In Search of MLK at the G8/G20

Most of us can recall the horrific scenes in Tiananmen Square nearly twenty years ago. Students protesting against a communist/non-democratic government being mowed down and crushed by tanks, sent in by the government to dispel the protest. Earlier in the 20^th Century, we witnessed Indians being gunned down for their peaceful protest of British occupation. Through the 1960's we witnessed the marches for civil rights, for equality between gender and race. These protests were desperately needed to help move the government(s) in the right direction. And while it is ridiculous to suggest there is nothing left to protest, there is an air of tradition to the G8/G20 protests. They lack vision and clarity and purpose, other then the supposed importance of maintaining the right to protest, whatever that means.

This past week the G8/G20 summit meeting of the world's leaders was held in my hometown of Toronto. Over a billion dollars was spent on security, tax money collected from hard working Canadians, because a meeting of the world's leaders automatically means a protest, and further, hooliganism and rioting. They haven't always been linked, but these days most protests are accompanied by violence, with rare exception. However, despite the past history of violence and mischief that has consistently tagged the G8/G20, the Canadian government decided to hold the meeting in the heart of Canada's most populated city. Businesses were shut down. The vibrant downtown core became a ghost town in the days leading up to the summit, because we all knew what was coming. Another protest. More rioting. Unlike the examples mentioned above however, this was not an organized protest for something monumental. No, it was the "traditional" protest. People walking in large groups, singing and laughing and getting their pictures taken in front of grim faced police officers forced to wear riot gear. The riot gear was necessary because coming in after these mild mannered, if slightly deluded protesters, were the hooligans. These "Black Box" anarchists have been in business since the early 1980's, and they didn't disappoint us this time either, setting fires to police vehicles and shattering windows and destroying businesses. All of it done behind their black hoods before dispersing into the crowd and mingling a la the Taliban. The next day brought mass arrests as the police tried to find those who had broken the law. Most people were detained for a few hours and released. At the time, I couldn't help but wonder what people were still doing downtown. Why hadn't the 'protesters' left when the police asked them to disperse? And what were they protesting again? The pictures online seemed only to reveal a motley if disparate sort of celebration.

Sunday brought us some answers however, as stories began to flow about police "brutality". That all of it was unsubstantiated and seemed to consist mostly of people complaining that they were cold and wet did little to deter them. They expounded on the need for an official inquiry. On Facebook and Twitter and blogs the stories circulated and then expanded. These 'brave' protesters spun tales of courage and strength in the face of the "armoured" security forces. If you listened closely enough, you could hear the rhythm of their own heroic deeds rising like a Greek tragedy within their minds. Spin and spin, their tales reached our civil liberties association, who cried on national radio about the police "brutality", though its representative could not illustrate a single case of it. And so it now continues, the dogma of protesting so ingrained that shortly there will be an inquiry into these so-called tales of abuse. It will happen partly because we're Canadian, and we love our inquiries, and partly because there is no other choice. How else can we quiet the voices ("We will be Heard!") of these desperate attention seekers? Or are they more than that?

It is odd to pen a position that inherently seems so merciless, so against my natural position of empathy for those who have no voice. The G8/G20 protest however, was inauthentic in every way. From its unspecified positions (What are you protesting?) to the deportment of the protesters (Getting your picture taken in front of a police officer who has to wear riot gear is shameful and disgusting. They are not there for your amusement or your homemade festival. They have lives and families, too.) to the bitter complaining and storytelling that followed it.

***

The G20 has become a staged event, and because of that, degrades real protests made by people people committed to a cause for the cause's sake, not their own. There hasn't been this much self-congratulation in the blogosphere since Mariah Carey last interviewed Donald Trump. Many of them I consider friends, but their position baffles me. Smart, intelligent people who seem stuck in this mode that the right to protest is a reason to protest.

Saddest of all and completely lost in the hyper magnified gaze of the protesters who insisted on putting themselves in harm's way were the truly forgotten ones. People like the elderly and disabled who make their homes downtown. Or the terrified business owners hiding behind their counters and tables as the hooligans smashed and burned their life's work, all while the protesters watched. Always watching. (Not a single report of a protester who tried to stop an anarchist from an act of hooliganism, although there were reports of protesters who blocked the police from stopping the anarchists.)

These days, a peaceful protest is an oxymoron. It does happen on occasion, but only when the protest is AUTHENTIC. For example, over ten thousand people came together in Ottawa a few months ago to protest abortion. (It was not a protest I supported, because as long as we treat women as breeders, abortion should be legal.) Ten thousand people marching peacefully. No riot police were needed. No hooligans. People weren't partying through the streets getting their pictures taken. They believed something passionately, and the protest was about something outside of themselves. It was an authentic protest. But protests like this last one (and any protest at these G8 summits) cheapen and tarnish the ideals set by Martin Luther King and Ghandi and others.

The question I have yet to answer is perhaps the most important one. If they have no cause, why do so many people show up to protest? Perhaps it is because there are so many of us who desperately want our voices to be heard, so many who suffer and walk in loneliness. Perhaps people feel like they are making a difference, and can do so without having to commit to a long-term project that would require more than a simple walk downtown. What it seems, at least to me, is that there are a number of people who want the good feelings that helping others produces, without having to do the hard work of actually helping or volunteering somewhere. And while I can empathize with such feelings, at some point we must understand that it doesn't work. That the mere appearance of caring doesn't make us feel better in the long run.

It isn't the loudness of our voice or the brashness of our act that will fill that void, because in the end, it's still about us. What gives our life meaning is the quiet sojourn that seeks to listen, not be heard, the one that is willing to walk beneath the shadow, not create its own, and the selfless example set before us by those desperate to see humanity united. People like Dr. Martin Luther King, who when he died at 39, was said to have the heart of a 60-year-old. We dishonour his memory and the memory of those like him when we stage these phony protests. Their greatness was found not only in their their absolute vision for affecting real change, but in their tendency towards self-sacrfice. I wonder what they would say when looking at the results and accusations of the protesters at this latest event.

The results are certainly clear enough. These G8/G20 protesters have not pointed the world's gaze to the needy. The world's ears are not more attuned to those in need of fresh water or medicines or civil rights. Instead, they have served as an annoying clatter piece to the real work being done quietly by so many around the world. If anything, they have turned away the gaze of potential helpers into one of disgust.

Why do we march in protest, and for whom do we do it? Is it for us, so we can be seen and post pictures of our own "courage" and talk about ourselves? Or is it about those who are actually suffering, those whose lives reflect real tragedy and desperation? Perhaps if we answered those questions first, we would be better served towards doing the real work of helping those in need and avoid the shallow tendency towards creating our own celebrity. And then perhaps, we truly would see change.

-Steve

Next Topic: Up to You

Novel Word Count: 128,105

Day 45 of 42

In sorting through this blog (I still find it hard to believe that it's been five years!) I found a few comments from readers, one in particular, and decided to contact her (she'd left her email on her comment)to see how she was doing. She responded quickly, and when she mentioned what was happening in her life, I asked her if there was anything she wanted me to write about. I'd never done that before, but it seemed like the right thing to do. She gave me my next blog topic, which will explore waiting for Mr. Right/ waiting on God/ and how to avoid men who claim to be Christians but who abuse and demeen women. No, it isn't a cheerful topic, but I've heard this mentioned by a number of people who are genuinely disappointed and confused with the whole dating thing.

I should have something up in the next couple of days, after which, I think this is something I will do more often. Is there something you're particularly interested in? Is there something in the church or culture that bothers you? Something you just aren't sure about? Drop me an email and I'll write about it. (If I feel I have something to say) I won't include your name unless you want me to, and as always, comments will be welcome.

***

In regards to the novel, I'm not going back to the drawing board exactly, but I've realized that the book is going to be significantly longer than I anticipated, probably around 200k. (200, 000 words) I need to dig deeper and develop my world in much greater proportions. The story has stalled in large part, I think, because I need to do more in-depth research. I still like the story, and think it has great potential. As of now however, it looks like the first draft won't be completed until the fall. Thank you all for your encouragement and patience!

Hope your week has started well. For those who are interested, I do have a new post on my fitness site.

-Steve

Encouraged

Day 41 of 420 000

NOVEL WORD COUNT: Ummm… a lot

Another day. Another city. Another Starbucks. And coffee… lots of coffee. Necessary on three hours sleep. And no, I'm not procrastinating. Not exactly. Although my novel is currently open in another window and I haven't written a word yet this morning. But I'm not procrastinating. Uh-uh. Okay, maybe a little. But I was going through some of my recent posts and realized that I offered enough encouragement lately. Let's face it, one-note writers are boring, and while it's fine (and interesting) to take note of problems caused by religion or politics or annoying people, we also need a healthy dose of positivity or else why are we bothering to get up in the first place. Yesterday, as I was going through the book of Ecclesiastes in my morning reading, I came upon this verse:

"There was a man all alone; he had neither son nor brother. There was no end to his toil, yet his eyes were not content with his wealth. "For whom am I toiling," he asked, "and why am I depriving myself of enjoyment?" (4:8)

It's the thing I love about the book of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. Some of the verses can hit you like a hammer. Like this one. It was written three thousand years ago, but applies to so many of us. It's a question we often forget to ask ourselves, and suddenly our lives become a whirlwind of busy. We forget who we're working for, why we're working, even though we already have enough. Years go by, and suddenly we realize that we've missed the point of it all. And through it all, change becomes almost a dirty word. That is, changing our life, reordering it, becomes frightful and taboo. Much better to just stay busy. And yet, there are always people willing to challenge that notion, people willing to re-examine and slow down. I was thinking about it last night as I drove home from the boot camp I'm running. (My day job, the one that pays the bills, is working as a personal trainer.)There, I watch and listen to people who haven't worked out or challenged their diet in years, driving directly from work to the camp, making all sorts of family accommodations for a fun but brutal workout. I listen to their stories, the craziness of our typical North American lifestyle, and yet there they are, not willing to accept the status quo. It's the best part of my job. A month ago I had a good chat with a woman at the gym who'd lost over a hundred pounds. Her whole life has been changed. How she feels. How she thinks. Everything.

As a writer, I'm used to being "poor". It's a sacrifice, if you can call it that, every artist makes, so I don't miss making big bucks and being able to buy whatever I want. Walking through a mall induces no desire in me to spend money, with the exception being bookstores and electronic shops, but even then, the library works well enough and we don't have room for a 52" Sony Bravia HD television just yet anyway. That said, the question of why, as in, why am I working so hard, is just as relevant for me. Why do I want to publish my novels? Why am I driven back to the page? Is it just about me? What I love about the question is that it centers me. It reminds me that I don't have to let other people set my goals for me. It reminds me that change is always possible, so long as I'm willing to make the adjustment. I find that encouraging. This idea that tomorrow doesn't have to be a repeat of today or last week is marketed pretty heavily in the self-help sections of your local bookstores, but I think most people get discouraged by the slowness of change and give up. Anything worth pursuing requires commitment, but commitment is much easier when we answer the question of why we want to change. For whom do we toil? And why do we deprive ourselves of enjoyment?

Take some time today to answer that question, and then take a good look at your life. If you could change something, what would it be. Set it in your mind and go for it. You'll be surprised what you can accomplish.

-Steve

Note: My brilliant wife started her own fitness blog this past week. She's the best trainer I've ever seen, and her nutritional knowledge is second to none. I encourage you to take a look.

Loud Talkers, Tradition and Finding an Ending

Day 40 of 42… I think

NOVEL WORD COUNT: 127, 984

I sat back in my chair, unable to tune them out. Despite it being the first day of the G20 here in Toronto (a colossal waste of money and energy) traffic was light down the 401 to Guelph, and I arrived at my pre-Boot Camp Starbucks in time to spend to spend a few hours writing before heading another fifty miles north to Harriston. There were three of them, young guys in their early twenties, that had sat down a few minutes earlier. One of them, who looked to be tapping out at two-forty, had a low voice that cut through the white noise blend of music and conversation in the café. Normally, I preferred to have some background noise. Writing in silence was difficult, which was why I usually found a Starbucks to work. Occasionally however, someone would sit near me with a voice like a chainsaw. I sighed and turned up my Ipod. Nope. I could still hear him. Finally I packed up my things and moved to a table on the far side next to the window. Maybe now I could- "the Blackhawks had to make that trade. Byfuglien's like Pronger. Big and fast but loses sight of his teammates."

It was amazing. I could still hear him! And that voice, every word spoken as if God Himself was speaking. This is the way it is, and you don't like it, too bad. I sighed, closed my novel and pulled out my schedule. It's hard to write fiction, to go to another world, when you're sitting next to a Loud Talker. I trained with someone like that once. No matter where you were, all you could hear was his loud voice. Oddly, he spoke with in much the same manner. This is how it is, and if you don't like it, too bad. I hated judging people, but I've never really liked people like that, and always found conversations with them an excuse for them to propagate their view of the world and every single event that ever happened and why they were absolutely one hundred per cent correct. Of course, I've been accused of that from time to time myself, so perhaps it's merely the case of it takes one to hate one.

Thankfully, they left after about twenty minutes, but I found it difficult to return from my researching (Read: mindless surfing). I'd been working on my novel ending for what seemed like a long time, but the words, which had flowed like a stream for the past two months, had been cut down to a slow trickle. I was finding it hard to stay focused and having an extraordinarily difficult time going into my world. The negativity pressed down on me – this is garbage, you'll never make it, why do you bother – and every time I brought my novel up on the screen I found myself staring at the letters like they were suddenly strangers. Writing a novel, like any creative activity, inevitably tests your resolve. Unfortunately, being aware of that didn't make it any less difficult.

***

Through my years of writing, especially this past one, if one thing has changed it's my respect for those who create something to call their own. Those who step outside the comforting walls (cell?) of a union or government pension to push towards their dreams. In that way, I suppose some of my past conservatism lingers, in that government, while necessary and generally helpful, still has the ability to interfere. In Ontario, the latest is the HST, a combined sales tax that will put a great deal of pressure on small business owners, people who have stepped out of a protective bubble to forge their own dreams. My respect for them had grown this past year. It takes a great amount of guts and courage to step out, to risk so much.

In other ways however, especially in writing a fantasy novel and creating a world, my respect for tradition had diminished. Traditions had a tendency to keep people in bondage, and most of the time, the origin and purposes of a particular tradition are forgotten. Take our wedding tradition of 'giving the bride away.' The one where the minister asks "Who gives this woman" and the father says, "I do." That tradition originated in Rome, where women were property, and were literally being given away. Like an animal or a slave. And yet, a large portion of the population clings to that tradition, romanticizes it. We call it sweet, when it's actually pretty disgusting. (It is one thing for the father of the bride to walk up with his daughter, quite another to claim that he is "entrusting" her to his new husband. Here's another disgusting tradition in that vein.

Another tradition that galls me is dress codes. Traditionally, dress codes have been used to separate classes. In our free market system, they are used to distinguish not only class but gender. Having worked in many church and "Christian" environments, these 'dress' codes are considered part of the school's/church's tradition. That this tradition is aimed largely at women (those nasty temptresses) is rarely mentioned. (Ironically, dress codes in schools generally act in an opposite manner for the students, at least in terms of uniforms. Uniforms can level the field between the rich and poor students)

You think about this when you're creating traditions for a country, and you realize how our traditions reveal about our national character. The next time you run across something 'traditional', don't be afraid to ask where that tradition comes from and if it's something we should still be celebrating. Chances are, you'll find that behind the façade it's nothing more than an excuse for a continuance of power.

-Steve