Cri du coeur

[August1991]

Stephen Harper is saying something many English Canadians want said, and he's saying something many French Canadians are willing to hear. And yet many Canadians, French or English, do not want to admit publicly what Harper is saying. Such is Canada.

Stephen Harper is a modern English Canadian, and English Canadians have been ignored too long in Canada. It has been decades that an ordinary English Canadian has spoken for Canada.

Spoken for Canada?

I will copy below two good posts about English Canada, and maybe this will explain Harper's popularity:

I remember the flicker of sadness and anticipation at the smell of a chill autumn breeze at night which carried with it the certain coming of winter. I remember the foretelling of spring in the warm March sun which lit the winter landscape and the sight of ice melting along the edges of the sidewalks, the first sight of trickling water, the first few bits of grass beginning to show. I remember the scent of wood smoke on a cool evening night, the smell and sounds of a neighborhood arena on a Saturday morning, the chill of the water during an early morning swimming lesson. I remember the sun rising over the trees at the cottage, and the absolute darkness of the night save for the moon glowing on the river.

I remember the feel of ice under my skates as I tried to keep my ankles steady, and the race down the sideline of a soccer field trying to keep up with the ball. I remember the magic and wonder of a shopping mall. I remember the anticipation of school, the anxiety on the first day, the discomfort and special smell of new clothes. I remember following parades in the summer, keeping up with the bands. I remember throwing my books away on the last day of school, and walking home, joyously knowing I had almost literally forever before school started again. I remember fireworks on Victoria Day, and the lazy, sleepy Dominion Day holiday which every celebrated in typical Canadian fashion by doing not much of anything, and the way we quietly looked down on those loud, brash Americans for all their howling national bombast with face painting and flag waving and fairs and guns and super patriotism.

I remember half crippling myself carting a giant pumpkin home that was almost as big as me. I remember the joy of spotting the first Christmas decorations put out in the shopping mall. I remember holding my hands together in church, feeling a bit awkward, and terribly bored. I remember being on the road with my parents, and the fascination of every new mile of grass and cows and run down trailer parks. I remember the delight of hotels, with elevators you could ride up and down – and up and down – and up and down in. They had real ice, too, just down the hall, and it was FREE. I remember throwing up at the Ex after eating too much and going on a fast ride. I remember wandering along the river skipping stones. I remember building a tree house in the woods. I remember building a skating rink in the back yard, building snow men, snow forts, and a snow house. I remember the thrill of racing down a long hill on a toboggan, and jumping off a high fence to land in a deep snow bank.

I remember standing in line in the gymnasium in front of the number which represented my school bus, or at least, hoping it was my school bus. I remember school picture day. I remember freezing my ass off at recess in the winter when it was forty below, trying to shield from the wind in a narrow doorway. I remember the satisfaction of body checking someone and having them fall down. I remember summer nights and cars, and girls, and baseball analogies, if you take my meaning. I remember Jarry Park at night, with the Expos clobbering the Mets. I remember my first subway right alone. I remember my father teaching me to drive, and very lightly scraping the side of a car as I backed out of a parking space. I remember the theme music from Expo 67. I remember how the theme for the Stanley Cup Playoffs used to thrill me – every game. I remember the woods, the quiet, the heat, the bugs, the feel of water on my paddle. I remember taunting the dog, having it chase me, chasing it back. I remember contempt for those poor guys who only had cats. I remember the excitement of thanksgiving dinner, the awe and anticipation of Christmas eve, the joy of Christmas morning. I remember chocolate bunnies at easter, and that funny old-people smell when visiting grandparents houses. I remember whole mornings and afternoons devoted to colouring and cutting out santas, and Christmas trees, and elves, and candy canes at school. I remember amazement that the band actually sounded pretty good at the Christmas concert, and the choir wasn’t half bad either. I remember the first sight of colour on a television.

I remember Saturday movies with my brother and friends. I remember amazement at all those tall buildings downtown. I remember hide and seek, pickup football, and long, lazy summer evenings wandering suburban streets with my friends, getting into very mild trouble, and thinking we were cool. I remember my first job, at a self service gas bar. I remember being fired from my first job at a self service gas bar. I remember my first television, twelve inchs, B&W, which I bought with my first and only cheque from my first job. I remember New years eve, babysitting, working at a club, partying. I remember seeing how high I could make my bike jump, and hot summer days when I drank an entire coke non-stop after riding a long distance. I remember school trips to upper Canada village, to a cottage resort, to museums and maple syrup runs and parliament hill. I remember seeing how late I could stay out without my parents yelling for me, how late I could stay up without my parents yelling at me, how late I could sleep in without my father overturning my bed. I remember waiting to be wakened on a school day – when it snowed – watching each minute tick by and hoping against hope nobody came in – which meant it was a snow day!

I remember the vast disappointment when my mother rushed in to say she’d slept in and demand I hurry up and get ready. I remember being very careful not to say anything that would tick off my father, who was very scary despite never, to my memory, hitting me, except maybe a very rare cuff to the back of the head. I remember firecrackers.

I remember eagerly waiting for Thursday, which was, coincidentally, allowance day and the day the new comics came out at the corner store. I remember camp fires, and the smell of burned hot dogs. I remember camp songs, and sleeping in a cottage or tent with a half dozen other boys. I remember the bad food in the mess hall. I remember getting to ride a horse. I remember riding in the back of my dad’s station wagon down the highway, staring at the cars behind us. I remember moving into a new house in a new city, with everything so – new. I remember building a hideout in the basement, and my delight when the basement flooded, stomping around in the water, and not caring that it smelled a little. I remember Dairy Queen ice cream cones in the summer, beaver tails in the winter. I remember Flintstones every day at lunch, Brady Bunch, Bewitched and Gilligans Island after school. I remember how great it was to be just too sick to go to school, but without pain or real discomfort.

I remember the mustiness and mystery of an old attic. I remember the library every Sunday, and taking out all those Hardy Boys and Famous Five books. I remember walking on train tracks as the train approached. I remember the thunder as it crossed a tiny bridge over an old creek – from underneath. I remember GI Joe dolls, and my sister’s Barbies, Tonka construction trucks, Matchbox cars with an entire case to carry them. I remember flipping baseball and hockey cards with my friends, winning more than I lost. I remember Crystal Beach, and La Ronde, Niagara Falls, and Frontier Town. I remember visiting family, staying in my cousins’ room on a cot, the pool his family had. I remember visiting the House of Commons and showing my pass to the guards. I remember how big and impressive everything was, and how green the House was, and how amazing it was to see all those people in person I’d seen on my TV for so long. I remember the guard confiscating the sheathed hunting knife on my belt with a genial smile, promising he’d look after it for me till I got out. I remember voting for the first time, at 18, and determining I would never be one of those people who didn’t bother to vote.

I remember all this and more, and all this and more is what makes me who I am. And all this and more and less is what I share with many, many, many Canadians who grew up in this country, living much the same lives, with some variation, in subtly different ways, learning the same lessons from family and school, experiencing the same experiences, feeling the same joys and fears and sorrows and hopes and dreams and thoughts. And in all of that we were alone but in all of that we were together, because while we were all different, we were pretty much the same, so that others joked about how polite we were, and how clean we were, and how we’d obediently, if a bit restless at times, stand at quiet street corners waiting for the light to turn green, even though there wasn’t a car in sight. We were solid, through and through, self reliant and proud, but quietly so. We knew there were other countries, because we were bored silly in Geography class every day, but we didn’t really care about them, or think about them. We were Canadians, with an amazing degree of confidence in ourselves and our country, and that was all the world that really mattered to us.

Link

My ancestors didn’t come to “Canada” 100 years ago, they weren’t brought here to live in Montreal or Southern Ontario or Halifax-- proper English and French Canadians in established areas wanted nothing to do with my ancestors: the illiterate, garlic-smelling, inferior people that Clifford Sifton was recruiting to settle the prairies. They were recruited to come here, to Alberta, to fill the empty space.

You can find their home on this map... http://www.canadainfolink.ca/alberta_relief.jpg

...in the Peace River lowlands between the Caribou Mountains and the Buffalo Head Hills-- smack dab between the “1006” and “915” near the top of the map. That is remote country even now, but at the time the idea of “Canada” was something that only existed on paper there. It didn’t exist until my ancestors built it.

Sifton lured thousands of people-- like my mom’s people, religious pacifists from Eastern Europe, and my dad’s people, Swedes who’d settled in Minnesota-- with promises. Some were genuine-- respect for their religious beliefs, free land-- and some were false (Sifton had writers create fictional tales grossly exaggerating the prosperity and climate of the place, and banned any mention of actual prairie temperatures.)

They came, and they did as they promised. They built farms and roads and little communities and grew grain for the mills back east. They lived an extraordinarily hard life. A number of my ancestors on both sides died very young, and others endured lifelong disability, caused by the harsh climate and almost complete lack of access to medical care. Members of my family died deaths they wouldn’t have died if they’d lived come to southern Ontario instead of northern Alberta. Even in the early 1960s my dad lived in a sod house on the family land during summer; in winter he and his siblings lived like foster children, separated and sent off to board with families in nearby towns so that they could attend school. They didn’t have a “real” house until the mid 1960s, and they didn’t have electricity until 1967.

And now 100 years after my ancestors came and built something out of nothing, the roads and little communities support not just farms but also booming resource industries; the great-great-grandchildren of those illiterate, garlic-scenting peasants are now not just farming but also building industry that’s very important to Canada’s future security and prosperity.

So yes, I am very proud of this province and what my family sacrificed so much to build. The proverbial “blood, sweat, and tears” are very real to me, because the people who shed the blood, sweat, and tears are my grandparents and people like them. I know them, I’ve talked to them, I love them, and personally appreciate what they did. I’ve visited the ruins of what used to be their first home in Canada. How could I feel the same sort of personal connection to other areas that were established long before my ancestors even arrived in North America?

Perhaps you’re thinking “well, it’s all Canada,” and in a sense that’s true but that’s not the whole story. I don’t feel as though the “Canada” that people talk about in history class or CBC documentaries are the same Canada that my ancestors built. I never hear talk of people like my ancestors or the contribution they made to this country; dialogue about our history seems to center squarely around “two founding nations” type talk that bears no relationship to what my ancestors built. If English and French settlers built Canada, then what did my ancestors build?

If people are wondering why Albertans for some reason feel distinct from older parts of Canada, I would suggest that it is because the version of Canada that we hear repeated over and over by central Canadians bears little resemblance to our own history.

Link

Harper's a policy wonk and true, politics is the art of the possible. But Harper's success is already explained by something more than getting his five priorities through parliament and the bureaucracy (not truly achieved, either).

Perhaps I'm wrong but for the first time in a long time, there is something authentically English Canadian in a federal politician.

[theloniusfleabag]

Dear August1991,

It would be a shame for such an important post as this to fall by the wayside. A popular PM is good for the country, and everyone in it. I am glad to see you think that the PM can be a 'good person/politician', and still be English.

[uOttawaMan]

It's because he's so knowledgable about hockey.

Jeez.. over analysis.

[August1991]

It's because he's so knowledgable about hockey.

Jeez.. over analysis.

I won't judge Harper's knowledge of hockey. As a kid growing up in Leaside in the 1960s, Harper's knowledge of hockey is probably based on Foster Hewitt. I would hope that Harper now knows about Rene Lecavalier. His forthcoming book may show this.

And uOttawaMan, as someone who loves to analyze with a passion, I don't think I've over-analyzed in this instance. But your point is taken.

Let me auto-critique. Above, I referred to English & French Canada while Kimmy specifically explained in her post that her family is Canadian, but neither English nor French. Well, I use the terms "English Canada" and "French Canada" loosely, more often than not referring to language. Kimmy after all posts (posted) in English.

Like it or not nowadays, Canada is first of all divided in two by language. After language, Canada is divided in other ways by region and so on. Admittedly, "English-speaking" Canada has more often but not solely assimilated others.

Once upon a time, Canadians were horribly divided by religion. In 1800, Canada was largely French-Catholic. By 1890, Canada was majority English-Protestant/Catholic with a French-Catholic minority. By 1980, Canada was English majority, French minority. Assuming such existed, family names in telephone books over the past two centuries, and the language chosen to answer a phone call would probably explain all this better.

----

By starting this thread, I simply wanted to state my opinion that Stephen Harper speaks authentically for "English" Canada. It is the first time in a long time that English-Canada has had such a voice (to use Leftish vocabulary). Moreover, it seems to me that "French" Canada is prepared to hear "English" Canada speak.

[Charles Anthony]

By starting this thread, I simply wanted to state my opinion that Stephen Harper speaks authentically for "English" Canada. It is the first time in a long time that English-Canada has had such a voice (to use Leftish vocabulary). Moreover, it seems to me that "French" Canada is prepared to hear "English" Canada speak.

I think that there is a unique characteristic about Stephen Harper that makes all Canadians pay attention. He is not a rich politician.

I do not know his personal financial situation at all but he does not present himself as an arrogant politician who is out to make money for himself and his cronies. Yes, yes, I recognize the recent cronyism. My observation is all relative to the last few decades of Canadian federal governments. Harper does come across as a humble little man who wants to govern for the sake of governing unlike the "little man from Shawinigan" who never really came across as humble at all and whose interests did seem selfish.

[betsy]

August, since you had provided the links anyway....you could've shortened the excerpts.

[Michael Hardner]

Harper seems to be waiting for the country to come to him, rather than to put himself out there in every photo-op he can find. He's being himself, and that should be enough.

If his popularity starts to grow, it will be interesting to see how the coverage of him changes. CTV/CBC still seem confused about him. They're covering the issues, which is good, but there's a big void of personality coverage that will have to be filled sooner or later.

[August1991]

Harper seems to be waiting for the country to come to him, rather than to put himself out there in every photo-op he can find. He's being himself, and that should be enough.

Maybe that's his public persona but it's also typical of English-Canadians - an eh added to the end of a sentence to be polite, even smugly.

Anyone who takes the stage has an ego. A politician has also the presumption to decide for others.

I have only met Harper once, from a distance, and he struck me then as a typical Protestant Anglo. We haven't had such a PM in a long time.