teaching and being taught

Lynn, a keen-eyed former student, just wrote to point out in the politest possible way that I'd made a spelling mistake in the last blog - "envelope" instead of "envelop." I had actually sat looking at "envelope," at that extra "e," and had decided it was right. Thank you, Lynn. Usually it's my friend Bruce in Vancouver who catches my shortcomings, but he's in rehearsals right now. When he went through the "Jewish Shakespeare," in all its fact-packed 288 pages, he found only 2 major errors. I had a superb copy-editor then, but not now, relying on my keen-eyed friends.

Yesterday was my long teaching day, U of T in the afternoon and Ryerson at night. I got home as always, exhausted and exhilarated.  How lucky I am to have a job I love so much. We had a difficult assignment at Ryerson this week; the result was one extremely moving essay after another. How hard it is to tell the truth, and how much I admire those who take that leap. The first two weeks of class, as I approach the classroom there's silence, students sitting alone with their thoughts. After that, if as I draw near I hear chatter, laughter, and intense discussion, it's clear they're off and running. 

Only five weeks till I leave for Paris. Panic button. Where to start?

And incidentally, in the photograph below, the sign I'm standing beside is NOT indicating my age. I am not 67. Not bloody yet. 

Hugh Jackman rocks

Okay, let's get right to the Oscars - what did you think? Wayson and I sat eating apple pie and enjoying the whole thing. The show had an intimate, theatre-y feel, even to the way they shrank that vast stage to a small set every so often. Loved the chatty banter from stage to audience, and having the former winners honour this year's nominees. And India - India everywhere, how amazing is that? Of course, when an Indian movie won, the stage filled with a vast crowd. And the speech of that beautiful young screenwriter of "Milk." And finally, Sean Penn mentioned America electing "an elegant man as President" - the only word about that vital sea-change the whole night. And Hugh Jackman and James Franco - mmmm. Mmmmmmmmmmm. I could go on.

It was fun and we indulged in a minimum of catty talk, though I did think that it's time for Sophia Loren to relax and let it all go, and Goldie Hawn's dress showed just a tad too much, didn't you think? And I didn't like how they did the obituary segment, you couldn't see half the names. But it was classy and self-deprecating in just the right ways, and for once, I didn't turn off the TV much too late and wonder why I'd wasted all that time.

My friend Nick called yesterday to say he's home from the hospital and doing fine. Nick, one of the sweetest, kindest men you will ever meet, and I were actors together in Vancouver in the seventies; he is still acting and supply-teaching, he has a black belt in karate and is also a singer-songwriter. When I visited him in hospital after his operation, he sang a blues song he had just written, which ends, "As the clock proceeds to tick/ and time does what it pleases,/ you just might wake up sick/ with some unfortunate diseases./ So I wish you all the best/ which is what you would expect of me/ 'cause the PSA test, just might suggest/ you get a prostatectomy!"

He was very proud to have found several rhymes for "prostatectomy." What a joyful soul. A young writer friend asked me recently, "How do you handle depression?" I had to think for a moment and then replied, "I don't get depressed." She looked amazed. I explained that I used to, I suppose, when I was younger - certainly I was hit with PMS, when a great dark cloud would envelope my head. But now - my God, who has time for depression? I told her that I love coffee so much that I'm overjoyed to get out of bed in the morning because I'm going to drink coffee. And then there's so much else to look forward to. 

Perhaps this is a factor of being in your late fifties rather than in your late thirties - the sense that time is a'wasting. There are rhymes for "prostatectomy" to find, and beautiful women in long dresses and Hugh Jackman to watch. 

social whirl

A few social events to report on today, as the snow of desolate February whips by my study window once again.  On Friday night, a dinner party gathering here of writers who are also writing teachers - Alissa York and Kathryn Kuitenbrouer, fine novelists who are also fine teachers of fiction writing at U of T, and Wayson, lifelong master teacher. We three women, poor as church mice from our writing, are thankful to the university for providing a paycheque. A study came out last week stating that many Canadian artists live at or below the poverty line; the average female artist earns $19,175. Canadian. A year.

(A segue into why church mice are poorer than other mice - I suppose because no one eats in church and so there's nothing for them there. Do you think?)

Our conversation was rich and wide-ranging, with much discussion of creative endeavours - "What's your process?" Alissa reclusive and single-minded when writing a first draft, Kathryn raising three sons, teaching and grabbing any spare moment to work. We talked a lot about how to handle events in the classroom, such as writing students who don't listen to critiques or want to rewrite. For artists who work in solitude inside their own minds and imaginations, the companionship was a treat, and so were the lasagna and honey balls.

Last night I went to the home of my friend Suzette who's a screenwriter about to head to L.A., with a mutual friend Jessica who owns a gallery of modern art. We met as teenagers in university days and have much to discuss - stories of our other friends and classmates, and of course house prices and how to survive the recession.  We were going to see "Defiance", aka "Jews in the Woods," but the snow was tumbling thick and fast, so Suzette, who's a member of the Writer's Guild of America, played us her copy of "Milk" on widescreen TV while Jessica and I luxuriated in her leather reclining chairs. Now that's the way to watch a movie, particularly one as superb as this. A terrific film - highly recommended, for its skilful presentation of historical reality but also for the fantastic performances. 

I spoke to the kids in Halifax about the time in 1959 when my family was refused entry into the Waegwoltic Club because my father was a Jew. Hard to believe now, just as it's hard to believe a time when there was such rampant, violent, overt prejudice against gay men and women. And yet - not that long ago and bubbling beneath the surface, still. 

The whole time I was writing this, I could hear that very Canadian sound outside - a shovel, over and over, lifting snow. 

Halifax report

February is not the best month to visit anywhere in Canada - except perhaps Victoria - but I had the best time in sunny Halifax nonetheless.  It was extraordinary to go back to old Tower Road School, where I first landed in 1958 when I was eight, and see this sign outside. What a welcome!

I was born in Manhattan but in one of the luckiest moves of my life, was taken to Halifax at six weeks, to grow up till the age of sixteen in that small, sea-rimmed town (with a few years in London and Paris for a big city hit.) This trip, as I always do, I went to look at my childhood home, still a lovely old house though the big trees behind it are gone - the hurricane? - and strolled down Spring Garden Road, along Barrington Street and down to the harbour. 

I had a quick walk in Point Pleasant Park too, jealous of the Haligonians with a huge, wild park so near, damaged though it is after the hurricane - walking their dogs or children or jogging or sauntering through. This city is just the right size - lots going on, lots of creative, accomplished, busy people, but it's still easy to get around, still human scale. The waitress in the restaurant where I was taken for lunch was so affectionate, so free with her "darlings" and "dears" that I felt like close family by the end of the meal.  By some miracle, Halifax has managed to preserve some of its finest old buildings, and the residential streets make me lust - rows of lovely wooden houses painted rose, orange, blue, green, with contrasting trim.

I visited old friends: Gay Hauser, a fellow thespian from high school days in Ottawa, and her family; Ian and Donna Thompson who are my heroes, Ian a friend since, I hate to say it, about 1961 and a dear friend since our year at the Grammar School together in '66; Kevin and Donna Ball and Ian Ball, whose mother Dorothy was my mother's best friend, and Ian Slayter, another good friend from the Grammar School year. As someone who keeps diaries and letters, to whom the past is a living place to be re-explored, these meetings are treasures.

My hostess Gay Silverman treated me royally, lending me her car on Tuesday so I could get around - went to Halifax West High school to talk to the kids there (though I got completely lost on the way and ended up on the road to Peggy's Cove - or maybe all the roads out of Halifax are headed to Peggy's Cove.) Anyway, I did get there and spoke to a class of kids doing special projects on the theatre for their drama class. My hostess was Jennie David, who is doing her project on Jacob Gordin's "The Jewish King Lear." I could hardly believe that a high school student in Halifax was interested in what I had learned about the man and the play, and that my trip to her town came by coincidence at exactly the right time. 

And then I spoke to about two hundred kids at the Grammar School. How I wish, as I told them, that my father were alive to be there too - his beloved school fifty years old now, and what a marvellous school. I ached that my own children had grown up in Toronto, subject to an education system smashed into oblivion by Mike Harris, while these lucky Halifax kids bloomed in this school founded by my dad. The old Tower Road School rooms, which were dark in my time, the walls a muddy green, the floors dark wood, are now bright and open; there's a vast art studio, room for music and drama, lots of debating and tons of sports. One girl told me that she had wanted to be a criminal lawyer but, she said, after a stint building houses in El Salvador with her classmates and Habitat for Humanity, she now wants to be a human rights lawyer.  Another girl told me she wants to go to Harvard to study either engineering or science. How proud Dad would have been to hear that! He was very much alive there; people spoke often to me about him. He made a big impact in that small town. 

I am grateful that he opened this door for me - the chance to go back to childhood places as an adult, to share some reflections with a bunch of kids now, to be given so much back, including a billboard with my name on it. Why didn't I find a way to get back here? I wondered, as I left. How can I live in a place without a wild park and the sea?

Perhaps I can't.

  

Lobster tales

To yesterday's blog about the New York Times columnists, I'd like to add the great work of Nicholas Kristof and Bob Herbert. A friend told me he'd heard that the Times was a billion dollars in debt and would go under. Surely this would be the end of civilisation as we know it. If the paper's in trouble, I'll start to BUY it, I promise, and nag you to do so too.

Tomorrow I'm off to Halifax till Wednesday night. The Halifax Grammar School, which was founded by my father with a few friends in 1958, has been celebrating its 50th anniversary since last year and has asked me to speak about the early years of the school. I remember when Dad came running home to say they'd found a building to use and we all went over to see a little white house on Tower Road.  The wives got together to clean and dust, desks and blackboards were found and so were teachers, and presto, a school that fall.  And now it's monumentally successful, with 500 students and a huge  academic program with lots of arts and sports and two campuses ; I will get a tour of both. If only Dad were with me.

I'm visiting old friends too - with a promise of lobster - and hope to see Muriel Duckworth whose hundredth birthday party I attended last summer. Must be something in the Halifax water.

While I'm away, both my son and Wayson will be here at the house. Wayson is using my place as a quiet study place; he arrived today with six big bags of books, reference materials and desk props.  Now my dining room table looks like a desk at the New York Public Library. For the next few days, if any of you wish to contact Wayson, you know where to find him.  And you'll know where not to find me. I'm somewhere in Halifax with a lot of lobster on my face.