Climbing

All through my life I've enjoyed and excelled at, and benefited from a variety of sports, but rarely all at the same time. There are some that I've enjoyed at but knew I'd never really be great at (such as American football or yoga), others I've been relatively good at but haven't enjoyed a whole heck of a lot (running), and more that I knew were really good for me but always felt a bit forced (visiting the gym, for example). I always just unconsciously assumed that this was just the way it was. Recently, however, I've stumbled upon a sport that gives a wonderful feeling of just totally fitting. Climbing.

Over the past months, it has become a somewhat over-the-top obsession. To the point that when I walk down the street I look at building and trees and think of how to climb them. The world has suddenly become far more three-dimensional than it ever was before! When I get to the climbing gym I'm like a little kid trying to change as fast as possible as I just can't wait to hit the walls. I enjoy it tremendously, and feel like it's this whole other space that's carved out of reality where I just zone out of everything else, zone into the holds and ropes and my climbing buddy, and go vertical. The same body type that led to a premature end to my football career (as in, before I ever even tried out for a high school football team), is suddenly a gift on the climbing wall. And the type of workout just feels so natural, so integrated and balanced, that I often feel like I'm floating afterwards. The people at the climbing gym are so relaxed, friendly, and yet the type of people that are willing to push themselves. Everything just totally fits.

And perhaps the greatest lesson my recent love affair with climbing has taught me is that there is indeed a place where enjoyment, excellence, and extrinsic benefit converge. If in sports, why not in all things?

(countdown: 24 hours until the next climb...)

The perils of political correctness

(politically correct note: much of what follows will seem offensive at first, so if you don't have time to read the whole thing, you might want to skip this post ;-))

I started listening to an interview today on a great Canadian public radio series. In the introductory montage, there was an excerpt from an interview with an advocate for the homeless in Calgary who said something to the effect of "Our language determines how we see people. I work very hard not to refer to those without a place to live in Calgary as 'the homeless'..." As I listened I had one of those moments of anxiety that are familiar to many who live in societies where political correctness is the norm. "Uhoh... I'm in trouble. I've been using the wrong word - it must be insensitive, perhaps even downright prejudiced. What's the right term??"

This constant game of catch-up is a feature of public discourse in Canadian culture. The usual rationale for such change is a definitional or linguistic one. As the gentleman above argued, the language we use indeed shapes how we see the world. The message here is that by changing the words, we can change how we perceive certain groups and perhaps alter our approach towards them. While this is certainly true in some cases, it seems to me that the change in terms often reflects a flight from accumulated connotation rather than a definitional clarification.

Let's take the example of the change from 'Indians' to 'natives', then 'aboriginals', and now 'first peoples'. The change from Indians to natives is a definitional clarification. People living in North America when European explorers/invaders/settlers arrived were certainly not Indians. (This, we're told in grade school, was an error stemming from a miscalculation of the circumference of the earth.) Natives has a very different meaning from Indians, and changing the word moves us to a more accurate view of reality.

However, the subsequent changes in the term applied to first peoples are not definitional changes. Check a thesaurus and one finds that native is a synonym of aboriginal. And first peoples is a term that describes the idea of being native or aboriginal. So why change these words? These changes are less due to the way in which language affects our view of reality, and much more due to the ways in which reality (or our perceptions of it) affects our view of language. These changes are a way of running away from the accumulation of connotations to a particular term.

A connotation, in this context, is a meaning that is acquired by a term that is not explicitly indicated by the term's definition. To continue with our example, the term 'native' has, in Canada, acquired a number of connotations, many of which are unfortunately negative. Due to a long and complex history of social exclusion, aggressive cultural assimilation, health problems, economic subjugation and then dependence, and a variety of other issues, Canada's native populations suffer rates of poverty, substance abuse, homelessness, imprisonment, and child mortality much higher than the overall average. Over the years, the word 'native' has acquired these connotations. And so we change the term not because it means something that is untrue, but because we have attached to this term stereotypes and ideas - and perhaps even realities - that we wish would go away.

On the one hand such changes do have value. They refresh our view such that we can perceive groups in a way that will allow us to treat them differently. But, despite the ethos from which political correctness has grown, perceptions only go so far to create realities. Should these realities not change, we can continue to create one term after another, and they will each be dragged down by the connotations they will acquire. Political correctness is valuable when it can refresh our views of reality, but dangerous when it helps us ignore it.

The most chilled protest ever

Walking down Avenue Road towards Bloor street today, past the Park Hyatt, the Four Seasons, a Rolls Royce dealership, and other such gathering points for Toronto's rich, I smelled marijuana smoke. I passed it off as nothing more than a bit unusual for that part of town until it started getting stronger and stronger, and became matched with the sounds of a lot of people.

As I came to Bloor Street, I witnessed something very strange. Hundreds of people marching, flags waving, even a parade float - all protesting laws against marijuana use. But what was strangest was that, in a country where marijuana is still illegal, these people were smoking openly, and the police were standing by, stopping traffic and closing down one of the busiest streets in Toronto so that the protest could continue. Water pipes, joints, even a massive cloud of marijuana smoke coming from the float. There were amused and supportive smiles and shouts and car horns honking from passers by. And of course some people not so supportive - I saw a couple women covering their mouths with scarves as they walked by - I suppose not wanting a second-hand-high.

It raised a quandry for me. On the one hand, I tend to agree that marijuana legalization makes sense. It seems awfully strange to be imprisoning someone for the sale or use of a substance that, in all dimensions that I'm aware of, causes far less social, physical, and psychological harm than alcohol. And I think the 'entry way drug' argument certainly lacks rigour. Alcohol could just as easily be labelled an entry way drug to marijuana as marijuana is labelled as such for harder drugs (and more than just stoners consider alcohol a 'harder' drug than cannabis). Making the drug illegal only leads people to interact with the networks that sell other illegal drugs in order to purchase it. It is always a bit funny for me (until it becomes sad at least), to hear someone state proudly 'I don't do drugs' only to see them four shots later being loud and agressive, eight shots later trying to coordinate their limbs as they seek to mate with anything that moves, and twelve shots later frantically trying to find their way to a toilet to expel the poison in their system.

But, despite this, marijuana is still illegal. In a liberal democracy, we tolerate and encourage dissent but our law making processes are the means by which we effect systemic change. Allowing illegal activity to happen (ie - the police standing by and observing hundreds of people smoke up) seems to circumvent or nullify the laws, and weaken the channels by which we manifest our collective will. Who makes this decision? In which cases is it okay to suspend enforcement of the law? Does this strengthen or weaken the power of civil disobedience? Is it okay to create small moments in time when society can experiment or express itself in a way inconsistent with the law?

Although I am fine with this particular instance of suspension of the law, I am not sure how appropriate it is to create a precedent for police to stand by and observe - even protect - the outright violation of the law. The protest could just as easily have happened without the marijuana use (although perhaps the attendance would have been a bit less!), and escalated forms of civil disobedience, when met with the enforcement of the law, would perhaps have made an even stronger point.

New Orleans

Just got back from a wonderful weekend in New Orleans. Would love to share pics, but it seems my camera (which I dutifully brought) was out of batteries.

In any case, thought it necessary to write some testament to the wonderfulness that was the weekend in New Orleans. A city that most in our generation probably associate with the devastation of the hurricane Katrina and the various social, economic, infrastructural, and political issues it raised, it is also a beautifully diverse and enjoyable place. As a disclaimer, I must admit my experience of the city was certainly very isolated from the poverty and crime that form the experience of many of its inhabitants (there were six deadly shootings this weekend alone). I want not to underplay this, but instead to remind of the positive sides of the city, and there are many.

For one, the warm southern hospitality. As I got off the main drags and into the communities, I was greeted with many friendly 'howdys' and 'hellos'. The city is an interesting mosaic of French, Spanish, and English colonial, as well as true Southern US history. The grand classical architecture of the old government buildings flow comfortably into the warm pastels and lush gardens of the French quarter. It reminded me of Amsterdam in its stark contrast between the no-holds-barred partying in the bars and strip clubs of Bourbon street with the quiet beauty of just a couple blocks away.

The food was absolutely wonderful, with one caveat - make sure you specify that you don't want your seafood deep fried, unless you're more interested in oily batter than the taste of the food. Servings are described at some restaurants by their size; "The seafood platter is this [demonstrating with hands] big, the onion rings are this big..." And the music was great as well, whether it was the amazing karaoke of the crowded, full-of-crazy-partiers Cats bar, or an incredible jazz group in a listening room of the Snug Harbor jazz bistro.

I spent some time just sitting in the shade of a tree smoking a cigar and drinking an espresso in the courtyard of the Ritz Carlton. Some time walking through Bourbon street, enjoying the party, or observing the hundreds of people decked out in full pirate's dress (swords, accents, and strangely fitting clothing included) who had congregated for a pirate's convention. And some time just walking the quieter streets in the further reaches of the French quarter, enjoying the fragrance of flowers, peering into courtyard gardens, and stumbling upon a small house with a beautiful flower garden in front. There were stained glass hangings in the window with various meditative imagery. A sign above the door said "Lost Soul's Tavern". A lady was dropped off in front, she walked past me, and without even making eye contact said "For troubled souls only." She opened the door, greeted her dogs, and closed it behind her.

I suppose there is something for everyone in New Orleans.

Who are we?

"Who are we? We are the life force power of the universe with manual dexterity and two cognitive minds."

The conclusion can be dissected, but the authenticity and force of this story of a neuroanatomist who had a stroke and experienced 'nirvanna' is beautiful. Thank you TED talks.

Spring in the city

It is almost the end of March, and I walked home today in the wind and temperatures just below zero (32 degrees Fahrenheit, for my American friends). When I left the office, it was raining, and on my way home the rain turned into snowflakes that were so big they could kill a man. Yes, spring is long past due, and yes, they're warning us here in some parts of Canada that we have another six weeks to go, but, in good moments, I love the feeling of Nature reasserting herself in the midst of the city. Many walk home, huddled against the cold, jackets drawn tightly and looking toward the concrete sidewalk to avoid that chill in the bones from such a moist cold wind. But for a few moments, until I got the same chill running down my spine, I quite enjoyed the snow and the rain today. The trees had tiny prisms of water on the tips of their branches, refracting the light from cars and street lamps. The large, soft snowflakes were glowing white in the dusk light.

On a couple of eager bushes, small furry buds are quietly signaling a coming spring. In the morning, I wake now to sunlight and the chirping of birds. The city is beginning to awaken after a long and cold winter, and it is a beautiful reminder of the contingency of our city life. A reminder that our cities are concentrations of some parts of Nature and not separations from her. That they are merely an aggregation of certain ores and minerals into structures, an organization of extracts from various ecosystems into a new one, a collection of a few species into a different mode of interaction. And that, in the end, all of this exists only with her permission - and this is the wonder and beauty of it.

49 years...

Sitting in my apartment, I can hear, just barely, the cries of 'free Tibet' from the protest happening in front of the Chinese consulate a couple of blocks away. A few minutes ago, I walked by. A group of 50 or so, mostly Tibetan, were standing in the dreary cold rain with their signs and flags and yelling, as they have been for a couple of hours. From the gated consulate across the street walked a number of people going about their duties, seemingly immune to the exiles' cries.

It is often said that 'might doesn't make right', and as true as this may be, it unfortunately makes real. 49 years ago the Dalai Llama fled Tibet after its invasion by China. Since then Tibetans have been subject to expulsions, imprisonments, executions, and the recent influx of millions of Han Chinese, who have made Tibetans a socio-economic minority in their own country, if not a demographic one. China's military power is infinitely stronger than what little military resistance Tibetans inside and outside of Tibet could muster. Its economic power allows it to be insolently unyielding to any demands for independence, limited autonomy, or even basic human rights. And Tibet has fallen prey to the most fatal of modern Trojan horses - oil. And so the extermination of a rich culture, the exploitation of a beautiful land, and the violation of any sense of justice continues.

Unfortunately, it is very hard to see a way out. Even the Dalai Llama has relinquished claims to sovereignty, preferring to strive for more achievable demands - perhaps we should call them 'requests' - for religious and other freedoms within Tibet. And so the protesters cry out at the powerful who sit behind gates and report exceptional GDP growth, or tally the latest trade figures in this archetypal of emerging markets. And as I listen to their cries I cannot tell if they're made of hope or of mourning.

An old junior high school friend of mine, who is Tibetan, has as his facebook status "It takes 49 years for a soul to be reborn, and 49 years for a..."