No Access?

The issue of transparency always manages to surface, in one form or another, in democratic societies. Our Access to Information Act makes it possible for ordinary citizens like you and I to request information from the Government of Canada, and receive a reply shortly thereafter.

Seems simple enough.

Really though, the Access to Information Act was not designed as a simple query and answer forum. Rather, this access to information system was put in place so that the government would have a legitimate way to say: NO.

Firstly, the Access to Information Act had to be written in the first place! If our government was concerned about how uninformed its citizens were, all information, from all ministries would be available, all the time. There would not be an Act that prescribes the procedures for filling out an access to information request form because there would not be a request form. There would not be timelines for answering requests and processes to follow because the only answer would be, yes.

Secondly, the Act itself includes a measure that ensures the public-at-large never fully understands what information is available. Section 10 (where access is refused), subsection 1, states that:

“Where the head of a government institution refuses to give access to a record requested under this Act or a part thereof, the head of the institution shall state in the notice given under paragraph 7(a): (a) that the record does not exist.”

Looks pretty straight-forward.

You make a request for access, you are denied, end of the story, right? Maybe not. Subsection 2 states that, “The head of a government institution may but is not required to indicate under subsection (1) whether a record exists.”

When your access to information request is denied – and you are supplied with the reason: the record does not exist – there is no way of knowing if that is in fact the case. This logic is the reason why the request is being denied access, but the head of the government institution is not required to provide proof.

Sounds like no access to me.

Man in Summer

A pedestrian story of man in the pursuit of fantasy, at war with normalcy.

He was inside the bookstore on a summer day leaning up against the window, holding a novel he was pretending to read. But really he was looking out of the corner of his eyes through the window at a bride wearing what, in his limited fashion sense he thought was a beautiful dress. Abandoning the pretend-trip across the page he lifted his eyes up to admire the woman.

She was laughing and smiling so much her face would physically ache the next day. She didn’t care. Everything was perfect and, much to her surprise and delight, occurred as planned, and on time. The band played the music; the flowers filled the church with the smell of summer; the best man remembered their rings and didn’t fumble the handoff to her husband; and the pastor looked the other way during their lengthy at-the-alter kiss.

He put down the book and picked up another: Confessions of a Shopaholic. He smiled as he flipped through the author’s stories of over-spending, and the candid openness of her madness for shoes. Returning to the bride through the window across the street, he began to wonder what sort of woman she was. Today, he thought, she was perfect. He watched her family gather around her and playfully pose for pictures, the line-ups altering after each flash. His fixation on the photographer made him wonder what she looked like through his lens. The guy is lucky, he thought. She smiles for him.

Outside the bookstore the sun was shining, it was warm but cooled by a slight breeze. Each time a girl walked past the window of the bookstore, the man secretly hoped a sudden gust would lift their skirts. He smiled at the thought, though much to his displeasure, it never happened.

There were five customers in the store: a mother reading to her five-year-old daughter; an elderly couple who looked like travelers and flipped through a photo collection of the city; and a teenaged girl with Alice Munro’s The Lives of Girls and Women tucked against her side, who had made her way over to the poetry section and was now flipping through Anne Sexton.
He returned to the window. This time the bridesmaids flanked the beautiful, glowing bride, and were holding flowers. Through the city noise he could just make out the pitch of their laughter. Their dresses were a shade of pink he’d never seen before. Two of the women wore their hair up; the other two wore it down. All were as beautiful as this summer day, he thought. Beautiful women always traveled in packs, he said to himself.

The photographer would look through his lens then walk towards the group of women using his hands to tell them where to stand. Then he would retreat to his position behind the camera, click the shutter, and walk towards the women once more. Through the window he watched until the women dispersed and were replaced by the men. They were smoking cigars and he watched as people approached the groom with smiles and envelopes. A little something to get you started, he assumed they were saying.
“Excuse me.” the young girl holding the Munro novel asked.
“Yes. Sorry, I was, uh. Sorry. How can I help you miss?” he asked.
“Just want to pay for this book,” she replied, placing the book atop the counter.
“Of course. I was distracted by a thing.” he said through a widening smile. “Good choice! Have you read Munro before?”
“No. It’s for school, actually,” the girl replied. “Not that that’s the only reason,” she continued, unsure of why she felt the need to go on like that.
“I don’t really think it matters how you come across great work, so long as it touches you,” he said, still smiling.
“We’ll see,” she said.
After ringing in her purchase, he placed it in a bag and handed it back to the girl.
“Thanks for stopping by today. Hope you enjoy the book!” he said.
“Thanks,” she replied over her shoulder as she walked out of the store.
He watched her as she crossed the road and headed towards the wedding party. Four people left in the store: the tourist couple, the woman and her daughter.

After walking around the store and straightening some books along the way, he returned to his perch behind the counter. Picking up where he left off, he noticed children running around with jovial looks on their faces, while their parents chatted amongst themselves. The little girls had small arrangements of flowers tied around their wrists. The little boys had roses pinned to their lapels. He laughed when one of the boys was scolded by his mother for falling down in the grass and staining his dress pants.

The tourists approached the counter.
“Hello,” he said.
“Oh, hi there,” the older lady replied.
“Where’s a good place to eat in this city?” the older man asked.
“That’s a tough question. There’s lots of choices,” he answered. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked the pair.
They looked at each other for a minute, and then replied.
“Burgers and cold drinks,” she said.
“Really?” he asked rhetorically.
“You sound surprised. We may be over the hill, but we’re not buried under it yet!” the man replied.
“Of course you’re not. Where are you two from in the world?” he asked.
“Virginia.” they replied together.
“Near DC?” he asked.
“Close, about an hour’s drive,” she replied.
“Must be cool living near the White House,” he said.
“Not really. It’s just another building with a barricade,” the man stated.
“Still,” he returned. “Okay, so burgers and beers?”
“Yes,” the woman answered.
He stepped out from behind the counter and, pointed the couple towards the window. The bride was still outside. Still smiling. Still looking beautiful, he thought.
“Down this street here, past the church, hang a right which will take you behind the church. Go down three blocks and you’ll see a place called Cornerstones. Best burgers in town, and I usually drink daiquiris.”
“Like Hemingway!” the man noted.
“That’s right.”
“Well thank-you for the directions, young man,” the woman said through a wide smile.
“My pleasure,” he said, dwelling a little on the woman’s ‘young man’ comment. He’d owned this bookstore for nearly sixteen years, and after starting it later on in life, he hardly felt like a young man.

After answering a couple of inquiries over the telephone, he made his way to the stockroom at the back of the store. He spent the next twenty minutes going over his order for the next delivery. As he checked the various titles off his list, he began to hear honking from the street. At first a few single car horns, then a chorus of them.

After seeing the young mother and her daughter standing at the counter through the window of the door marked ‘employees only’, he abandoned the list and went to the cash.
“Did you find everything okay?” he asked the woman.
“Yes.” she replied.
“Oh the Places You Will Go!” he read aloud as he passed it over the magnetic scanner. “Is this her first foray into Dr. Seuss?” he asked, looking down with a smile towards the little girl.
“Oh, no,” her mother answered, looking down at her as well. “We’ve read One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish -”
“And Green Eggs and Ham!” the little girl interrupted.
“That’s right.”
“Is that your favourite story?” he asked.
The little girl replied with a shy nod and retreated behind her mother’s legs.
“Off she goes,” he joked.
He rang in the book and handed it back to the young mother. He watched as they left the store, and laughed at the tiny steps her daughter was taking.

By this time the chorus of horns was in full swing. He looked out the window across the street, scanning the concrete entrance of the church for the bride and her wedding party. Nothing and nobody to speak of, save for a few discarded petals from the roses.

He noticed the photographer heading towards a dark-blue van with a large suitcase in each of his hands. The sun was still shining, but the wind had died. Parked in front of the church was a black limo, decorated with red and white paper ribbon. Its driver had just closed the right-rear door and was walking back around the car. She’s inside, he thought.

The horn-honking continued. If he were a passing driver, he would have honked too, he thought. The smile faded away from his face. She’s inside the car and she’s leaving, he thought. The fact that he never knew her name bothered him, which he thought was strange because he had never known her name. But he wanted her to be more than just a pretty picture hanging on the wall of his memory.

He woke up late. After scrapping his way across the bed to turn off the alarm, he slinked off to the shower, got dressed and headed out the door. Nice morning outside, he thought. The sun was shining again. The morning streets were beginning to hum with traffic. He walked the sidewalks, waited for lights, stopping only for his morning coffee.

Same place he went every morning, and the same girl behind the counter. He followed the familiar roads of ink that mapped out a chaotic pattern across her arms, disappearing to unknown places beneath her top. He walked in, nodded his head. She poured his coffee without speaking. He looked away when she smiled.

Though he never asked, he knew her name was James. It was carved out in white ink on a black tag over her right breast pocket. Different name for a girl he thought. But then again, James was a different girl. She had ink for skin, not girl skin like all the others.

When he got to the bookstore the paper was waiting for him. He searched his kit bag for the keys to the store. After hanging his coat in the stock-room, he sat down by the window with the paper and the coffee. He unsheathed the scroll of newsprint from the elastic and rolled it out on the countertop.

A passing car drew his attention away from the paper and through the window outside. Looking across the barren street, he took note of the empty entrance to the church. Red and pink petals still littered the ground. The faded laughter of the bridesmaids still littered his head. The brides’ smile was a stain on the inside of his eyelids.

He shook the memory loose from his head and returned to the paper. He scanned the block-letter headlines of the front section. War. Slumping economy. Rising unemployment. Pain. Misery. Grief. Depression. Never anything good, he thought.

Turning to the city section, the first story got his attention immediately. Couple dies on way to honeymoon, it read. He covered his mouth with his hands. Forcing himself to look at the picture of the crumpled black limo, he recognized the ‘just married’ sign and the red and white ribbon running the length of the unblemished side of the vehicle.

They were married for eight hours, officially, when they were killed the article said. They were on their way to Croatia. He read through the eye witness accounts. Their wedding party was behind them, following them to the airport to wave good-bye.

“He made Kayla so happy,” her mother told the reporter. He stopped reading the article. “Kayla,” he said out loud.

Broken

This home is broken,
cut me open.
Give me an answer,
don't leave the cancer.

Liberal Homebase?

Canada might be on the verge of conservative reign for years to come: of course only time will tell if that's true. For what it's worth, I'm starting to feel like the Progressive Conservatives after the 1993 election that returned only two Tories to Parliament Hill: gearing up for a long stay in Opposition territory.

In the face of yesterday's by-elections in British Columbia, Quebec and Nova Scotia, I am concerned for the fderal Liberals. In each of these by-elections, the Liberal candidate was not in the top two, rather, third. It's not only the finishing position that is cause for concern but that in each case, Liberals were severly trailing their competition in the number of votes. Using these numbers to project any type of outcome in a possible spring election, the results are less than desired.

One of the things I find uncanny about the Liberal party is how its own players (Parliamentarians and staffers) talk about their voters. When talking about the general public, they all seem to say the same thing: "We need to reach out to our base!"

I find this declaration interesting, and a little confusing because, there is no Grit base. For much of its ruling history, the Liberal Party of Canada has been a successful brokerage party, nothing else. It has been able to find success by pulling socially progressive voters away from the Tories, and has managed to make the argument that of the opposition parties, they'll be the ones to win power.

Not sure if that's true. If the recent elections in Canada have taught us anything, they have reminded us of the importance and necessity of a homebase. In this department, the Liberals seem out-gunned by the religous right and family values based voters of the CPC; the environmental activitist base of the Green Party; the Quebec Nationalist base of the Bloc Quebecois; and the socially progressive, workers-rights voters of the NDP.

So, when federal Liberals say, "we need to reach out to our base," who are they talking about? To be sure, the Liberal Party needs a real identity, not a stolen one, or a borrowed one. If the identity remains securely attached to being the middle of the road, then that's where they'll stay.

Thoughts on Concrete

Masquerading in the mirror by the candlelight,

reveals the darker side of you.



Walking on the water instantly reveals,

the crippling weight of your concrete shoes.



Did you choose to wear that bruise?

Why would you wage a losing war?


Meet me outside the grocery store,

I always leave wanting more.

2009 Nobel Prize in Literature

Yes, it's that time of year: the time when the secretive Swedes burst out and unmask the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature. To be honest, I'm getting very tired of the European writers. When you consider that nine of the past ten winners have been from European countries, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it's time for a change.

People have been talking about the American writer, Philip Roth, but what about Thomas Pynchon? Albiet a recluse (I don't even think his publishers know his face!) Pynchon churns out a novel on an average of 9 nine years, but they are nonetheless worth the wait. If the Nobel Prize is a recognition of a lifetime's contribution to the cause of literature - and it is a cause - don't his books Gravity's Rainbow, The Crying of Lot 49, Vineland, and most recently, Against the Day, put him at the top?

I ask you to consider Canada, who hasn't seen a winner (and 1976 winner Saul Bellow doesn't count. For one thing, he spent his entire writing life forcing his work on hapless undergrads at the University of Chicago; and for another, he renounced his Canadian citizenship!).

Hasn't Margaret Atwood produced a lifetime of amazing work? But don't stop there, consider Alice Munro. Sure her forte remains the short story, but the Nobel Lit prize doesn't have to be about novels. The mathematian Bertran Russell won it in 1950, and a Churchill named Winston in 1953. So it isn't just about books. Munro's stories portray characters with an array of intensions, desires, horrors, passions, and curiousities, and they are worthy. Sure she took herself out of the running for this year's Gillar Prize, but I think she'd make the trip to Sweden for a date with King Gustav!

Fine, don't consider fiction alone! Consider American historian Howard Zinn. A man of remarkable depth, vision, and clarity, a man who has seen war but advocates for peace and prosperity gives him credit. (What was that pioneering book he wrote, A People's History of the United States?)

The last North American writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature was Toni Morrison, for her novel, Beloved, but that was 1993!

Who's it going to be? Take a look at North America!!

List of soldiers' names grows longer

A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege to attend a memorial service - for the 24 Canadian victims of the 9-11 terrorist attacks - at Beechwood Cemetery, in Ottawa, Ontario. Earlier this year, an Act of Parliament made these grounds the National Military Cemetery of the Canadian Forces. (For those of you elsewhere in the world, these grounds represent the Canadian equivalent to the United States' Arlington National Cemetery.)

As my taxi turned into the east entrance and began meandering down the small asphalt street, eventually dropping me off near the Prime Minister's security detail, I began to notice many of Ottawa's great names carved on the tombstones.

The Prime Minister greeted all those in attendance - which included politicians, family members of the victims, and those of the soldiers fighting insurgencies in Afghanistan - with a speech, a moving tribute to the legacy of Canadian soldiers fighting for our freedom. (I stood behind the rows of chairs, and every once and a while, glanced over my shoulder to the rows and rows of military tombstones behind me, and I wondered about the last thing each of them saw before they died.)

After the Prime Minister's address, two family members of the victims of 9-11 - a boy and girl - came and read aloud the names of the 24 Canadians who died in New York that day. The audience was moved to tears when the little boy came to his uncle's name, choaked back tears, and read his name aloud through the stutters of broken English. The list took 5 minutes to read, but it felt like forever.

Following this, four people were invited up to read the names of every Canadian soldier killed in Canada's mission in Afghanistan - all 129 of them (at that point, the list is now 131 names long).

As each presenter stood and somberly made their way through their list of names, the world around us seemed to become snarled up in the canopy of trees, letting no evidence of life outside the cemetery encroach on the moment. The third presenter - a blond woman - began reading the names, but was overcome with grief when she presented her husband's name. At the same time a moving and miraculously human moment, for in that brief moment, we all wore her pain.

When the ceremony concluded, I found myself wondering through the rows of military tombstones, being careful of course, not to step too close. As I walked I began to think about the close to 15 minutes it took to read all 129 names aloud.

How long before that list takes 30 minutes to read? How long before it takes 45 minutes, and then one hour after that?

How many more rows of tombstones will I see next year?

NDP turns back on underemployed

"What we've done is to accomplish something for people," NDP Leader Jack Layton told reporters following the critical confidence vote, on a ways and means motion, earlier today.

Acutally, Mr. Layton, what you've done is accomplish something for some people. However, what of the workers who have not enjoyed the benefits of long-tenure?