No man is an island

@wapimaskwa69Kevin Carter

@rikkiratliff I left the North to find my own way

According to his Twitter bio he is a "working Native Nerd who is enjoying social media on his blackberry. Enjoys D&D, webcomics, sarcasm, and Failblog. Not helping stereotypes since 1999."

It seems the isolation in northern reserves is destroying many of Canada's First Nations. The cycle of poverty has nowhere to turn but inside the reservation. The government tap of funds continues to drip with no results to show for it. 

This young man walked out of the isolation into his own lonely road, but it may have just been the thing that saved him. 

And what a shame that the First has now become the last. 

America the Beautiful

It's been nearly a month since the 10th anniversary of 9/11. The World Trade Center memorial has been unveiled and the poignant speeches have all been spoken. By now, the survivors and families of victims have made the dizzying rounds on the media circuit, and with soundbites and sentiments packaged, the international networks and local news crews have packed up and left. What remains are fizzed out leftovers of American nationalism and the steady wave of NYC tourists curious about the gaping holes in the southern tip of that busy island.

I was tempted to indulge in my own mourning and remembrance of 9/11 in a sappy blog, but I didn't think I could add any more to the pundits already postulating on the significance of that day. I had some stuff to say, but I couldn't justify using 9/11 for a spike in blog readership if tagged properly.

And so 10 years and one month later, the timeliness of the news hook is delayed, but I still remember. And it still hurts. And I still can't figure out why physically being on American soil on the date of the anniversary mattered, but as it turns out, it mattered very much indeed. 

I had just flown in for a quick visit home and was tickled happy to be sitting at the table surrounded by all of six of my siblings and their significant others. These moments are rare and I relished it, and my dad's perfectly grilled steak, with sweet satisfaction. When my dad said he had an announcement to make, all eyes moved towards the head of the table. Forks clinked loudly on emptying plates and I think I may have nervously joked, "who's pregnant now?" 

Taking advantage of our presence on the eve of 9/11, Dad he said he wanted to take a vote about what to do with the American flag on our family's property. Do we do as the rest of the nation and lower it to half mast in symbolic mourning, or do we leave it up in defiance of proper protocol? 

It was unanimous. 

In honour of the nearly 3,000 victims, we voted to leave it raised, letting it fly proud and free. 

On the morning of September 11th, I attended church with my family. I was restless, and sometimes, tradition brings comfort. 

You couldn't deny the heaviness in the air and I wondered how my home pastor would tie in the anniversary of the attacks with a sermon. As much as I believe him to be a sincere man of God, I blanched at the thought of him trying to politicize such a day or manipulate our emotions for the purposes of "the Kingdom." He introduced the worship team for a special song and as they started into the old classic, "America the Beautiful," I started to bristle with my new-found Canadian cynicism. 

In the end, my humanity won out and I could help but weep at the 200-year-old hymn, turned patriotic song. Singing in solidarity with my fellow Americans in my parents' church felt right and I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Looking down the aisle, I saw ripe tears falling on several of my family members' faces. It was visceral and healing at the same time. 

This September 11, 2011, Ground Zero found its way all across America. From the gutted out financial district of Manhattan, to the church pews of Oklahomans, who remember the violence of terror all too well themselves. 

When we came to the line in the lyrics, "thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears," my voice caught in my throat and I wondered if the writer of that old poem knew how poignant her words would one day become. How prophetic even. Because even through my wet obscurity, America had never looked more beautiful. 

The flag on my parents' property at sunset

Tippin' another sacred cow

He's adored, revered, highly sought after, and one day I'm sure he'll be enshrined as Canada's first nationally televised hipster. I even find him quite likeable most days. But today, he's ass-backwards wrong.

I'm talking about Greek media god, George Stroumboulopoulos. 

Today on CBC's website, he gave a touching eulogy on the gradual fase out of the classic Cuban car as Cuba has lifted the 50 year old ban on private car sales. Seriously. He's mourning the death of one of the symbols of Cuban communism, when the rest of freedom lovers are celebrating. 

Newsflash classic car lovers (myself included) and Mr. Strombo: there is nothing nostalgic about communism. When Castro decides to let people decide for themselves what car they want to drive, we dance in the streets, not romanticize a dictatorship. 

Cue the pitchforks as I dodge the angry village people of Strombo Land. 

Prose for the mayor of Santo Stefano di Sessiano

He asked me, in perfect Italian, to write a poem about his beloved village. I replied, in broken English and with wine on my lips, that I would. What lies beneath is the patchwork of words I started over a year and a half ago and finished tonight. I'll never be satisfied with it and I can only hope for an Italian translator to make the poem more romantic than I ever could.

Ancient Bella,
Your cracks reveal stories, not age
Seducing the stranger, demanding his fidelity

Though your bones ache from the weight of mortals past
Mother-duty shoulders in silence
Shrugging off shifting earth, the span of time

The mountains raise in buttress support
as salute to your beauty

The burghers hold your secrets,
and the watchtower waits

Curious passerby riveted by your idyllic mystery
journey through medieval maze,
morphing as they pass

Glances backward, scenes of shattered glass

Santo Stefano,
holy ground for the wandering heart, 

you remain an aching memory.

Oklahoma

Wide open spaces, friendly faces. Subtle twangs and simple things. Southern fried, dignified. Lovin' hard, lovin' long. Uncomplicated, syncopated like a good ole country song.

Some sacred cows are meant to be slain

Sun Media recently published my column on "Cuba: A Pretend Paradise." After reading about the regime's most recent form of censorship, conducting a phone interview with someone connected to the underground in Cuba, and getting into a heated exchange with some of my own friends who believe me to be a naive embargoed American on the subject, I felt compelled to write. A certain righteous indignation led me. I felt I owed it to the 600,000 Canadians who travel there every year in blind ignorance that life is sunny on the beaches, and to the Cuban people, whose voice has been silenced.

I braced for the hate mail for having stepped on thousands of Canadians' toes. But a surprising thing (or not so surprising) happened. The comment section has been flooded with "gracias" from former Cubans who have fled, and some who still remain. 

My contact who asked to be left nameless, sent me dozens of links to my article appearing on Cuban news, blogs and websites. It would appear the people of Cuba are grateful for those who can afford the freedom to speak out against status quo in their country.

And so Canada, I didn't write a snappy column for your reading pleasure on a Thursday afternoon.

Turns out, I didn't even write it to satisfy my own ambition.

This was for you, Cuba. 

Below is a small collection of their responses:

Fred
As one of hundreds of thousands of us who managed to escape the Castro brothers totalitarian hell hole, i would like to give a wholehearted THANK YOU ! to the Toronto Sun for telling it like it actually is. It is really good to hear an honest and clear voice from Canada.

Cary Montero
Excellent articule and coments. Cuba is a prision where cubans are treated like slaves. I am glad finally a newspaper decide to express the reality of Cuba. Thank you.

Lori Diaz
Agradeciendo este excelente artículo donde el autor refleja la cruda realidad que padece el pueblo cubano.
En este mismo hemisferio hay un pueque padece padece una tiranía por 52 años a manos de un grupo de pandilleros que secuestraron el poder.

Miles de cubanos han arriesgado y perdido sus vidas tratando de escapar de la isla de donde antes de 1959 ninguno de sus ciudadanos quería emigrar.

Gracias por alertar a los ciudadanos canadienses, personas cultas y amantes de la libertad, para que no se hagan cómplices de este régimen. Todos los recursos económicos van a parar a los bolsillos de los represores del pueblo cubano.

Gracias nuevamente

English translation

Thanks for this excellent article where the author reflects the harsh reality endured by the Cuban people.

In this hemisphere there is a tyranny pueque have suffered for 52 years at the hands of a group of gangsters who kidnapped power.

Thousands of Cubans have risked and lost their lives trying to escape the island before 1959 where any of its citizens wanted to emigrate.

Please alert Canadians, educated people and lovers of liberty, not to become complicit in this regime. All financial resources goes to the pockets of the oppressors of the Cuban people.

Thanks again

CHPP
Thank you. You don't know what this kind of articles means for us.

Courtesy: www.fotoreflection.com

Journalism junkies unite

For those friends and family who feel I'm ignoring them or can't understand why I'm not making co-ed ultimate frisbee games, Buck and Does, get togethers for great-grandmothers and other extracurricular fun a priority anymore, it doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin' contest these days. It's hard to articulate what it takes to produce a one-hour daily talk show for a spankin' new national news network, with the added pressure to daily increase ratings and disprove critics' assertions you don't belong in the rat race that is media, but here's a brilliant snippet from a veteran that knows it very well:

These stories will appear on the 6 o’clock segment of the show. But that’s only part of it. I also have to prepare 30-second voice-overs for both these stories, for the 5 o’clock segment of the show.

I swallow hard, glance at the clock (it’s already 2:30pm—two and a half hours to airtime.) I’m hungry, and my bladder is sending out worrying signals. But I’ll eat and piss later. There’s work to do.

I take a quick look at the last item on my agenda ( the third story.) No big deal. It’s a story that will be fed in from CHEK-TV in Victoria by 5:15pm for a quick turnaround into our 5:30 show. It’s labeled “Hot Dog”, about a police dog left in an SUV for three hours. One of the “shocking treatment of animals” stories. It sounds straightforward. I have a 17-minute window to make sure the story is in our computer, and to write the intro for it, and to insert the proper "super" information. No problem. (I can hear you laughing. Haha. Maybe you know what’s coming.)

The next two hours are a blur. I work my way furiously through seven voice-overs while the other writers, editors, producers and reporters enjoy lunch and toilet breaks. By 5 o’clock, I stretch, take a much-needed visit to the urinal and congratulate myself. I tell myself I’ve done pretty well for the new kid on the block. Just need to wrap up one more voice-over, then tackle the “Hot Dog” story, and my workday will be done. Another $230 in the bank, and I’d proven something to myself.

So yeah. I'm doing well to take time to pee these days too. Friends and family, gimme your grace along the way. At the end of the day, but mostly on the weekends when I have a second to breathe, I still remember what matters most in life. It's Saturday, my work Blackberry keeps flashing more incoming, but I'm heading out to my deck with a good book on a great summer day.