Second Draft

I’ve finally finished the second draft of the book I’ve been writing. I’m looking at it sitting prettily on my desk right now, all spiral-bound and thick, at over 300 pages. The title shines through the clear plastic cover at me. No Secrets, No Lies: A Memoir.

As far as I’m concerned, Draft 2 is it. Done, finito. No interest in Draft 3, unless some publisher begs me. I should be so lucky

Here’s why: I’ve spent five years at it. I’ve rewritten each page, probably each word of the book ad nauseum.  I took an entire year going from Draft 1 to Draft 2 to restructure the memoir, and have had two editors who worked with me along the way. Enough.

It’s hard to imagine what could take so much time, I know. I wonder myself.

What was I doing all those hundreds and hundreds of hours crafting this damn thing? I’m not really sure. It’s not like it’s the first thing I’ve ever written. How could it possibly be so hard once I decided to do it? I can only say this. It was.

It sounds simple, I know. All you have to do is figure out what it is you want to say and get cracking.

But that’s where I ran into trouble. What was it I really wanted to say? I thought I knew when I started, but it wasn’t long before I ran into trouble.

At first, I thought I was writing a book about raising our son who has Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD, formerly FAS, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome). Indeed, this could fill up a whole book, and many books about raising special needs children have been written. 

In Canada, a recent award-winning book by journalist Ian Brown, called Boy in the Moon, has won and earned, enormous praise for its thoughtfulness, insight and brilliant readability.

The first draft of my memoir was very much a book about my son Michael. Its title was Man Plans, God Laughs, from a Yiddish saying, referring to the curveballs life throws us. Like everyone else who has children, we hoped and expect they would be born healthy, and life thereafter would follow a certain script, with only minor deviations.

Well, for our family, it was indeed a case of  Man Plans, God Laugh. Our adopted-at-birth son was diagnosed at age six with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. His brain was irreversibly damaged by the alcohol his birthmother drank when pregnant with him.

The prognosis we received wasn’t good. According to the literature of the time, Michael’s future would be bleak. Chances were good he would drop out of school, be unemployed, live on welfare or even the streets, and possibly, be in and out of jail by the time he was twenty.

Without a doubt, there was no shortage of good material to use for the book. But I wasn’t that far along into it when I realized I had a problem. Was the book about me, or was it bout Michael. If the latter, what was I really going to say? I had no desire or qualifications to write a self-help manual, so that was out. Nor did I want my whole book to be occupied by our struggles with Michael.

Too much of my life was already devoted to him. Now my book? Michael of course, would have to be a central theme in any memoir I wrote because he is, indeed, a central theme in my life. But I had other things I wanted to talk about besides ‘life can be a bitch.’

So I was back to asking the questions again. What is it I actually want to say?

This is not easy to answer if you’re writing a memoir. No matter how well it’s written, a  memoir’s gonna be about Me, Me, and Me.  It’s a little embarrassing. So you better have something good to say or you’re just going to be one more narcissist flooding the bookshelves.

As I’ve said, I’ve always been slightly embarrassed when someone asks what my book’s about.

“Well, it’s a memoir,” I say, feeling the need to explain. It  implies that my life is so damn interesting, ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy reading about me.’

The truth is, you have to actually believe that, to some degree. Part of you has to believe ‘I really do have something to say of interest to the rest of the world.’ 

On the other hand, in my case, as is probably the case for most memoir writers, I’m plagued by insecurities. 

A dose of humility is always good, but if a memoir writer has too much, it’s probably best to ditch the memoir and write about Lancaster Bombers or rare Slipper Orchids, instead. You gotta believe in yourself.

So I carried on. During the past year, I rewrote the book, developing a theme that ran through the first draft, but was not well-developed.

This is the theme of the present draft, the one I’m planning to send off to agents, hoping one signs me up, then tries to find a publisher.

.

This will give you some idea of ‘what I have to say.’ 

My grandmother died before I was born. Or that’s what I was told until I answered the family phone when I was ten and learned otherwise. A dark family secret was unleashed.  Begging to know more about my maternal grandmother, my questions were met with silence. It is then I made the promise of a ten-year-old: No Secrets, No Lies.

As I grew older and had a family of my own, I realized all families have secrets, whether inconsequential or life-altering.  I’m forced to ask questions of myself that we all have to consider. Who is it we’re really trying to protect when we hide the truth, and when, if ever, is the cost too high. While answering these questions, I discover why people, including myself, hide painful truths from the people we love.

Size Matters When It Comes to Corned Beef Sandwiches

I didn’t know there was a crisis in the world of corned beef, but when you think about it, it makes sense.  A good corned beef sandwich is full of thickly sliced, fatty but flavourful hunks of brisket, pickled in a seasoned, salty brine.

That doesn’t cut it in today’s artery-conscious world.  Corned beef on rye is just, well… not kosher. The under 30 set would rather eat a salad with marinated tempeh bits, edamame, sundried tomato, jicama and pine nuts tossed in a light miso-based caesar dressing.

And that’s a problem for people who make their livings selling Reuben sandwiches (corned beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese and Russian dressing on rye, grilled).

An article in Silicon Valley’s MercuryNews has this to say about it.

“A man walks into a Jewish deli and doesn't come out with a giant pastrami sandwich.

That's no joke, in more ways than one, because in this modern, organic, smaller-portioned, locally sourced, sustainable, artisanal pickle world, a bigger-than-your-head sandwich burgeoning with fatty cured meats of unknown origin just doesn't cut the muster -- or the mustard, as the case may be -- anymore.”

So what’s a deli owner to do? Talk, shmooze, and eat, of course.

A Deli Summit was  sponsored by Saul’s Deli and Restaurant at the Jewish Community Center of East Bay in Berkley, California this week. Designed for deli owners and customers to explore the thrills and challenges of a modern deli, it might as well been dubbed:  Stayin’ Alive.

Menu items on the summit’s slightly tongue-in-cheek agenda included:  "Pickle pricing," "In defense of hand-slicing," and "How size matters: of menu and portion."

The real menu during the evening’s proceedings?  House-baked Bialys and Smoked Fish, with chive cream cheese, red onion & capers. Sweet and sour pickles on the side,  7.  Openfaced 10. 

Make no mistake, this summit is serious stuff. As Julia Moskin says in her New York Times piece,  “Can the Jewish Deli be Reformed?,” the beloved institution of Jewish delis continues to disappear,”  but a few brave delis are breaking up canons of the dying model and have something to share with their fellow restaurateurs.

“At Saul’s Restaurant and Deli in Berkeley, Calif., the eggs are organic and cage free, and the ground beef in the stuffed cabbage is grass fed. Its owners, Karen Adelman and Peter Levitt, yanked salami from the menu in November, saying that they could no longer in good conscience serve commercial kosher salami.’

Fortunately, the new formula for delis doesn’t mean throwing the potato knish and chopped liver out with the salami’s bathwater,  “…but to make it more foodie friendly for today's health-conscious society.”  The potatoes are organic and the meat antibiotic free. Why not? How can it hurt?

I’m quite pleased, though I hadn’t had a corned beef sandwich in the last twenty years, until recently.

I grew up eating at delis, at least once a week with my family in my hometown of Detroit. Dinner out? That’s where we’d go, to the local deli. I always ordered the same thing, a Dinty Moore. They don’t have it on the menu in Toronto, and I when I first moved here, I sure missed my triple decker corned beef, tomato, lettuce and Russian dressing sandwich on toasted white, with a fancy toothpick to hold it together.

I never did find out how my beloved sandwich got its name, nor the name of my other favourite  Detroit deli sandwich, a Swanky Frankie (hot dog split down the middle, stuffed with cheese and wrapped with bacon, grilled, and served on a bun).

Yikes. I can barely believe I ate either, but I sure did love my Dinty Moores and Swanky Frankies. Like everyone else, though, with time, the amount of salt and fat contained in each started to turn me away.  Maybe if I lived close to a deli I might have “treated” myself once in a while, but the truth is, I lost my taste for that kind of food. Or so I thought.

I was visiting my sister in Detroit a few months ago. She asked me where I wanted to go for dinner, and I heard myself say, “Stage Deli.” She ordered a lovely little salad with dressing on the side. Me?  I went for the Grilled Reuben with coleslaw (inside the sandwich, replacing the sauerkraut).

I was in foodie heaven. The moist corned beef’s saltiness was perfectly countered by the sweet in the Russian dressing and coleslaw. The sandwich was grilled to perfection, ensuring the swiss cheese oozed the way it should over everything. The bread had a nice toasty exterior without being too crisp. 

I ate remarkably slowly that night, not wanting my meal to end.

I don’t think it was just nostalgia. I really do think it was a damn good sandwich. Something everybody in the world should have and enjoy. Maybe once every two years.

I guess that means the Deli Summit will have to become an annual event.  Too many people like me around going someplace else for our salads.

But Long Live the Deli:  I really do recommend that you either go out for or make your own Reuben.  They're pretty fabulous. If you opt for home-made, just make sure to use good-quality corned beef. The kind you get at a deli.

Bird Nerds

I was sitting on the front porch this evening with my daughter and her boyfriend.

           

“There’s a downy woodpecker on the tree over there,” she said to us. “A male. See its red head?” All matter-of-fact.

A simple comment on the surface about an avian sighting, perhaps, but not to me. I was beyond thrilled. Not every twenty-one year old knows a male from a female downy, or cares, for that matter. But she did, and boy o’ boy, that means the world to me.

My husband and I not infrequently wonder what we’ve managed to pass on to our children. But in this case, it was obvious. Our love of birds. And I’d count that among one of the traits definitely worth passing on, besides a love of dancing, of course.

I then told  my daughter about the many entries on my Facebook page in the last few days either mentioning bird sightings or showing pictures of them. Several friends went off to Point Pelee this week, and I was appreciatively the recipient of wonderful photos of a rose-breasted grosbeak, kingbird. yellow warbler, Baltimore oriole and black-throated blue warbler.

“Bird nerds, that’s what you are,” my daughter said. “In a good way. I’m one too, I guess.”  She mentioned some guy she saw recently in the city with a pair of binos around his neck looking up, and actually thought it was cool someone young was interested in birds (other than her parents, I guess).

We talked about the many Facebook entries of birds, and I realized how our postings says as much about the  recipients as it does the senders. It's not just a fluke that besides bird musings, my page was plastered with political issues (with links), comments about major social issues (with links), a Save Species of the Deep message (with link), notices about flora returnees to the garden as well as announcements about upcoming events, particularly photography shows and music concerts.

No entries about extreme fighting or duck hunting,  petitions against gun registration or fundraising appeals for the Tea Party.  I liked what all my entries said about my interests. They were pretty much all there.

But today, I liked a bird entry on my Facebook page best of all. My daughter had posted it a few days ago. It was a simple message, but it made my heart skip a beat.  “Great-crested flycather!” it said.

Find anything you want on google (with the possible exception of love)

If I wasn’t already, I’ve become a bore. I have a good reason, of course. I’m renovating. And along with the undertaking comes a one- track mindset. Basically, all my thoughts hover around one and one thing only: my kitchen.

I’m so single-minded these days, I couldn't care less how anybody’s day went at work, whether their tulips are in bloom yet, or if the kids are eating their vegetables.

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I DO want to know whether IKEA cupboards’ hardware work well, whether pot or track lighting gives the best illumination, and how deep a kitchen sink should be.

Could you please stop yawning?

I’ve solicited whatever information I can from friends, and surprisingly, two actually take pleasure talking about hardware, lighting, and backsplashes. They’re willing to debate relative merits of granite and laminate countertops, though the conversation doesn’t go far.  It’s laminate hands down. Cost is a mitigating factor, and there’s no contest.

But it’s a little embarrassing to admit I lie in bed trying to decide if the sink should be 20 or 18 gauge stainless steel (18). So instead of asking friends, I google: “Which is better, 18 or 20 guage steel sinks.”  And lo and behold, Bob from Montana, Shelley in Iowa and Bruce in Beaverton were just waiting for me to ask. Go for 18, they say. The 20 will dent sooner. You’ll be glad you spent the extra few bucks.

Are convection oven options worth having?  Yes, they are say google bakers out there in cyberspace, all thrilled with the results, especially on sponge and angel food cakes.

Dare I paint our wooden floor, and if so, how do I get the hardest finish?  The sailors tell me to use epoxy urethane (available in matte finish), the kind they use on their own boats. The finish will last forever, they say. Make sure to apply a few coats.

Helen in Tofino, B.C. says IKEA has switched to new German hardware on all their kitchen cupboards, and potlights give the best all around, even lighting. Lucy in Miami swears by Moen faucets, because they offer the best guarantees in town, usually replacing anything with even a minor defect.

There’s a surfeit of reviews on dishwashers, ovens, stoves and fridges. So many, in fact, I get cross-eyed reading them. Bill in Eureka Springs says don’t go near high-end Miele or Bosche. He bought both and says they’re over-rated and overpriced. Deena in Washego says spend the extra money and go European. Everyone agrees: stay away, at all costs, from IKEA dishwashers. Too bad, they’re cheap.  Samsung gets 4 star ratings from Sears customers, fewer stars from Best Buy buyers. Conflicting opinions abound.

What about KitchenAid, Frigidaire, Maytag or GE? All I have to do to find the model number of a product I’m considering, enter it, then wade through dozens and dozens of opinion pieces on each. The problem is that each appliance company has more than a dozen models, and my eyes start to glazr by the time I’ve read what everyone wants to tell me about their experience with each. Frigidaire dishwashers don’t get your dishes clean, I’m told. Frigidaire dishwashers really get your dishes clean, I’m also told.

Who are all these people?

When I first started my online research, I was pleased to find people sharing their experiences. I can’t tell you the number of products I crossed off my list because Charlotte in Austin and Brian in Toronto told me to stay away.

Then I entered sensory overload mode and decided I had to rethink this googling-everything-in-sight thing. I didn’t know who to believe. Did Sheila in Boston get a defected Samsung Frigidaire, Model 24DL7XJ, or does Helen in Carlsbad have low standards since she believes Model 24DL7XJ is sweet perfection?

In a way, it’s very nice that everyone wants to share their experiences and help those of us in the middle of reno decision-making hell, not a nice place to be. But I’m more fascinated than thankful.

I find it fascinating to see people “connecting” with other people, even if it’s about kitchen faucets and pot lights. I see a little online community developing with to and fro between entries. “You didn’t like the IKEA lazy susan corner cupboard hardware? How come? Maybe I can help you organize it better.” “You want to paint your wood floor?  Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll walk you through it. I’ve done a few stencils.” It’s kinda charming, I guess – one more way the cyberworld “connects” people.

Maybe the IKEA lazy susan people will become Facebook friends,  and the floor painting people will eventually text message.  It’s anyone’s guess what’s next. Possibilities, endless. To paraphrase a line from an old television series, 'There are a million and one kitchen questions out there in the Naked City.'

I started this blog by saying you can find anything you want on Google with the possible exception of love.  Maybe I’m wrong.

Sweat – not sweet – Sweat

 That’s what I do, sweat. And believe me, it’s not fun. I don’ glow, I don’t perspire, I don’t get dewy. I sweat. Unattractively so.

Having just come out from a long winter, I almost forgot about this unbecoming aspect of my corporeal being, along with the degree to which I detest it. But I was brutally reminded a few days ago when rushing to the book launch of a friend.

I left work at a moment that unintentionally coincided with a brief, but torrential rain. Cussing my timing and freshly-drenched hair, I ducked into a Starbucks to dry off and freshen up.

I came out of the Starbucks into an utterly different climactic zone from the one I was in upon entering. The clouds had dispersed, the sun was shining and it’s veritably hot outside. Odd, I think. It didn’t take me that long to freshen up.

I have three blocks to walk to the bookstore where the launch is being held. I want to get there on time because I have to bow out early, so pick up my pace. I arrive only a few minutes after the event begins.

I see my friend, and another woman I’m friendly with, who also has a short piece in the book, a collection of essays titled I Feel Great about My Hands: And Other Unexpected Joys of Aging.

Before the formalities begin, I go up to my friend to congratulate her and have a short chat. It’s lovely to see her and we’re chatting away when I realize my forehead is completely covered in sweat, as is my upper lip and the back of my neck. My sweater is sticking to me.

As I mentioned, I don’t glow. I sweat. Therefore, the beads of perspiration from my forehead and upper lip are succumbing to the forces of gravity. They are traveling downward. I now have sweat in my eyes and my lips are wet, not moist, wet.

I’m aware that my friend’s too polite to say what she must be thinking. It has to be, “Wow. Linda, you’re really sweating. Your face is soaking wet (poor thing).” 

Instead, we carry on an enjoyable conversation and pretend nothing’s happening. For awhile.

I’m boiling, embarrassed and utterly uncomfortable. I can’t stand it anymore. I say excuse me, then reach into my purse in search of a handkerchief. I never leave home without one, for reasons such as this.

I take my red print Marc Jacob 1950’s cowboy handkerchief out (memo to self: buy white ones next time), and wipe –not pat – my forehead like a truck driver who just finished a long haul to New Orleans. I do the same to my upper lip, cheeks, then chin.

I’m now thinking my friend must be saying to herself, “Wow, you really needed that handkerchief, Linda. I’ve never seen anyone sweat like you.” But she doesn’t of course. And maybe, just maybe, she isn’t even aware of my “condition.”

It’s time for the editor of the book, Shari Graydon, to introduce the authors who will be reading short excerpts from pieces they have in the book.

I take a seat, continue to wipe my brow, and quickly down a cool glass of Chardonnay, still mildly embarrassed about my encounter of the sweaty kind.

Shari shares with us the genesis of the book she created, a humourous and positive response, by women of a certain age, to Nora Ephron’s lament about aging, I Feel Bad About My Neck.

Shari then talks about one of the book’s contributors who couldn’t be with us that evening. It’s one of my favourite Canadian humourists, Newfoundland’s proud daughter, Mary Walsh.

Mary’s been play-acting older woman for years in her comedy routines, or as she puts it, “I played an endless series of big, loud, opinionated old bags…” and now freely admits, “I’ve become one.”

Well, I’m glad she has, because in the book, Mary hits a home run on a subject near and dear to my heart. Mary tackled the subject of...body temperature.

Describing the physical state she now finds herself in, Mary says, “My volume- control button had drifted up on “deafen” there a few years ago, and my internal thermostat got permanently stuck on cremate.”

Oh my God, Mary. Bingo. Cremate! My internal thermostat’s stuck on it, for God’s sake. Why hadn’t anyone told me that sooner? That’s why I want to dive into a cool cave every summer and not come out until it’s time for the bears to crawl in.

While I live in a state of continual and embarrassing discomfort because of my thermostatic malfunction, Mary, of course, puts a positive spin to it. “I’m hot and loud now. More like a Caribbean carnival than an actual human being.”

Why can’t I be more like Mary? It’s good to be like a Caribbean carnival, no?

I will work hard to achieve the apparent resolve Mary has achieved. I have to. According to my doctors, there is no help for me, other than ­­– get this – Botox injections. Seems that the cosmetic treatment for wrinkles, otherwise known as a forehead freezer, also stops excessive sweating. I’m not going there.

Clearly, I’ll have to live with my sweat problem. I know, I know, it could be worse. But you non-sweat-ers have to try to empathize. Picture yourself in a room where everyone else looks cucumber cool, and  you, yes, only you, are actually wet. You can't even ask anyone, "Is it hot in here, or is it me?" because you already know the answer.

My condition makes me dread summer, and that’s not a good thing. As many of you who have read my previous blogs know, I already don't like winter. There's not much left.

So I’m going to really work at this Mary Walsh thing. The next time I’m in a conversation, and beads of sweet are dripping downward on my face, you’ll hear me saying something along these lines:

“You probably think I’m just a hot, unattractive, post-menopausal woman with sweat sliding down her face. Well you’re wrong. I’m a …hot and steamy Caribbean carnival.” Great, eh?

And while I’m working on my personality revamp, I recommend you read I Feel Great About My Hands, a charming, delightful book by forty-one women over fifty, reveling in the benefits of maturity. And that includes sweat. Sorta.

I Feel Great about My Hands, Douglas&McIntyre, $22.95

Great Mother’s Day gift!

Going Cold Turkey Tomorrow: Giving up bagels for Passover

I always loved bagels. New York bagels to be precise, dating back to my childhood when my dad took me grocery shopping for our family’s weekly bagels and lox Sunday brunch. Last stop on our rounds was always the New York Bagel Factory (in Detroit!) on the corner of 7 Mile Rd. and Schaeffer.

        

The NewYork Bagel Factory, a hole-in-the wall, barebones storefront, was called a factory instead of shop because of a little brick oven and boiling pots in the back. Called New York because bagels come in styles, and New York are boiled, dense and chewy. Not like Montreal’s slightly sweet or Toronto challah-textured.. Yecchh. Not worth mentioning.

        

You would never have seen a dundried tomato, blueberry, chocolate chip or basil pesto bagel in those days.  “I should be against the law,”  my father said in later years when they hit the market.  Coming from such a quiet, peaceful man, I was a little taken back when he added, “Whoever invented them should be shot.”

        

If there wasn’t a line-up outside the bagel factory when we got there, we’d go straight in, cross the creeky, cornmeal-dusted plank wood floors and walk four steps to the counter. Upon our entry, Moishe, the round, elderly, Yiddish-speaking owner would nod to me, then look at my dad and say “Nu? Charlie.” It wasn’t much, but enough to get a conversation going about family, even world events.

        

I would salivate standing there, the sweet yeasty smell in the store was heavenly, beyond heavenly if a fresh batch of hot bagels was coming out of the ovens. “

        

"Don’t even think about it,” my dad would say without even looking at me, knowing I was watching lustfully as the sweaty baker dumped dozens into the bins. "You know what your grandmother used to say…”

"Yea, Dad, I know. ‘Never eat a hot bagel straight from the oven. It will turn to cement in your stomach. You’ll get a terrible stomach ache.’”  

It was a little game we played. My dad knew I didn’t know my grandmother, so couldn’t really remember what she said. He just wanted to keep stories about her alive. I was glad he did. I liked hearing everything he could tell me about my grandparents. I never met either of my mother’s and my dad’s mother Bela died when I was three, followed by my grandfather Sam when I was five.

I have only one, vague memory of Bubbe Bela, It’s such a storybook scenario, though, I wonder if I made it up.

I’m standing in her living room. Six different bowls of candy in cut class dishes are spread on a table in front of me. My grandmother keeps telling me to take as many candies as I want. “Go, stuff your pockets, too. Just don't tell your mother.”

Moishe would stand behind the big glass bins filled with different types of bagels and specialty buns. My dad would place his order by pointing his index finger and, giving instructions as he moved from left to right along the row. Moishe shuffled slowly along on the other side, filling up big brown paper bags.

“Three bialy        

“One onion pletzl 

"Four poppyseed

“Three egg

“Four sesame. All crisp.

When my Dad stopped ordering, Moishe had the same response. He’d point to the bins my dad had skipped and say “Always the same Charlie? No cinnamon?  

“It’s chazerai,”  my father, the purist, would respond. The twinkle, ever in his eye, indicated there must be something wrong with Moishe for even asking. “Who needs cinnamon on a bagel?”

It was a statement, not a question. No one. They aren’t real bagels.

Moishe and I would laugh, my dad would pay, and as we turned to leave, Moishe would inevitably give me a wink. It was code,

When we came home, I’d bring the bag of bagels in from the car, and announce to my mother and sisters that while they were getting the lox, cream cheese, smoked fish, cheeses and cut-up tomatoes and cucumbers prepared for the dining room table, “I’ll put the bagels on a platter and bring them in.”

I knew that a delicious, chewy, moist and still warm cinnamon and sugar-studded bagel was waiting for me at the bottom of the bag, mny weekly gift from Moishe.

Go Ethnics Go!

My favourite ethnic meal is roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and creamed peas. It surprises friends when I tell them. That’s not what they think of as ethnic. Chipattis, egg rolls and perogies, are,

It appears that the term ethnic is relative. Basically, it means anyone other than the group you come from. And while my group was eating cabbage rolls, chopped liver, beet borscht and bagels and lox for Sunday brunch, the predominant culture in Canada, the one that doesn’t consider itself ethnic, was having a fry-up and kippers, instead.

The question of ‘ethnic’ has gotten Prime Minister Stephen Harper in trouble recently. It’s election time, and Stephen is courting the ethnic vote. Therein lies the problem. 

Who’s ethnic? And how do you tell? By the way they eat and dress, of course! 

The latter is what’s gotten the PM in particular trouble here in Toronto. With good reason. This video, "Eat It," a clever take off on Michael Jackson's "Beat It," will tell you why.

According to the 2006 census, more than 50% of Toronto's population (1,237,720) was born outside of Canada, up from 48 per cent in 1996.

I can understand Harper wanting all these votes. We have a lot of immigrants here. The problem is, everyone who votes has to be a Canadian citizen. They don’t see themselves as “ethnic.” Or at least not the way one of Stephen Harper’s staff members perceives ethnic when he sent the following email yesterday:

“We … are trying to create a photo-op about all the multicultural groups that support Ted Opitz our local Conservative candidate and the Prime Minister,” r

“The opportunity is to have up to 20 people in national folklore costumes which represent their ethnic backgrounds. These people will sit in front row behind the PM – great TV photo op (sic).”

“We are seeking representation from the Arab community. Do you have any cultural groups that would like to participate by having someone at the event in an ethnic costume? We are seeking one or two people from your community.”

Dumb move. Ironically, the invitation was received by an Arab organization recently defunded by the Harper Conservatives. The invitation might as well have said, “Sorry about that, but that was last month. We need you now. Would you mind playing a little dress-up for the occasion? You'll look kinda ethnic and the rest of your kind will see that you like me, okay?’

Gone are the days when ‘ethnics’ dress-up to make someone else look good. They’re more interested in having a political voice. Power would be good, too.

Cultural groups want to choose their own time and place for dressing up in native garb, playing balalaikas or bhangra. They do it because they want to, not because it’s going to win votes for a politician. Too condescending. And by the way, people wear clothes, not costumes. It ain’t Halloween.

So “Eat It” Stephen Harper.