The delights of the beeg ceety: sitting on a very grey Saturday morning watching the snow fall, suddenly rising to my feet and off, off into downtown to do one of my favourite things: see a documentary. I renewed my membership at the Bloor Cinema; I am now a Silver member, to go with my silver hair. My commitment to documentary.
Emerged later that afternoon filled to the brim with thought and feeling and joy. What a superb film: The Backward Class, the first doc of a young UBC film graduate who was there afterwards to answer questions. She told us that when going to India, she wanted to volunteer somewhere and ended up by chance at Shanti Bhavan, a school that takes the Untouchable children from India's lowest caste out of the slums to a tranquil rural setting and gives them a new home and a first rate education. She was so taken with the place and the children that she managed on a shoestring to make her documentary.
The film follows the final school year of the first group of children to go from the earliest grade to Grade 12, when they have to pass rigorous exams to be able to enter university. Along the way, we not only get to know these beautiful young people, we go home with them, see where their families live in unbelievable poverty, meet their parents who often cannot read or write. We explore the identity crisis these kids have, coming from such a background, now highly educated and able to speak fluent English and play the piano. We meet the spectacular principal of the school who has devoted years of her life to the project, and Dr. George, the angel behind it all, who paid personally for the entire set-up until the financial crash of 2008 nearly wiped him, and the school, out. But it has survived and continues to provide new life and a future for hundreds of children.
The last word of the film, which took five years to finish, tells us the first class have graduated from university and are working at places like Goldman Sachs and Mercedes. A miraculous transformation. And 10% to 50% of what they make goes back to their families and to the school.
Do yourself a favour if you are nearby, friends - take yourself out of the Canadian winter for a few hours and see this inspiring and very moving film.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Friday, February 6, 2015
dying with dignity: the family stories
The Supreme Court of Canada has voted that "people with grievous and irremediable medical conditions should have the right to ask a doctor to help them die."
In 1988, when my father was facing imminent death from stomach cancer, there was no official help for him. He stockpiled doses of morphine and told a doctor friend that when the time came, he'd "take care of things," the friend told us afterwards. On July 6, we were all gathered in my parents' home in Edmonton, watching Wimbledon and keeping Dad company. That evening, he slowly went upstairs, saying he was very tired. He didn't say goodbye or mention any plans. We'd been told he had weeks left, if not more. But he died early the next morning in my mother's arms.
When the palliative care nurse came, she swept all the pill bottles from beside the bed into her bag and snapped it shut. It wasn't until much later that we all realized what had happened - she knew what Dad had done and hid the evidence. He'd told no one. All alone, he had decided the time had come, and he went upstairs, took all the morphine he'd saved, and died quietly, with dignity, without pain.
When I realized, I admired this courageous man all the more but mourned that he'd had no-one with him. He knew we'd have tried to stop him - we didn't want to forfeit a minute of his last bits of time. But he wanted to control his own death. And he didn't want to endanger us with involvement in an act that was then illegal.
Strangely, his younger brother, Edgar, also had experience with assisted suicide; he used to joke about "killing my wife." It was no joke; he'd been eviscerated by the experience. His beloved Betty was dying of uterine cancer and insisted that he help her die. I don't know how he did it, but they set a night, and, he told me, she berated him for not getting on with it fast enough. After her death, he put on one of his favourite pieces of music - Bach's B Minor Mass.
"But," he said, "that was a mistake, because I could never listen to it again."
I honour my Kaplan relatives for taking charge of life's final event as they did. I honour the Supreme Court of Canada for making sure that others, condemned to a long and painful death, can have the option of choosing another way.
In 1988, when my father was facing imminent death from stomach cancer, there was no official help for him. He stockpiled doses of morphine and told a doctor friend that when the time came, he'd "take care of things," the friend told us afterwards. On July 6, we were all gathered in my parents' home in Edmonton, watching Wimbledon and keeping Dad company. That evening, he slowly went upstairs, saying he was very tired. He didn't say goodbye or mention any plans. We'd been told he had weeks left, if not more. But he died early the next morning in my mother's arms.
When the palliative care nurse came, she swept all the pill bottles from beside the bed into her bag and snapped it shut. It wasn't until much later that we all realized what had happened - she knew what Dad had done and hid the evidence. He'd told no one. All alone, he had decided the time had come, and he went upstairs, took all the morphine he'd saved, and died quietly, with dignity, without pain.
When I realized, I admired this courageous man all the more but mourned that he'd had no-one with him. He knew we'd have tried to stop him - we didn't want to forfeit a minute of his last bits of time. But he wanted to control his own death. And he didn't want to endanger us with involvement in an act that was then illegal.
Strangely, his younger brother, Edgar, also had experience with assisted suicide; he used to joke about "killing my wife." It was no joke; he'd been eviscerated by the experience. His beloved Betty was dying of uterine cancer and insisted that he help her die. I don't know how he did it, but they set a night, and, he told me, she berated him for not getting on with it fast enough. After her death, he put on one of his favourite pieces of music - Bach's B Minor Mass.
"But," he said, "that was a mistake, because I could never listen to it again."
I honour my Kaplan relatives for taking charge of life's final event as they did. I honour the Supreme Court of Canada for making sure that others, condemned to a long and painful death, can have the option of choosing another way.
I am so over this guy
First he reinforces his church's medieval attitude to birth control, condemning the world's poorest people to quantities of children the planet cannot support. And then this, from the institution responsible for appalling sexual and physical abuse for centuries. It makes me rage, it's so wrong.
But I will never, never be over this guy. My daughter posted this pic on FB to celebrate Bob Marley's birthday today - Feb. 6.
Pope Francis told parents it is OK to spank their children to discipline them – as long as their dignity is maintained. Francis made the remarks this week during his weekly general audience, which was devoted to the role of fathers in the family.
Francis outlined the traits of a good father: one who forgives but is able to “correct with firmness” while not discouraging the child.
“One time, I heard a father in a meeting with married couples say ‘I sometimes have to smack my children a bit, but never in the face so as to not humiliate them’,” Francis said.
“How beautiful.” he added. “He knows the sense of dignity! He has to punish them but does it justly and moves on.”
What I say to that is: Once a dinosaur, always a dinosaur.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
thinking about Carrie Snyder
A regular reader just read my last posts and emailed to suggest, jokingly, that I change the name of this blog to Born to Brag. Sigh. Yes, some bragging is going to appear sometimes. What is a blog, after all, but a giant ego trip? Here I am blathering away about my life, and for some reason, you're reading. For that, I'm grateful. Occasionally, there will be a brag or two. A student said I was lovely and funny and smart. I've repeated that to myself a few times today.
Those of you who drop in here regularly may have noticed that there on the left, among the other blogs I like to read and share with you, I've recently re-linked to Carrie Snyder's blog. I am a fan of hers - haven't read her very successful "Girl Runner" yet but am looking forward to it. I like her posts a great deal and find her fascinating, thoughtful, honest and a talented writer. Yet after reading her for awhile last year, I deleted the link to her site. Why?
She exhausted me. Some of my friends exclaim about how busy I am, but Carrie made me feel like a giant slug lazing around eating chocolates and gazing at the moon. I mean, the woman is extraordinary - she has four (four!) young children with demanding sports schedules, music, homework, stomachs, laundry and lives - a huge job in itself. She's a marathon runner, so even when she's injured she is struggling to exercise, getting up at 5 a.m. to swim (!!) or walk for hours or whatever. She writes on a treadmill and does yoga and meditation in her spare time. Oh, and she teaches and posts her own skilful photographs.
So all that would be a more than full life. But on top of it all - she has written a best-selling book that has won prizes, she keeps a beautiful blog that has also won a prize; she has been flying around the country to be part of readings and prestigious literary events. And yes, I have to say, I could do with a few of those. She writes about how difficult she finds all the attention and praise, and I want to say, Sister, it doesn't get better than that.
From my vantage point so many years on, trying to remember when I was in my mid-thirties with small kids and trying to get things done - well, I wouldn't even have attempted a quarter of what she manages to do, and still, she berates herself for not doing more. So for a while there, reading her, I did compare my younger self and found myself wanting. I felt, What was wrong with me? Was I so very lazy back then that I didn't even try? Well, no. I wasn't lazy, but I didn't have her professional and athletic drive, not remotely. I didn't have her confidence and self-discipline. I didn't - and this is a big part of it - have her kind of husband (or eventually have any husband at all). When I started trying to write with small children in the early eighties, I could hardly think of another writer who was a full time mother. Now they're everywhere. And what a wonderful leap forward that is.
I will go on reading Carrie's blog, and I hope you do too, because she's an interesting person and a terrific writer who has a lot to say about creativity, balance and struggle. And what I'd like to say to her is this: You're spectacular. I hope you see and celebrate just how much you've managed to do and be and accomplish. Learning to accept yourself, as you write today, is a great idea. Because a woman who's made such a success of her days, who has so many readers and fans and, more importantly, a rich family and inner life, is doing something very, very right.
Those of you who drop in here regularly may have noticed that there on the left, among the other blogs I like to read and share with you, I've recently re-linked to Carrie Snyder's blog. I am a fan of hers - haven't read her very successful "Girl Runner" yet but am looking forward to it. I like her posts a great deal and find her fascinating, thoughtful, honest and a talented writer. Yet after reading her for awhile last year, I deleted the link to her site. Why?
She exhausted me. Some of my friends exclaim about how busy I am, but Carrie made me feel like a giant slug lazing around eating chocolates and gazing at the moon. I mean, the woman is extraordinary - she has four (four!) young children with demanding sports schedules, music, homework, stomachs, laundry and lives - a huge job in itself. She's a marathon runner, so even when she's injured she is struggling to exercise, getting up at 5 a.m. to swim (!!) or walk for hours or whatever. She writes on a treadmill and does yoga and meditation in her spare time. Oh, and she teaches and posts her own skilful photographs.
So all that would be a more than full life. But on top of it all - she has written a best-selling book that has won prizes, she keeps a beautiful blog that has also won a prize; she has been flying around the country to be part of readings and prestigious literary events. And yes, I have to say, I could do with a few of those. She writes about how difficult she finds all the attention and praise, and I want to say, Sister, it doesn't get better than that.
From my vantage point so many years on, trying to remember when I was in my mid-thirties with small kids and trying to get things done - well, I wouldn't even have attempted a quarter of what she manages to do, and still, she berates herself for not doing more. So for a while there, reading her, I did compare my younger self and found myself wanting. I felt, What was wrong with me? Was I so very lazy back then that I didn't even try? Well, no. I wasn't lazy, but I didn't have her professional and athletic drive, not remotely. I didn't have her confidence and self-discipline. I didn't - and this is a big part of it - have her kind of husband (or eventually have any husband at all). When I started trying to write with small children in the early eighties, I could hardly think of another writer who was a full time mother. Now they're everywhere. And what a wonderful leap forward that is.
I will go on reading Carrie's blog, and I hope you do too, because she's an interesting person and a terrific writer who has a lot to say about creativity, balance and struggle. And what I'd like to say to her is this: You're spectacular. I hope you see and celebrate just how much you've managed to do and be and accomplish. Learning to accept yourself, as you write today, is a great idea. Because a woman who's made such a success of her days, who has so many readers and fans and, more importantly, a rich family and inner life, is doing something very, very right.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
truths on the table
MORE serious boasting - I know, it's getting creepy. But this lovely note just came in from a participant in the all day writing workshop and I have to share it. SO SWEET. The friend she brought with her is a psychotherapist who has already written a memoir, so I wondered if she'd enjoy the day or find it unnecessary for someone at her level. I guess not. Good news. And on a bleak February day when the streets are full of disgusting slush, a few words of praise are very welcome. Fabulous will do, let alone the rest. Thank you!
The writing workshop on Sunday was just perfect. Thanks for always opening your big beautiful heart to all of us who love you. I'm amazed at your skill in bringing us out of our skin and creating a cocoon of trust and for encouraging us to lay our truths on the table for all to see. I think you're just one of the loveliest, funniest and smartest women I know......so there!!!! Thanks also for making my friend feel so welcome. The day exceeded all her expectations and she thinks you're fabulous too.
The writing workshop on Sunday was just perfect. Thanks for always opening your big beautiful heart to all of us who love you. I'm amazed at your skill in bringing us out of our skin and creating a cocoon of trust and for encouraging us to lay our truths on the table for all to see. I think you're just one of the loveliest, funniest and smartest women I know......so there!!!! Thanks also for making my friend feel so welcome. The day exceeded all her expectations and she thinks you're fabulous too.
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