In it, I am wearing a costume that is clearly racist and offensive.

This picture was taken from a Christmas Assembly at Lisgar Collegiate in Ottawa, Ontario, and I was performing a rap as an “urban Santa.” Although I was not in black face as some have asserted, my family and I had just returned from a vacation in Hawaii and I had a very uncharacteristic tan. I am deeply apologetic for that triggering tan, the privilege that implies, and for my blatant cultural appropriation.

It is also true that I wrote, “I HAVE ALWAYS HAD A CRAZY CRUSH ON YOU!! in Marie-Therese Vitzhum’s yearbook in 1983. I am deeply embarrassed by my insensitivity to my brothers and sisters who struggle with mental illness. After finishing in the bottom third of the standings in a fantasy hockey league two years ago, I, too, fell into a depression, so I need you to know you have an ally in Michael Murray, not an enemy.

I love you.
I hear you.
And I am listening.

These past behaviours of mine are not in keeping with who I am today or the values I have fought for throughout my career as Commissioner of the Dirty Pigeon Fantasy Hockey League. I want to offer my sincerest apology, and to state my absolute commitment to living up to the expectations the Dirty Pigeon Fantasy Hockey Community set for me when you elected me Commissioner. I understand why your faith in me has been shaken, and I recognize that it will take time and serious effort to heal the damage this conduct has caused.

I am ready to do that important work.

Humbled and grateful for this teachable moment.

Your fantasy hockey Commissioner,

Michael Murray

What stunned my class most about the book was the casual attitude the characters had toward slavery. I mean, how could they not know that slavery was an evil? Nothing could have been more clear to us, nothing. Slavery was pretty much the most evil thing we could think of, and it was mind-blowing to imagine that this wasn’t vividly reflected in the experience of our ancestors.

And so we figured that people back then must have been hateful and stupid monsters, willfully acting in their own best interests at the cost of others. And so we judged everybody in the book, imagining ourselves morally superior to the louts, trolls and insane people who populated the past.

But this didn’t make any sense.

There was absolutely no reason for me to think I had a more finely developed sense of morality than anybody who came before me. There must have been some decent people who participated in slavery and had no idea that what they were doing was wrong, no? They were simply living in the world into which they were born, and to them slavery, like the weather or landscape, was an unexamined fact of life rather than a conscious act of moral will.

This seemed clear to me. I was not unique. I was like everybody else, and that, of course, is a very scary thing to admit to oneself.

Technology has accelerated and amplified our culture in ways that are inconceivable.  Every year it seems that the world has changed more than in all the previous millennia stacked before it. It’s dislocating, and I often think of technology, in particular our online lives, as an emergent dimension we don’t yet understand or know how to interact with. Whenever we’re uncomfortable or bored with our physical lives, however briefly, a smart phone serves as a magic wand we can wave to take us to this other realm, and put in that context, none of us should be surprised to find discontent, even anger there.

Our desire for social justice has far outstripped our ability to deliver it, and in many ways I see ideological conflicts as dimensional clashes rather than moral ones. By the standards of today, so much of what we as a society did just ten years ago seems appalling, but as we judge it’s worth remembering that ten years ago we had no idea what we were doing was wrong or unfair. We were just operating within the framework of time and place. So how then to police this if every generation, indeed, every person, is going to be witlessly complicit in ghastly acts ?

Of course, revolution is not about justice, it’s about change.

And as the future and the past battle for supremacy in a ruined present, it seems that the only way it can end, the only way it has always ended, is like in a Shakespearean tragedy—everybody on stage dies, and then, the world purified and laid bare, is seized by those, now done with watching, who had been waiting in the wings.

Sadly, this state of affairs continued after she happened upon a garage sale ( http://michaelmurray.ca/garage-sale ) Rachelle and I were having, and then kind of exploded the other night on Twitter when I got involved in a debate about condos she was having with another Toronto writer. I interceded in the middle of the debate, and these are the tweets that passed between Atwood and I on that night:

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@margaretatwood: The un-rich have owned their houses for decades. Why should a development go right up to their lot lines and kill their beloved trees?

@michaelmurrayca: Have you seen an un-rich!?!? I hear they have teeth where ears should be and can only be killed by Dragonglass or gentrification!

@margaretatwood: Oh. It’s you.

@michaelmurrayca: I am an un-rich, you know.

@margaretatwood: Yes, I was able to deduce that from that little garage sale you had.

@michaelmurrayca: Made almost $80 at that sale.

@margaretatwood: Why, that must be more than you made on your book!

@michaelmurrayca: Unlike some authors who quickly sell-out to tv, I have some integrity. It’s not all about the money, Margaret, some of us are artists.

@margaretatwood: There is no hyphen in sellout.

@michaelmurrayca: I hear that they’re making The Handmaid’s Tale into a reality tv show.

Kind of like The Bachelor. You must be very proud.

@margaretatwood: Yes, as proud as your wife and son must be of you and your ability to provide for them through your “art.”

@michaelmurrayca: You remind me of Cersei Lannister.

@margaretatwood: You hate powerful women, do you?

@michaelmurray: Yes, very, very much.

@margaretatwood: Do you also disapprove of civic mindedness?

@michaelmurrayca: I am for whatever position you are against.

@margaretatwood: So you are in favour of killing trees, then?

@michaelmurrayca: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

@margaretatwood: So the fact that you’re totally uninformed about this condo development and the devastation it will bring to the local environment, that doesn’t prevent you from jumping in with an “opinion?”

@michaelmurrayca: I’d say it’s more commentary than opinion.

@margaretatwood: Tu tetras, homo parum de moron.

@michaelmurrayca: Oh, la-di-da! The grand dame speaks French!

@margaretatwood: Yes, I do, but the Tweet you are referring to happened to be latin. Like they speak in Mexico.

@michaelmurrayca: Were you called Margaret Fatwood in high school?

@margaretatwood: Oh my, I had forgotten about your biting wit.

@michaelmurrayca: In high school I was called The Enforcer.

@margaretatwood: It was ironic, I take it?

@michaelmurrayca: I was practically a god in high school, you have no idea!!

@margaretatwood: You miss those days, don’t you?

@margaretatwood: In spite of all the sport’s teams you never made, the low C’s you struggled to achieve and all the pretty girls who wouldn’t even glance at you, those were still the best years of your life, weren’t they?

@margareatatwood: Yes, I thought so.

Heidi now lives a life of glory with Rachelle’s parents about an hour north of Toronto. Today I have given the Blog over to her:

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Heidi so very happy and popular and good-looking.

Heidi in best shape of her life, too.

Heidi superstar.

Heidi have no idea why not on cover of Sport’s Illustrated big sex issue this month!

Heidi hot.
Make no sense.
Editor team so speciesist!
All very, very bad dogs!!
Heidi bite them in face if ever try to pet her.

Still, Heidi life so very, very, very good and when sleep come, it carry Heidi and Jones on same dream-river.

 
Dream #1

Heidi and Jones go running at night.

Full moon light in us.

Fast run.
Green run through wet meadow.
Wide run.
Above and behind the dark wind follows.
All night we give chase.

At end Heidi lick egg sandwich off Jones face.

 
Dream #2

Heidi and Jones not Heidi and Jones, but Eagle-Heidi and Eagle-Jones. Live in castle in mountains of France. Very nice castle. Bedroom in turrets. Like lofts. VERY expensive, but Eagle-Heidi and Eagle-Jones super rich. Can afford it no problem!

Fly so fast and high! See everything. Eagle-Heidi and Eagle-Jones terrible missiles! We protectors of freedom and liberty. Fly like beautiful rockets, destroying enemy drones with fierce talons. Boom! Drones explode into fire-light at our touch! Hah! Stupid drones!! Get one million dollars (US) for every dead drone. Eagle-Heidi better than Eagle-Jones at it. Eagle-Heidi kill 268 drones, Eagle-Jones 12.

Heidi always teaching Jones, even when Eagles.

 
Dream #3

Heidi and Jones at Dolly Parton concert.

Heidi fucking love Dolly Parton.

Get asked up on stage to sing Islands In The Stream.

Heidi love that song so much want to be buried in it.

Jones doesn’t know words and start to cry.

Heidi SO embarrassed she show Jones her teeth and then pee!

Dream #4

In dream Heidi and Jones partners in high school science class. Assignment to dissect frog, but Heidi get excited and eat frog before start!! Taste so good!! Not like chicken sushi as Heidi expect, but like hamburger! Weird but delicious hamburger without bun! Jones mad he didn’t get to stab frog and start to cry! Little baby throws temper tantrum and yells, “NO!”

Heidi no take shit.

Heidi disciplinarian.

German in Heidi.

Show him teeth and growl to let Jones know Heidi serious, and then Heidi see another frog and eat it, too. Heidi can’t stop herself, Heidi eat all frogs in class! And then Heidi get detention because Jones sucky tattletale.

 
Dream #5

Heidi and Jones on subway.

Two-legger accuse Jones of “Manspreading.” Take picture and says post on Internet to shame Jones!! Jones no understand and start to cry!! Heidi get so furious she bite two-legger throat! Perfect bite! And then subway change and traveling underwater! Glowing fish everywhere! Heidi wonder what glowing fish taste like, then notice Jones has lasagna on face and lick it off.

I was 13 years-old, hopelessly white and just starting high school. I wanted to be cool but didn’t have the foggiest notion how to go about it. Cool was an undiscovered, mythic country that existed off at some unknowable distance, and I was lost, so very, very lost.

Eventually, I learned that the best passage to this land was through music. At the time, while punk and new wave were exploding around me, Billy Joel was my God, and this was not cool.

I found out that the music I had been listening to was wretched kid’s stuff, as were the lame, middle of the road radio stations I pledged allegiance to. If I wanted to be cool, I had to listen to college radio, CKCU specifically.

Listening to this radio station felt subversive, like receiving secret transmissions from a dangerous and lawless place. Unlike the chipper and inauthentic DJ’s I had previously been listening to, the ones who used sound effects and clearly knew nothing about music, the college DJ’s seemed singularly interested in what they were playing, as if it was their holy mission to bring “good music” to you. It was, I think, my first exposure to what might be thought of as the alternative scene.

It was here where I first heard the voice of Nadine Gelineau. She was a DJ at CKCU, and for whatever reason she struck a chord with me. I loved her. I mean, I was in love with her.

Her voice, so knowledgable, confident and fun, suggested worlds I had never imagined. It was a voice that for a 13 year-old boy in Ottawa, was a path, a path to a world of music and cool and all that lay beyond, a path out of the childhood I had always inhabited and on toward something much grander. Her voice conjured the possibility of thousands of different lives.

She was a legend. Hosting radio shows, spinning discs at the counter-culture clubs, championing music and just generally being Ottawa’s single-combat hero of cool, she was the way we collectively wanted to be seen. She gave us all hope and pride, I think, and now she is gravely ill. I hope that she’s able to get through it and return to herself and the legions of people whom she loves and love her.

The thought of her passing is a kind of cataclysm. Ridiculously, it seems impossible, but time, it just slips away, quietly sliding away into a larger and larger pool now forming beneath and behind us. Who knew that pool would get so big and we would get so old? Who knew the present would so mercilessly raze our beloved past?

I was recently reminded that the last song she played at all the club sets she performed was Enjoy Yourself by The Specials.

At the time it struck me as a drunken party song, but now when I listen to it, there’s a sadness and inevitability to it. It was an appropriate song for Nadine to have played, I think. It’s a funny time, that last song of the night, bittersweet. I never wanted it to end, I wanted it to stretch out infinitely, with more and more people joining in, each one a light in the greater constellation of who we were, each one shining so brightly.

So, thank you Nadine, thank you.

( Photo courtesy of Julie Beun)

This year, in an effort to be a little more sensitive to those who might be upset by the images, Sports Illustrated hired me to write Trigger Warnings to precede each photograph:

Trigger Warning:

Viewing of the following image of totally inaccessible supermodel Tanya Mituyshin may trigger traumatic memories of the time you saw high school goddess Marie-Therese Vitzhum in a bikini at a pool party when you were in grade 10. You might recall how out of your league she was and how she seemed like she might have been from Europe, or some angel galaxy that was as far from Ottawa as anything could possible be. You might recall feeling bony, insufficient and pale, watching as she sat piggyback on the shoulders of the muscular Randy Rafter, her breasts pressing against the back of his head as she leaned forward laughing. This image of Tanya Mituyshin could trigger such memories, creating a constant, deeply haunting reminder that you never mustered the courage to speak to MT– as she was known to her friends– and how regardless of the status and success you might achieve, you will always feel like that overlooked and scared 14 year-old boy.

Trigger Warning:

Viewing of the following image of supermodel Hannah Davies may trigger traumatic memories for people who have had difficult relationships with fishing nets in their past. This photograph could spark a deeply repressed memory of the time your friend, as a “prank,” threw a fishing net over you down by the boathouse while attending a cottage party, and instead of fighting to escape from the net, you lay in a fetal position and quietly wept for your mother, certain that you were about to be murdered, as you had always had premonitions of death by fish net.

Trigger Warning:

Viewing the following image of supermodel Gigi Hadid may trigger feelings of profound resentment and homicidal rage in people with a history of despising life in a society where Gigi Hadid, a glittering, young celebrity, is considered an achievable model of feminine beauty. Recollections of unreasonable and cruel demands may flood over you as you navigate the aisles of Shopper’s Drug Mart, your mind flashing red to every cultural message that has ever helped make you feel that you were somehow just not enough. You’re just trying to get some shit done after a long, grinding day behind your desk at the Ministry of Transportation, and then there’s Gigi, smoulder-glowing out at you from the pages of a stupid magazine, and suddenly, before you know it, you’ve kicked the hell out of an entire display stand of kale-and-beet-infused shampoo and punched-out a pharmacist, Club Optima points be damned.

It’s been a crazy, inspiring and wildly educational time, and as parents, we’ve discovered things about one another that we never imagined might be true. For instance, I’ve learned that I am AMAZING with babies, and as this parenting stuff is such a breeze for me, I’ve decided to open a daycare.

The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare

Welcome to The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare! This cutting-edge centre is based on ancient principles and is dedicated to sculpting children aged two weeks to six years to become dominant Alpha leaders in the unpredictable dystopia of tomorrow. We believe that modern daycares are over-certified, and our philosophy is that both infants and the free market will always work things out on their own.

“Sinite illos esse , suus ‘iustus a sanguine vulnus.”

The SWMD is committed to providing a level-playing field for all our little warriors, with special favours or attention being granted to none! Our teachers (Rob L. and Donnie C.) are skilled mixed martial artists, have an unyielding love of strong, predatory children and educations that just cannot be taught in a class.

Need more?

Here’s what hockey superstar and political commentator Wayne Gretzky has to say:

“Hi, I’m Wayne Gretzky! During my hockey career I was known as the “Great One.” Let me tell you, when it comes to daycare facilities, The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare is the true Great One! It’s always a shot on goal!”

Wayne Gretzky is just one of our many celebrity supporters!

You should know that we develop our lesson plans based on ancient Spartan childrearing techniques, mixed with some modern, libertarian practices. We provide each one of our little Spartans with experiences that will discipline their young minds and bodies, turning their hearts to cold, unflinching steel. Games and competitions are a big part of our curriculum.

In short, we at The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare, make strength and discipline fun!

Still, not satisfied?

“Hi, I’m Colin Powell, American statesman and retired four-star general in the US Army. Mike’s Daycare doesn’t simply provide a safe and encouraging environment for your children, no, it teaches that the world is a dangerous and hostile place, and that the child must learn to kill or be killed. This is an invaluable life plan as we head into a future where anarchy and civil war will be unleashed upon a dying planet.”

We have tremendously competitive rates, and provide one meal* a day for each child who finishes amongst the top three in the daily assignments.

Give us a call, find out if your child is right for The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare!

*No dietary changes, regardless of allergies, religion, etc, are made to our meal plan as we believe in absolute, unflinching equality.

She was young and pretty, a student studying to become a dietician, and her youth, cast amidst the somewhat resigned and much older counterculture of porters, seemed to make everybody a little giddy. Her innocence and simple optimism was a narcotic, and all the men stood a little straighter and attempted to make charming remarks around her. She cheerfully pushed me about in my wheelchair as if it was some high school game and not life on the slippery slope, and it made me want to be outside, in the sun of some past, leaning back and resting my head against her and the limitless smell of her hair… but no, no– there is much work to do.

We pass so many people in the hospital corridors. The always smiling Happy Cancer Ladies, who’ve either discovered their bliss through illness or are frozen in panic, unable to move their focus from the positive for one second lest they shatter into a million pieces. Gratitude radiates from them, and they smile at me as if I’m a precocious child, making gentle, almost holy room for my slender passage. And then suddenly, I was part of a long procession of wheelchairs passing by—bald and pale cancer patients, a girl burned with acid from an honour attack and an elderly man with skin so thin you could almost see into his past. The Happy Cancer Ladies stand aside and beam, practically applauding, they’re so sincerely proud of us.

Men who wear brown coveralls run the elevators. All day they live in these boxes, these boxes that open and close like respiration. They sit there, flipping through the Toronto Sun and wondering what else the world might have to offer them, and when the new porter wheels me in, something happens. It’s like everybody has had three drinks and is now wearing their favourite shirt. Conversation pipes up, and everybody is talking and laughing and flirting, dispensing wisdom and jokes about the myriad complications of negotiating the underground tunnels.

“I was her mission, “ I say, “I am the treasure she has returned with.”

The young girl laughed because that is what she does, but the elevator man seemed intrigued, “You are a treasure?” “Yes,” I said mystically, “I can grant you a wish. You tell me what you want and I will make sure you get it.” I expected a joke, but I could see in his face that he would not let this happen. He looked at me, stating plainly, “I want my mother to be here with me.”

I put my hand on his forearm, ” You have to close your eyes and imagine her, thinking of the best, safest times you spent together, and through this you will summon her, and you will feel her touch upon your skin, her scent returning…”

It cast a little spell, this, and the girl made the sound of a small animal that wanted to be hugged, while the man stared off at a distant horizon. As I was being wheeled out, the elevator man wanted to tell me something, a message from a song by King Crimson that his language inhibited him from pronouncing, and as he leaned toward me trying to spell the title out, the doors closed, the potential of this information lingering between us for a moment, and then falling away.

In an effort to bolster awareness of this and to encourage it’s citizens to help in creating a “city within a forest,” the city has mapped out all of it’s 70,000 trees, given each one a unique ID number, and invited residents to write the tree of their choice, with the tree actually writing back.

Here are some of the letters that people have sent in to trees:

“You’ve got to stop leaving your tree garbage all over the goddamn place! Every day you’re dropping crap on my driveway and I’m sick of finding it on my car and having to clean it off all the time. Knock it off or I’m going to chop you the hell down, I mean it!”

“For the last seven years you’ve stood outside of my front window. Each day I sat at my desk working and you were always there, my constant companion, and over time you became a symbol of my little house. Whenever I was really looking forward to getting home, and then would see you from down the street, I’d just relax, knowing I was almost where I wanted to be.  You always had a calming effect on me, and after all these years living in Melbourne I feel like you’ve been my best friend. I’m moving to London now, and I think I’m going to miss you more than anyone.”

“You happen to be at a really convenient location, in a park right between the pub and my flat. I must have pissed on you a hundred times over the years. Did it bother you that I did that? I never thought so. I figured you understood, and I always liked that moment or relief, leaning against you, my forehead and arm resting against your trunk, just the sound of my piss being absorbed into the ground. It was a timeout, you know? Anyway, I just wanted to thank you and let you know that you’re a bloody great tree!”

“My name is Randy and I’m in grade three. I really like trees and think they are important. You offer shade, help to make air and let animals live in your branches for free. Can you talk to the animals? Also, can you talk to other trees, and like in Lord of the Rings, will you be able to one day rise up and help fight against terror with the rest of the world? Thank you for all you do for the planet! You’re a hero!”

“Back in 1996 I carved my girlfriend and my initials into your trunk. He name was Marie Bell and we were just graduating from high school. Things didn’t last very long, as we both went our separate ways after school and lost touch. Anyway, I recently moved back to town to help look after my mother, and now I pass by you nearly every day. You always remind me of young Marie Bell, and so after nearly two decades of barely ever thinking about her, I think about her everyday. I wonder if she ever thinks of me, or even remembers that night I carved that heart around our initials.”

At Sanagan’s Meat Locker the guy working the cash wore a baseball cap that said Jimmy’s Coffee. It had brownish, indeterminate stains and smudges on it, and somehow this made it look deadly cool. I told him I liked his hat, and he said, “You like all the meat stains on it, don’t you?” I nodded. “Yeah, whenever I’m in the back room I’m constantly getting banged about by all the hanging carcasses, it’s like getting whacked in the head all the time by those pugil sticks on American Gladiators!”

Later, I went to Mackenzie’s Pub on Bloor. The man sitting to my left had a shaved head and haunted eyes. He stared straight ahead, his right hand slowly, almost tenderly caressing the sleeve of his jacket. He never looked over at anyone or up at the bank of TV’s above the bar, but straight through the skyline of liquor bottles in front of him and into his fragmented image staring back at him from the mirror. He seemed intense, maybe even angry, as if immersed in a circumstance that was overwhelming and forced– Led Zepplin playing chaotically in the foreground, as if emanating from his head and not the sound system all around us.

When I got the bill from the bartender for $19.89, she exclaimed, “Good year!” I didn’t know what she meant and said, “Sorry?” “Oh, 1989, I was in high school then, it was a good year,” and then a small, embarrassed, maybe even somewhat melancholy laugh, before she turned to another task.