or to take a bite out of certain media coverage, or the people who followed it, or the NDP, or some combination of those things, or all of them.

Two parts struck me the most. The first came when she writes of Layton’s final letter to the public and his party:

“Who thinks to leave a 1,000-word missive meant for public consumption and released by his family and the party mid-day…”

Probably a man whose job involved shouldering much of the responsibility for an entire national political party — and a man who was keenly, probably painfully, aware that his death could risk collapsing that success and eroding the momentum that he had so passionately pursued.

I would have been more surprised if Layton hadn’t left a letter, and I would expect any party leader in a similar health situation to do the same: one final set of marching orders to the political troops. One last message to help the voting public bridge the gap between a sad past, and an unknown future.

So why interpret a sitting party’s leader’s final leadership act as an unforgivable hubris?

But that isn’t my biggest stumbling point. This is:

“In truth, none of that is remotely unusual, or spontaneous, but rather the norm in the modern world, and it has been thus since Princess Diana died, the phenomenon now fed if not led online. People the planet over routinely weep for those they have never met and in some instances likely never much thought about before; what once would have been deemed mawkish is now considered perfectly appropriate.”

This assertion is completely and totally ahistorical.

Public grieving did not begin with Princess Diana. Since time immemorial, people have gathered to spill tears and profess enduring love for departed public figures they have never met. The only thing technology has really done is assist in building networks of shared grief, and in organizing where and how they come together: before the Internet, we would just wander together onto streets or into churches.

Similarly, the flowers and cards and vigils are not a sign of a suddenly ”mawkish” culture, but of one where mourners can afford to spare the luxuries needed to symbolize their sadness, and mark the turning of another tide.

But by erasing the history of public grieving and entirely missing its relevance, Blatchford also misses something vital about how we create and shape and preserve our stories and our cultural values.

Has she never turned to anyone of a certain age and, with just the right touch of awe, asked “Where were you when…?”

For almost 40 years, that question didn’t even need to be finished. It was a shorthand, a verbal invitation to paint the pictures all over again, and usually for people who already knew, who were already there. I’ve asked the question a hundred times, and always received my father’s tableaux: men parked haphazardly on the sides of the road, sobbing in their cars. Tears everywhere, tears forever, a full week of shock that shot clear around the world.

The people mourned together then, they mourned hard and long and apparently “mawkishly.”

We could debate the emotional response to assassination versus accident versus cruel disease, but I think it only factors in matters of degrees. Ultimately this is just how humans do things. Before Layton, before Diana or Kurt Cobain or any other public figure who passes before we were prepared to say goodbye.

We are social animals: when faced with grief, fear, loss and uncertainty, we are hard-wired to gather together and share the experience. And the more people someone has touched, the more public and more deeply interconnected the grieving becomes, the more ritualized by the very nature of its being shared.

Taking up arms against that most natural of impulses seems, at best, rather pointless.

By the by: public grieving also didn’t start with Kennedy. Not by a very long shot. But that’s just the story closest to my heart.

“The sea doesn’t dry and the sky hasn’t split, but my friends it just seems so wrong don’t it?”

Just an opinion: no song has ever done a better job at capturing a cultural milestone, ever.

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I am nothing and I am nobody; I never met Jack Layton, and have little to offer by way of eulogy.

But I am nonetheless moved to find some words to crystallize the day. For myself, maybe. For my children, someday. For the sake of adding to the voices of millions doing much the same. This is what it felt like, when…

Readers of this blog know that I see tend to see world and its people in stories, or in scripts for living movies. Fairytales are only fiction until you scratch the surface: beneath the wayward princes and looming dragons of our storybooks, we transmit the deepest heart of what it means to be human.

The reverse is also true: human lives echo legends. Under that light, Jack Layton’s story is sad, almost too sad even to bear.

Flashback to the night of the federal election. I was assigned to cover NDP headquarters, on that night a trembling pastiche of euphoric faces and fists pumping reflexively through the stale air inside the Ukrainian Labour Temple.  And when Jack came on the TV screen, and gave his victory speech, all those eyes flickered with a wet and shining light that looked to me like adoration.

So I didn’t watch Jack. I watched the crowd.

Again, today, I cannot watch that speech. It’s too painful to see the joy on his face, the flush of wry excitement in a future that, for Jack, did not exist.

If human lives are the stuff of stories, then this one is truly rare. Writers often can’t bring themselves to deliver to their characters the most frustrated of ends. But life is often crueller than fiction. So it was today, when the final act sealed shut this legend: Jack Layton was a man who fought for his dream, and won it, and was robbed of the chance to see it take shape and form.

It all seems bitterly unfair, but when is it not?

Regardless of where the politics diverge, most everyone agrees: Layton would have been a lion in Parliament. It was no secret that he relished the thought of taking that spot, and no-one doubts he would have filled the position with a flair fitting of the official opposition. In that way, Jack was made just right for our exercise of democracy.

“And I won’t stop until the job is done.”

Some promises are not meant to be kept. Fare thee well on the journey, Jack Layton, and enjoy your rest.

In the vortex of the newsroom, as photos of Jack Layton slip by on the flatscreen, my mind keeps trailing off to another leader.

Many years ago, when Bill Clinton spoke in Winnipeg at the Centennial Concert Hall, my mother sprang to buy me tickets for my birthday. They always called him “charismatic,” and I was eager to see it in the flesh. Not that I knew quite what I expected: fireworks? A halo wrapped ’round his head?

I was not expecting the quiet way he stood up, cracked his dusty Southern voice, and had us looking not to the stage, but inside of ourselves.

Question: what did this former President of the United States, former Leader of the Free World, hope would be his lasting legacy?

“I hope that at the end of the day, I can say that I moved things along a little further,” he said. He hoped that he would leave the world a tiny bit better than when he came.

This idea filled me up forever.

So what if we are not wayward princes, or presidents, or dragons full of fire? When you look at who strikes us in the world, and who we admire, they are not necessarily powerful. Instead, they tend to be the ones brimming with that conviction, the humble belief that they could move things along a little further. We don’t always agree on the exact direction, but if nothing else they’re pointed forward.

Today, I kept thinking of what Clinton said as I watched the news, and read that final letter. And I hoped that when Layton realized he would never stand as Official Opposition, that he heard those words and took them to heart. Or something like them. Something to carry him through the darkest part.

We hold our pen over the end of a chapter. Let us close it now, and turn our words towards the future.

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