Two dismal things happen in September as far as I’m concerned. Summer ends…and the politicians come back to Ottawa to start a new session of what they are pleased to call democratic government. The end of summer is dismal only in the sense that it leans on your shoulder…tugs on your sleeve and whispers “winter” in your ear. First there is Autumn of course and Autumn is often heartbreakingly beautiful…the trees get all dressed up in brilliant colours and dance away in the wind ..The sky is a blue so crisp you could eat it like an apple. Autumn is good sleeping weather too, with those cold nights and early sunsets..Still September is a warning of dismal to come. In early September there is a fire sale all over this country on dark suits. Black ones, blue ones, snotty pin stripes cheap ones, expensive ones…well tailored and ill fitting, they all appear on the streets of the capitol like escaped clergy. Dark suits are the uniform of serious intent…There’s a hidden label in every one that says “we mean business”. And those who wear these uniforms, men and women…old and young…liberal or conservative…usually do (mean business). The trouble is that we too often don’t quite know what business they mean. The business of politics has become increasingly arcane over the years and as they constantly remind us…much too complicated for ordinary people to understand. This leads to the inevitable conclusion that upon election and sanctification into the sacred precincts of cabinet…ordinary people are transformed into extraordinary people. This is especially true of Prime Ministers, who, prior to becoming Prime Ministers, may have led the most ordinary of lives (they beg you to believe) only to become bloody brilliant, at last, as they stand in front of the Queen’s representative (this is Canada) and raise their right hand, saying “you bet, Liz” in both official languages. Is it any wonder the return of these humourless suits signals the threat of dismal?
I was trapped in traffic on my bicycle today. It was sunny and warm, a gorgeous day if I disregard an unfortunate half hour with an unfeeling doctor earlier. Suddenly the air was filled with the unmistakeable howl of Old Spice…and Aqua Velva…and there is nothing as democratic as those two aftershaves. I can remember my first few shaves and the shock of slapping a hand full of liquid fire onto my face…blowing my eyes open like a pair of broken barn doors…cauterizing every nick and cut instantly. My head snapped around in search of that mingled scent but I already knew it would be a horde of dark suits and fresh haircuts. Ruthless white shirts with tight collars cinching red necks glowing with summer tans, they stride purposefully across the intersection oblivious to the waiting traffic…They are on the nation’s business. Of course it could have been nothing more than fifty rubber necking conventioneers…but no…I don’t think so.
This country, like most of the so-called G-twenty countries is wrestling with the question of just what democracy is in the modern world. It probably wouldn’t be a serious question at all if we weren’t trying to sell some mystical version of it to developing countries while practising another variety altogether here at home. Thousands of people launch themselves into the streets every year or so to point out the more glaring inconsistencies of the rhetoric and reality and the suits bring out ever more sinister looking quasi military police dressed in more and more medieval costumes to reinforce the message that “reality rules” and rhetoric gets its ass kicked. Well…we elected them…or at least somebody did and now they’re extraordinary people with responsibilities that we simply cannot comprehend…but come September, even though I am seized with the passing of summer…I watch that horde of dark suits flowing up the street like black smoke…and I think it’s high time we made an effort to comprehend and hold those suits accountable for the brand of democracy we’re sliding into.
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