10 Photos That Changed Canada

Last Thursday The Beaver, Canada’s National History Magazine, launched its August/September issue at the National Archives in Ottawa, ON. This issue featured “10 Photos That Changed Canada” and I was lucky enough to be invited to the unveiling and to meet with the photographers.

The Beaver’s editor, Mark Reid, convened a panel of Canadian photography experts last year and asked them to come up with the top-10 list. As he told the group of people who attended Thursday evening, this panel tried to decide which photos captured a moment or feeling in Canadian history – perhaps, even, instances of a collective consciousness.

The photos they chose included the famous Canadian Pacific Railway’s Last Spike shot taken by Alexander J. Ross; a photo Ottawa-area photographer Rod MacIvor took of Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau walking with his son, Justin, splayed sideways over his hip; and Paul Henderson’s winning goal against the Soviet Union’s hockey team during the 1972 Winter Olympics.

As Mark said during his speech, he felt the panel had chosen iconic Canadian photos. Nevertheless, he recognized that not everyone would agree with the selection: defining Canada’s history through only 10 photos would be a considerable challenge and a controversial one at that. After all, there has never been “one” Canada that Canadians agree upon.

I have to admit I wasn’t familiar with most of the photos that made the top-ten. Having been born in 1982, I wasn’t around for Trudeau-mania, the Cold War, the October Crisis, or Terry Fox’s amazing Marathon of Hope. Also, while I’ve studied Canadian history for over six years, it’s different when you can pinpoint where you were and what you were doing at that exact moment. Nevertheless, some of the photos – and the stories accompanying the photos – did give me chills. After all, a good imagination and empathy can go a long way.

One photo really stood out for me. In 1990 Shaney Komulainen snapped a picture of a young Canadian soldier (Patrick Cloutier) almost nose-to-nose with Brad Laroque, a masked Aboriginal warrior, during the Oka Crisis near Montreal, Quebec. While I was only eight years old when the standoff occurred, I have repeatedly seen that photo while exploring the history of Aboriginal/Non-Aboriginal issues in Canada. I was also studying at McGill when the 10th anniversary took place and had a chance to meet Ellen Gabriel, one of the Kanesatake Mohawks’ chief spokespeople at the time.

Shaney was about my age when she took that amazing photo. As she told me when we were chatting, “I was only 27 years old. I was painting the walls in my new apartment when I heard what was happening.” She, along with many other journalists and photographers, quickly traveled to the area. As Shaney told Chris Webb, a Beaver writer, she “snuck through the woods” to the disputed area at the Sacred Pines and “was faced with the hostile showdown between soldiers and natives.”

One of the photo panelists, Michael Creagen, noted: “Sadly, this photo refelcts the deep divide this country still experiences with its aboriginal peoples. It’s simple in its visual construction, but symbolic beyond its immediate news moment.”

Aboriginals and non-Aboriginals in this country do still have a very complex relationship with each other and their shared histories. Photos like Shaney’s bear witness to how we continually navigate this minefield – sometimes more successfully than others.

Small change(s)

I started fundraising a couple of weeks ago for the CIBC Run for the Cure and thanks to my generous sponsors, I have already raised $125!

Vancouver hammer incident another random act of violence

A few hours ago I received a disturbing message from one of my friends in Vancouver. Just after 10:30pm at Majestic, a popular gay nightspot on Davie St., a man came in brandishing a hammer. He injured several unsuspecting staff members and patrons. As my friend said, “there was blood everywhere.” Luckily, my friend was out of harm’s way. As I told him, this was one instance I was glad he smoked: he was outside having a cig while this was going on. From online media reports, it sounds like everyone went to the hospital to get checked out, and most required stitches. They should all – physically at least – recover quite quickly.

When I first learned of this attack, I was sure it was going to be an instance of targeted gay bashing as Vancouver Pride wound down. Now that the police reports have been issued, however, it appears as if it is ‘simply’ another random act of violence. According to Vancouver Police, after the man ran out of Majestic, he continued his rampage, hitting two women on the head with the hammer on a patio. He was eventually subdued by the women’s male companion, who tackled him, sustaining some injuries in the process. Other passerby helped to hold the man while police cuffed him, and now it looks as though the assailant has suffered from mental illness for some time.

On the one hand, I am deeply relieved this violence was not directed specifically at Vancouver’s gay population. On the other, we have all been gripped by the grizzly Greyhound bus incident the past few days, and this is just one more bizarre act of random violence to reckon with.

Now I am worried about a different sort of bashing. It has come to light that the Greyhound attacker immigrated to Canada from China four years ago. Vancouver Police identifited this recent “hammer man” as “Middle Eastern” and I worry that the ignorant among us Canadians will use these incidents as fodder for their prejudiced views.

Let us remember, then, the random act of violence that a group of white Canadians in Owen Sound, Ontario recently committed against an innocent black man. What local police believe began as a case of mistaken identity escalated into a heinous, life-threatening beating that they are saying was likely fueled by racism.

“If I had a hammer, I’d hammer out a warning. I’d hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters all over this land.”

Going to the dogs

Last week I was staying at my parents’ place and, as usual, I scanned their overflowing bookshelves for something to read. A bright yellow hardcover caught my eye and I soon found myself immersed in a marvelous book: How Dogs Think by Stanley Coren (www.stanleycoren.com).

Dr. Coren, a professor of psychology at the University of British Columbia is, according to the book jacket, “a recognized expert on dog-human interaction.” What impressed me most about this book was Coren’s ability to boil down dog physiology and psychology in a way that I not only understood, but that often made me laugh out loud!

I have always loved dogs (in fact, maybe I subconsciously married a guy named Doug because of it!). We always had dogs in the house growing up: first there were Mickey and Mindy, who looked like shaggy Benjis; then Nika, an Akita/shepherd cross; Peggy, a Basset Hound/Black Lab cross; Dayna, a German Shepherd/Great Dane cross we had to put down last summer – I’m still not over it; and now my parents have a beautiful Canadian Inuit dog named Mikka who is most comfortable when it’s 25 below zero Celsius outside.

You can’t tell me there isn’t some resemblance between my husband and my parents’ dog!

These dogs were my friends, my protectors, and often my living dolls. Poor, patient Mindy often endured my clipping bows to her fur and putting bracelets around her ankles. I definitely felt a connection to these wonderful companions and often preferred them to human company – after all, they didn’t care if your hair was washed, you flunked an exam, or said anything interesting!

Now that Doug and I are planning the move to Wyoming we’ve started talking about getting a dog. It will have to be what we’ve come to call a ‘starter dog’ (i.e. not more than 60 lbs and can fit in the back of the Mini Cooper). It will definitely be a pound puppy and we’re hoping to find something black, or at least dark-haired so that we can coordinate its shedding with Guinness-the-cat (who I’m sure will absolutely LOVE having a puppy around).

In the event that it’s not feasible to get a dog in Wyoming, I fully intend to march over to one of the local shelters and offer my services as a volunteer, dog walker, etc. I figure, not only is it a great way to meet people, and get some exercise, but I now have a whole bunch of Dr. Coren’s ideas to try and help socialize the next generations of pups!

Halfway to 5k!

Tomorrow I start into Week 6 of my 12-week walk to run program. By October 5th, I’ll be able to run 5km for the CIBC Run for the Cure. When I first began the program I was only jogging a total of 3 minutes. Now I’m up to 16 min. By Week 12 I’ll be able to run for 40 min!

I am so happy that I chose to start out slowly and do interval training rather than trying to run until I collapsed. This would, of course, have left me totally demoralized, sitting on the ground rocking with my arms around my new shin splints. Instead, I’m letting my body acclimatize slowly and, surprisingly, I’m not only doing well but enjoying the process!

I always believed growing up that I just wasn’t a runner. I could, however, manage short bursts of speed and I decided I was the human equivalent of a polar bear. My parents gave me those wildlife fact files and each month a package would arrive containing little files on different animal species. One day, I received the polar bear file and was pleased to discover that I wasn’t the only animal in the kingdom that couldn’t run long distances. In fact, I was in the company of one of the world’s largest and most fearsome predators.

I wasn’t the most athletic child and I have painful memories of many “participation” badges from those standardized fitness tests. Unlike my skinny, long-limbed classmates who bounded across the finish line like gazelles, there were no golds, silvers, or bronzes for me. And, living in the Ottawa area, I wasn’t likely to encounter a seal I could put my polar-bear moves on. There was no justice in the world.

Now I realize that running, like any sport or activity, takes a bit of training to be done properly. I would hope that a gym teacher wouldn’t throw a kid in the water who didn’t know how to swim (although I’m sure it would be tempting to chuck one of the little brats in sometimes) or send him down a ski slope without lessons! Why, then, did they take someone like me – who didn’t play any sports – and force me to run without any training?

Getting over those deeply-ingrained childhood experiences is pretty major. It gets me to thinking: if all those years I thought I couldn’t run and it turns out I can, what other untapped potential do I have?

I will ponder that question while I go find myself a gold badge!