The much anticipated first presidential debate presented a pleasant surprise for Romney followers and a bitter disappointment for the Obama camp. Scores of Obama idealists rushed to berate their own creature, an ambitious politician coveting the highest political office in the land, without the minimum of qualifications. No presidential candidate had been vetted less than Obama leading to his nomination in 2008. His promoters in the media, who now critique Romney for not providing "details" about his plan for the next presidential term, were happy with the emptiest of slogans then. And ,of course, the speeches of the most gifted orator of modern times received accolades galore.
The debate on October 2 changed everything. Obama's adulators now suddenly discovered scores of problems with their appointed hero. All that was missing from their "investigation" of the then presidential candidate is now becoming painfully apparent. Obama is no gifted orator, in fact, which has been plain from the beginning, without a prepared text, read from a teleprompter, he is just ,at best, ordinary. If he is not in the mood, or the subject matter is not to his liking, embarrassingly sloppy and dragging on his delivery. As far as substance was concerned, Obama offered far less details running for office than any of his competitors, yet the MSM was satisfied with his looks and not being Bush, whom they hated.
The supporting media was either stunned, or at least "expressed puzzlement " (e.g. Dana Millbank, WP) after this last debate. How could Obama do so poorly?
Neither his delivery nor his substance met the approval of his royal followers. He was not prepared, but aloof, detached, uncomfortable, angry, distracted, peevish. Scores of explanations followed the next day which must have been a day of hand wringing and anguish for the MSM. Obama just hadn't practiced enough, held too few confrontational discussions, avoided hard questions and situations, preferring the soft media like The View. On and on ad nausea.
Yet, the explanation for his "performance" has been there all along since his meteoric rise in the last few years.
The man has been created, molded, desired by the Utopian left and its subservient media. He had just so fitted the image, but not the substance, of a gifted, compassionate, youngish, good and clean-cut man with an obvious mission in life to bring healing and cure for a guilty nation. Guilty of past injustices, of painful wars, of real and imagined disadvantages of minorities, of international slights, all that can be surely righted by the right man, at the right time.
Thus, Obama was identified and he happily accepted, in fact actively sought, the role of Healer of Nation, never mind that no president before him had less qualifications, emptiest resume than Barack Obama.
Now the reckoning, in just one night, for the willfully blind and guiltily sloppy MSM.
Saturday, 6 October 2012
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Ch.15 St.Michael's College, University of Toronto, 1959
ST.MICHAEL’S COLLEGE.
THE FIRST YEAR, UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
1959.
The poor prospects of life in Hungary in the fifties had concerned both ambitious students and their parents. Continuing studies after high school depended not only on exam results; on the contrary, especially not on those but on the so called “class origins” of the aspirant. It was critically important what kind of family background, from what “class” did the student come from. The reigning communist government decided who could make it to the universities, colleges. They were trying to educate those who were politically acceptable, so that their future would be assured. While in the West, academic achievements and financial means determined one’s continued education, continuing on to higher education never seemed like a life or death struggle as in the East. The young refugees of 1956 believed exactly this in order to lay the foundation of their new lives. The time spent waiting for admission in refugee camps, the time needed to learn the languages of their adopted countries stole years from their lives.
As back home, the freshmen in Canada were excited starting their academic studies. The seniors, according to tradition, were busy with the initiation rites. The various sport competitions were under way, particularly among the rival schools, as everywhere in the world.
After finding his course schedules, Peter had to find the various lecture halls, spread out in a wide area of the university. Getting to and from lecture halls in the 10 minute breaks they had between lectures was not much, so he had to choose course with an eye on schedule conflicts , as well as being interested in the topics. Appropriate text books for the chosen course were available in the university book store, at fairly steep prices when comparing these to the salary of a hospital orderly. There must have been cheaper ways of finding text books, but the excitement, a definite feeling of elation, and a good degree of anxiety about the immediate future deprived him of getting the best information. His English was still hesitant and full of errors, and he knew it. And there were so many new expressions, concepts that the new students had to grapple with. Anything that had to do with schooling was virtually a new concept. From the grading system to the special student “lingo”, there was little that he understood at first. He took time to learn the system of higher education, and a system in another continent, exercised in a strange language, until he had found the resources that could help with his studies.
Both the anxiety and the elation he felt of just being there, had its reasons. A manual laborer, one arriving in just over 2 years before, who hardly speaks and reads the language of the land, who from one drab and unassuming day to the next intellectually demanding one, in spite of every difficulty felt happy and satisfied. These momentary joys were, however, short lived, as soon as he had rationally looked at his prospects. He felt as if he were an impostor as he was contemplating one of the other course offered in front of the long wall listing the course, schedules, names of lecturers and requirements for each, having great doubts about his chances for some of those courses. He had absolutely zero Canadian high school background, never set foot in any of those schools.
The students milling about him were at the height of their excitement as they were selecting one or another of the numerous English literature courses, all promising rewarding learning experience, and most requiring prerequisite studies. In their cases, there could not be any question about their readiness for advanced English literature, indeed 80 % would choose one or two of the several offered this leading to an Arts degree. But how could Peter or somebody in his shoes with similar disadvantage dream about advanced studies of Shakespeare or Chaucer?
Fortunately, all English literature courses were “strongly” recommended and not compulsory. But the other course groups caused just as big of a dilemma. One foreign language course was compulsory for all Arts students, and this being officially a bilingual country it was rather easy for the English speakers, they chose French , and it is assumed, those living in French Canada, they chose English, it they were smart.
But what could a foreign student choose, who had not learned, ever a formal course in either language? Besides, at the University of Toronto, students could not choose English as a “foreign” language, it being the native tongue.
So English was not being thought as a language, were it but true! And taking French, as most chose in Toronto, required years of high school French, thus unavailable for Peter.
Once more he had checked through the language courses offered and the prerequisites and felt that he would have problems here, when his eyes caught the most improbable item he would have ever imagined among the languages listed!
In 1959, at the University of Toronto, first year students could choose to learn, from scratch, Russian language and literature!
Nearly 3 years after the 1956 Revolution and Freedom Fight in Hungary, in spite of the accumulated hatred and contempt against the Soviet dictatorship, and the much hated compulsory Russian language in all schools and all levels of learning, now had to be accepted, even cherished in order to reach his goal and graduate from this university! It was not easy to befriend the thought of voluntarily learning Russian,again and really learning it, not like back home when most everybody out of sheer hate had sabotaged this task at every step. Now Peter, through free choice, (how on earth will he explain to the folks back in Hungary?) had to accept Russian, as an everyday preoccupation, along with the other “foreign” language, English. This very thought had caused the immigrant days of grief in addition to the many new concepts and changes in his life those days.
Never could he have imagined that after escaping to the West, from the Soviet imposed totalitarian regime with its obligatory Russian language rammed down the throat of all students, that he would once again cultivate Russian and especially doing it with diligence and earnestness! But there was a good side to this. The language was being offered for total beginners, which meant that Peter who had been exposed to it for many years, never mind that his level of knowledge was fairly low, was still familiar with the basics, including the totally different Cyrillic alphabet. That meant one less subject that he had to worry about.
Psychology, economics and political science, these were, curiously separate in a “capitalist” country, philosophy, zoology and mathematics made up his course palette, in addition to Russian. He found out only a little later that one of those courses had to be his “major”. So logic suggested making that Russian, to which then Russian and Slavic literature was added for good measure. This latter was, fortunately, lectured in English, with most of the works being read in translation, English. He had welcomed, actually, classical Russian literature, as many of those great writers were among his favorites, and happily such modern greats as Pasternak, Babel, Solzenitsen and others were also listed in his course outline. He was eagerly looking forward to the promised discussions on the post 1917 Bolshevik revolution’s effort to popularize “socialist realism” in literature , as an essential tool to achieve socialist goals. A dictate, indeed, which was imposed on any creativity by force. The frank and open discussions of these trends in a free society promised to be a real treat to someone coming from the other side of the political divide.
The weight of the humanities courses he chose to study, beside Russian, threatened mostly his faulty and weak language capability. This became evident right on the first day when he took home the textbook of political science, 1 A.
The textbook for the study of the Canadian government, with its rich historical development in Canada’s not quite 100 years of existence, spread over several hundred pages. Its heavy legalistic text and seldom used everyday expressions, made it difficult reading. Forever remained in his memory that afternoon, when on his day off from the hospital, he had to write a précis for the next day on this first chapter of that book, spread over 17 pages. With his English-Hungarian dictionary, it took him more than one hour to translate and understand the first page!
And so it went on for the next several pages. From all this effort, he had to summarize the essence of the chapter in a written assignment of not more than 2 pages!
He remembered, as dawn was slowly breaking in the early September morning and falling asleep, that after a few hours of sleep he would start again, the work which had really amounted to no more than a translation assignment, given to a dilettante.
Practically all his courses gave him similar grief, understanding, retaining and showing proof of accomplishment, as was demanded. In spite of the everyday language frustrations he felt encouraged by the progress he was making, that within short he would be speaking and writing on the level of university students.
However, the 40 hour night shift at the hospital, from midnight to 8 am, took away precious time from studying or from resting. The nurses working on the ward had been watching him with great empathy, when the young orderly reported for duty for the graveyard shift, loaded with books. In general, the nights were not very busy, although all staff had certain routine work every night. At times he could study for hours, or if he was particularly well liked by one or another nurse they would even let him sleep some on one empty stretchers on wheels. In these instances he could, after a warm shower in the hospital, turn into a regular university student and appear in classes in reasonable shape on the following morning.
But there were chaotic nights also at the hospital when several crisis situations could develop with one or more patients at the same time, when every doctor, nurse and orderly on duty were rushing from room to room, when neither studying nor sleeping was possible the whole night. While on mornings like these he was capable getting ready physically and getting to classes, but often he had slept through lectures with half open eyes, when he would not understood the lecture even if had it been presented in his native tongue, let alone in English.
It had occurred to him once or twice that his fellow students may be even jealous of him thinking that he perhaps had a wild night when he was caught dozing in the classroom. The fact was he never once discussed with anyone in the university environment, student or teacher, that he lived a double life, working at night and trying to study during the day, never discussed his private life. He could not explain it then and it is till mystery today, whether it was a sense of shame or a notion of pride the reason why he had never spoken of his private life in school. In fact, there were very few students whom he may have befriended, and occasional words with these were for school work almost exclusively. Perhaps his heavy accent and the perceived stigma of an immigrant, or the loss of precious time that would have been sacrificed, it is difficult to say which held him back from any socializing. The fact remained that in this first year at U of T he was persona incognito. He was seen in the libraries or the student cafeterias to the tune of a head-nod, but friendship and mainly friendship of girls was missing in his life.
As the neighbor to the South, Canada, too, became the land of immigrants. However, the arrival of the masses went on through hundreds of years, so there were always the early arrivals, even first, second and third generations of these immigrants, and their successors. There was a definite distinction between early and new comers, especially if they opened their mouths, and declared when they may have arrived in the “new” country. In addition to the “arrival” time, there were other sociological differences between the English speakers in the English speaking provinces, or the French speakers in the French speaking province, and the “other” tongued immigrants. While the English, Irish or Scott immigrants, even with little schooling got fairly good jobs on account of their language skills, a well educated non-Anglo European professor could go to clean houses in his first years.
However, the “other” language immigrants had usually less schooling , coming from the poorest countries – or the most prosecuted- in Europe and emigrated for reasons of survival. This group of immigrants was always the bigger, so anyone with a heavy accent was considered to be less educated, cultured. This was that certain stigma that every non English speaking immigrant was confronting every day.
The university, college years, in every society, played a great role in the lives of students as they developed into adults. While they are studying their chosen profession, they are spending their best 4 or 5 years in each other’s friendly company. They usually had opportunities to develop in other fields than the chosen professions, in the fields of culture, arts and many sports. Those who had to earn their living while studying had little time left for these rewarding and exceptional opportunities. So Peter was very limited outside his daily hospital routine and language handicap to engage in most of these enriching activities.
Right away, in the first days of the school year, the somewhat older student had caused a small stir as he appeared in jacket and tie. Nobody had any doubt that he was a foreigner in 1959, when there were few foreigners and minority students at U of T. The majority of the students were of white, Anglo-Saxon background, or white immigrants’ children born in Canada. The first years Arts students had formed massive classes. For example the economics class had more than 200 students, and was held in the biggest lecture hall of the university. Asking questions, clarifications during lecture was next to impossible. The lecturers communicated via postings on the walls in the corridor. This was education in its most impersonal way. Anyone could come, or come late, or not at all, attendance lists were not kept. Because of its impersonal, mechanical style this had become Peter’s most neglected, least interesting subject. He had mostly nodded off during the lectures that started at 9 am. The presented material seemed dry and boring.
His most successful course became the one that was forced on him and everyone else in the old country, the one that had to be also chosen due to the “foreign” language requirement, Russian language and literature. There were 10 or 12 lecturers on the newly formed Faculty of Slavic Studies; mostly Polish and Ukrainian post war immigrants to Canada. There was not one ethnic Russian speaker among them. Almost all were seeking historical authenticity and understanding vis a vis the Russian language and the political reality of the Soviet Union. So it happened, that Peter’s Russian teacher was an Englishman, graduating from Oxford, who for a mysterious reason had fallen in love with the language and got a job in this Canadian university. His real public school education and particularly his superior British accent did not disturb him at all in developing an excellent grasp of classical Russian. He thought it well, too. But the most favored of all these teachers was the lady professor from Poland who was a graduate of the famous, pre war Krakow University and now was teaching Russian literature.
Accordingly, all the lecturers on the Faculty spoke with some kind of an accent, which felt so comforting to self-conscious Peter. At least here he did not have to be embarrassed because of his linguistic shortcomings. His fellow students on this course were all Canadian born, but mostly from Ukrainian, Polish, Slovak immigrants so they have grown up with accented English in their houses. Their parents’ tongues were close to Russian, were brought up partially in these languages, but they did not know the Cyrillic ABC, so they had to start with the basics. There were practically no students with a Russian background in the fifties in Canada.
Peter had a great advantage with the language, however inadequate, that was forced on him in Hungary, but still knew more than the basics. While the other students were learning reading and writing in Russian, he could be spending time with other courses. They were learning proficiency in the Russian; Peter was trying to learn English so that he could understand the philosophy, psychology and the other subjects.
The first year students taking Russian were no more than 14 of the 40,000. He had managed to get closer to some of these in the first few months, but they also knew little about the mysterious Hungarian quickly disappearing after lectures. He was always absent from the frequent weekend dances, concerts and guest performances, and nobody missed him.
They had most probably believed that he was not interested, and perhaps felt above these events, that he was a snob.
Within a few weeks there was already some degree of accounting for the learning material presented in all courses. Other than the Russian language material which was going well, the literature part afforded opportunities to excel in class, even if some of his written material had plenty of errors. The lady professor was particularly accommodating with regard to spelling mistakes in his assignments. During her lectures she had often initiated discussions in class by calling on Peter first for a point of view or comment that set the stage for a debate with the others.
Probably that was the only area in his studies where he could claim some degree of competence compared to his fellow students at the university in 1959. This knowledge, literary background and political maturity that would have prompted the professor to call Peter into her office one day, acknowledging his contributions in class and encouraging his work because she thought he had signs of talent and ability in the field of Russian-Soviet literature. This good work could further be helped , eventually, with a Rhodes scholarship, and if Peter may have such ambitions she could find support for this in the Department of Slavic Sudies.
The first year student was in seventh heaven for this early sign of encouragement. How strange is the way God works, he begins to study Russian reluctantly and out of sheer necessity and a gleam of hope for his future flashes before him! This was so welcome, yet he knew that he will have to excel in all the other courses as well. Indeed, there were ominous warnings from the lecturers of the other subjects. One of his early précis in political science was signed with this cautioning: “I will let this go through now, but your English will simply have to improve if you want to pass this course by year’s end…”These kinds of remarks did not help at all for the student struggling with work, sleeplessness and language frustrations daily. On the contrary, they had embittered him. Then there was the impatient lecturer who had returned one of his papers because “he could not read his funny handwriting.” It was a fact that those in grade one in 1944, amid the worst part of the war, had received a haphazard and inadequate first year of reading and writing instructions, with all the daily changes in routine, teachers and aerial alerts. Their teachers may have changed weekly, and so did the methods of teaching to write. Peter’s handwriting belonged to the worst in class, and he recognized early this liability. He was envious of some of his classmates who had handed in carefully prepared, even typed documents as their assignments, fetching of course much better grades.
It was interesting how much impression the course in philosophy had on the new student. He had little knowledge of the scientific study of wisdom before, and was eager to know all that Professor Schonleber had to teach them. He read and tried to understand most of what the prescribed books had to say. He noted the Aristotelian thesis that one must philosophize, and if someone states that this is not necessary, than that has to be philosophized, that is discussed, so in any case philosophy is essential. Once so understood, then the Descartian notion that cogito ergo sum was more comprehensible.
This new, discovering phase of Peter’s life, his first steps in the field of human inquiry and study seemed noble and uplifting compared to the near past and the bleak presence of his present daily life. Every nuance of his body desired new knowledge, authors and their work. The library of his college with its thousands of volumes, the small writing-reading desks, the winding labyrinths in the stacks which provided all necessary conditions for reading, contemplative study, were happily discovered. How happy he was here! How much more time he would have liked to spend here, than was his. He could forget here the frustrations of the past, the disappointments. He was informing his family back home about this far away university, its structure, culture and the possibilities in the far future…that was surely to come his way. Who knows, he could even become a teacher of Russian someday, although all this seemed pretty remote just then, a few weeks into the first half of his first year
THE FIRST YEAR, UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
1959.
The poor prospects of life in Hungary in the fifties had concerned both ambitious students and their parents. Continuing studies after high school depended not only on exam results; on the contrary, especially not on those but on the so called “class origins” of the aspirant. It was critically important what kind of family background, from what “class” did the student come from. The reigning communist government decided who could make it to the universities, colleges. They were trying to educate those who were politically acceptable, so that their future would be assured. While in the West, academic achievements and financial means determined one’s continued education, continuing on to higher education never seemed like a life or death struggle as in the East. The young refugees of 1956 believed exactly this in order to lay the foundation of their new lives. The time spent waiting for admission in refugee camps, the time needed to learn the languages of their adopted countries stole years from their lives.
As back home, the freshmen in Canada were excited starting their academic studies. The seniors, according to tradition, were busy with the initiation rites. The various sport competitions were under way, particularly among the rival schools, as everywhere in the world.
After finding his course schedules, Peter had to find the various lecture halls, spread out in a wide area of the university. Getting to and from lecture halls in the 10 minute breaks they had between lectures was not much, so he had to choose course with an eye on schedule conflicts , as well as being interested in the topics. Appropriate text books for the chosen course were available in the university book store, at fairly steep prices when comparing these to the salary of a hospital orderly. There must have been cheaper ways of finding text books, but the excitement, a definite feeling of elation, and a good degree of anxiety about the immediate future deprived him of getting the best information. His English was still hesitant and full of errors, and he knew it. And there were so many new expressions, concepts that the new students had to grapple with. Anything that had to do with schooling was virtually a new concept. From the grading system to the special student “lingo”, there was little that he understood at first. He took time to learn the system of higher education, and a system in another continent, exercised in a strange language, until he had found the resources that could help with his studies.
Both the anxiety and the elation he felt of just being there, had its reasons. A manual laborer, one arriving in just over 2 years before, who hardly speaks and reads the language of the land, who from one drab and unassuming day to the next intellectually demanding one, in spite of every difficulty felt happy and satisfied. These momentary joys were, however, short lived, as soon as he had rationally looked at his prospects. He felt as if he were an impostor as he was contemplating one of the other course offered in front of the long wall listing the course, schedules, names of lecturers and requirements for each, having great doubts about his chances for some of those courses. He had absolutely zero Canadian high school background, never set foot in any of those schools.
The students milling about him were at the height of their excitement as they were selecting one or another of the numerous English literature courses, all promising rewarding learning experience, and most requiring prerequisite studies. In their cases, there could not be any question about their readiness for advanced English literature, indeed 80 % would choose one or two of the several offered this leading to an Arts degree. But how could Peter or somebody in his shoes with similar disadvantage dream about advanced studies of Shakespeare or Chaucer?
Fortunately, all English literature courses were “strongly” recommended and not compulsory. But the other course groups caused just as big of a dilemma. One foreign language course was compulsory for all Arts students, and this being officially a bilingual country it was rather easy for the English speakers, they chose French , and it is assumed, those living in French Canada, they chose English, it they were smart.
But what could a foreign student choose, who had not learned, ever a formal course in either language? Besides, at the University of Toronto, students could not choose English as a “foreign” language, it being the native tongue.
So English was not being thought as a language, were it but true! And taking French, as most chose in Toronto, required years of high school French, thus unavailable for Peter.
Once more he had checked through the language courses offered and the prerequisites and felt that he would have problems here, when his eyes caught the most improbable item he would have ever imagined among the languages listed!
In 1959, at the University of Toronto, first year students could choose to learn, from scratch, Russian language and literature!
Nearly 3 years after the 1956 Revolution and Freedom Fight in Hungary, in spite of the accumulated hatred and contempt against the Soviet dictatorship, and the much hated compulsory Russian language in all schools and all levels of learning, now had to be accepted, even cherished in order to reach his goal and graduate from this university! It was not easy to befriend the thought of voluntarily learning Russian,again and really learning it, not like back home when most everybody out of sheer hate had sabotaged this task at every step. Now Peter, through free choice, (how on earth will he explain to the folks back in Hungary?) had to accept Russian, as an everyday preoccupation, along with the other “foreign” language, English. This very thought had caused the immigrant days of grief in addition to the many new concepts and changes in his life those days.
Never could he have imagined that after escaping to the West, from the Soviet imposed totalitarian regime with its obligatory Russian language rammed down the throat of all students, that he would once again cultivate Russian and especially doing it with diligence and earnestness! But there was a good side to this. The language was being offered for total beginners, which meant that Peter who had been exposed to it for many years, never mind that his level of knowledge was fairly low, was still familiar with the basics, including the totally different Cyrillic alphabet. That meant one less subject that he had to worry about.
Psychology, economics and political science, these were, curiously separate in a “capitalist” country, philosophy, zoology and mathematics made up his course palette, in addition to Russian. He found out only a little later that one of those courses had to be his “major”. So logic suggested making that Russian, to which then Russian and Slavic literature was added for good measure. This latter was, fortunately, lectured in English, with most of the works being read in translation, English. He had welcomed, actually, classical Russian literature, as many of those great writers were among his favorites, and happily such modern greats as Pasternak, Babel, Solzenitsen and others were also listed in his course outline. He was eagerly looking forward to the promised discussions on the post 1917 Bolshevik revolution’s effort to popularize “socialist realism” in literature , as an essential tool to achieve socialist goals. A dictate, indeed, which was imposed on any creativity by force. The frank and open discussions of these trends in a free society promised to be a real treat to someone coming from the other side of the political divide.
The weight of the humanities courses he chose to study, beside Russian, threatened mostly his faulty and weak language capability. This became evident right on the first day when he took home the textbook of political science, 1 A.
The textbook for the study of the Canadian government, with its rich historical development in Canada’s not quite 100 years of existence, spread over several hundred pages. Its heavy legalistic text and seldom used everyday expressions, made it difficult reading. Forever remained in his memory that afternoon, when on his day off from the hospital, he had to write a précis for the next day on this first chapter of that book, spread over 17 pages. With his English-Hungarian dictionary, it took him more than one hour to translate and understand the first page!
And so it went on for the next several pages. From all this effort, he had to summarize the essence of the chapter in a written assignment of not more than 2 pages!
He remembered, as dawn was slowly breaking in the early September morning and falling asleep, that after a few hours of sleep he would start again, the work which had really amounted to no more than a translation assignment, given to a dilettante.
Practically all his courses gave him similar grief, understanding, retaining and showing proof of accomplishment, as was demanded. In spite of the everyday language frustrations he felt encouraged by the progress he was making, that within short he would be speaking and writing on the level of university students.
However, the 40 hour night shift at the hospital, from midnight to 8 am, took away precious time from studying or from resting. The nurses working on the ward had been watching him with great empathy, when the young orderly reported for duty for the graveyard shift, loaded with books. In general, the nights were not very busy, although all staff had certain routine work every night. At times he could study for hours, or if he was particularly well liked by one or another nurse they would even let him sleep some on one empty stretchers on wheels. In these instances he could, after a warm shower in the hospital, turn into a regular university student and appear in classes in reasonable shape on the following morning.
But there were chaotic nights also at the hospital when several crisis situations could develop with one or more patients at the same time, when every doctor, nurse and orderly on duty were rushing from room to room, when neither studying nor sleeping was possible the whole night. While on mornings like these he was capable getting ready physically and getting to classes, but often he had slept through lectures with half open eyes, when he would not understood the lecture even if had it been presented in his native tongue, let alone in English.
It had occurred to him once or twice that his fellow students may be even jealous of him thinking that he perhaps had a wild night when he was caught dozing in the classroom. The fact was he never once discussed with anyone in the university environment, student or teacher, that he lived a double life, working at night and trying to study during the day, never discussed his private life. He could not explain it then and it is till mystery today, whether it was a sense of shame or a notion of pride the reason why he had never spoken of his private life in school. In fact, there were very few students whom he may have befriended, and occasional words with these were for school work almost exclusively. Perhaps his heavy accent and the perceived stigma of an immigrant, or the loss of precious time that would have been sacrificed, it is difficult to say which held him back from any socializing. The fact remained that in this first year at U of T he was persona incognito. He was seen in the libraries or the student cafeterias to the tune of a head-nod, but friendship and mainly friendship of girls was missing in his life.
As the neighbor to the South, Canada, too, became the land of immigrants. However, the arrival of the masses went on through hundreds of years, so there were always the early arrivals, even first, second and third generations of these immigrants, and their successors. There was a definite distinction between early and new comers, especially if they opened their mouths, and declared when they may have arrived in the “new” country. In addition to the “arrival” time, there were other sociological differences between the English speakers in the English speaking provinces, or the French speakers in the French speaking province, and the “other” tongued immigrants. While the English, Irish or Scott immigrants, even with little schooling got fairly good jobs on account of their language skills, a well educated non-Anglo European professor could go to clean houses in his first years.
However, the “other” language immigrants had usually less schooling , coming from the poorest countries – or the most prosecuted- in Europe and emigrated for reasons of survival. This group of immigrants was always the bigger, so anyone with a heavy accent was considered to be less educated, cultured. This was that certain stigma that every non English speaking immigrant was confronting every day.
The university, college years, in every society, played a great role in the lives of students as they developed into adults. While they are studying their chosen profession, they are spending their best 4 or 5 years in each other’s friendly company. They usually had opportunities to develop in other fields than the chosen professions, in the fields of culture, arts and many sports. Those who had to earn their living while studying had little time left for these rewarding and exceptional opportunities. So Peter was very limited outside his daily hospital routine and language handicap to engage in most of these enriching activities.
Right away, in the first days of the school year, the somewhat older student had caused a small stir as he appeared in jacket and tie. Nobody had any doubt that he was a foreigner in 1959, when there were few foreigners and minority students at U of T. The majority of the students were of white, Anglo-Saxon background, or white immigrants’ children born in Canada. The first years Arts students had formed massive classes. For example the economics class had more than 200 students, and was held in the biggest lecture hall of the university. Asking questions, clarifications during lecture was next to impossible. The lecturers communicated via postings on the walls in the corridor. This was education in its most impersonal way. Anyone could come, or come late, or not at all, attendance lists were not kept. Because of its impersonal, mechanical style this had become Peter’s most neglected, least interesting subject. He had mostly nodded off during the lectures that started at 9 am. The presented material seemed dry and boring.
His most successful course became the one that was forced on him and everyone else in the old country, the one that had to be also chosen due to the “foreign” language requirement, Russian language and literature. There were 10 or 12 lecturers on the newly formed Faculty of Slavic Studies; mostly Polish and Ukrainian post war immigrants to Canada. There was not one ethnic Russian speaker among them. Almost all were seeking historical authenticity and understanding vis a vis the Russian language and the political reality of the Soviet Union. So it happened, that Peter’s Russian teacher was an Englishman, graduating from Oxford, who for a mysterious reason had fallen in love with the language and got a job in this Canadian university. His real public school education and particularly his superior British accent did not disturb him at all in developing an excellent grasp of classical Russian. He thought it well, too. But the most favored of all these teachers was the lady professor from Poland who was a graduate of the famous, pre war Krakow University and now was teaching Russian literature.
Accordingly, all the lecturers on the Faculty spoke with some kind of an accent, which felt so comforting to self-conscious Peter. At least here he did not have to be embarrassed because of his linguistic shortcomings. His fellow students on this course were all Canadian born, but mostly from Ukrainian, Polish, Slovak immigrants so they have grown up with accented English in their houses. Their parents’ tongues were close to Russian, were brought up partially in these languages, but they did not know the Cyrillic ABC, so they had to start with the basics. There were practically no students with a Russian background in the fifties in Canada.
Peter had a great advantage with the language, however inadequate, that was forced on him in Hungary, but still knew more than the basics. While the other students were learning reading and writing in Russian, he could be spending time with other courses. They were learning proficiency in the Russian; Peter was trying to learn English so that he could understand the philosophy, psychology and the other subjects.
The first year students taking Russian were no more than 14 of the 40,000. He had managed to get closer to some of these in the first few months, but they also knew little about the mysterious Hungarian quickly disappearing after lectures. He was always absent from the frequent weekend dances, concerts and guest performances, and nobody missed him.
They had most probably believed that he was not interested, and perhaps felt above these events, that he was a snob.
Within a few weeks there was already some degree of accounting for the learning material presented in all courses. Other than the Russian language material which was going well, the literature part afforded opportunities to excel in class, even if some of his written material had plenty of errors. The lady professor was particularly accommodating with regard to spelling mistakes in his assignments. During her lectures she had often initiated discussions in class by calling on Peter first for a point of view or comment that set the stage for a debate with the others.
Probably that was the only area in his studies where he could claim some degree of competence compared to his fellow students at the university in 1959. This knowledge, literary background and political maturity that would have prompted the professor to call Peter into her office one day, acknowledging his contributions in class and encouraging his work because she thought he had signs of talent and ability in the field of Russian-Soviet literature. This good work could further be helped , eventually, with a Rhodes scholarship, and if Peter may have such ambitions she could find support for this in the Department of Slavic Sudies.
The first year student was in seventh heaven for this early sign of encouragement. How strange is the way God works, he begins to study Russian reluctantly and out of sheer necessity and a gleam of hope for his future flashes before him! This was so welcome, yet he knew that he will have to excel in all the other courses as well. Indeed, there were ominous warnings from the lecturers of the other subjects. One of his early précis in political science was signed with this cautioning: “I will let this go through now, but your English will simply have to improve if you want to pass this course by year’s end…”These kinds of remarks did not help at all for the student struggling with work, sleeplessness and language frustrations daily. On the contrary, they had embittered him. Then there was the impatient lecturer who had returned one of his papers because “he could not read his funny handwriting.” It was a fact that those in grade one in 1944, amid the worst part of the war, had received a haphazard and inadequate first year of reading and writing instructions, with all the daily changes in routine, teachers and aerial alerts. Their teachers may have changed weekly, and so did the methods of teaching to write. Peter’s handwriting belonged to the worst in class, and he recognized early this liability. He was envious of some of his classmates who had handed in carefully prepared, even typed documents as their assignments, fetching of course much better grades.
It was interesting how much impression the course in philosophy had on the new student. He had little knowledge of the scientific study of wisdom before, and was eager to know all that Professor Schonleber had to teach them. He read and tried to understand most of what the prescribed books had to say. He noted the Aristotelian thesis that one must philosophize, and if someone states that this is not necessary, than that has to be philosophized, that is discussed, so in any case philosophy is essential. Once so understood, then the Descartian notion that cogito ergo sum was more comprehensible.
This new, discovering phase of Peter’s life, his first steps in the field of human inquiry and study seemed noble and uplifting compared to the near past and the bleak presence of his present daily life. Every nuance of his body desired new knowledge, authors and their work. The library of his college with its thousands of volumes, the small writing-reading desks, the winding labyrinths in the stacks which provided all necessary conditions for reading, contemplative study, were happily discovered. How happy he was here! How much more time he would have liked to spend here, than was his. He could forget here the frustrations of the past, the disappointments. He was informing his family back home about this far away university, its structure, culture and the possibilities in the far future…that was surely to come his way. Who knows, he could even become a teacher of Russian someday, although all this seemed pretty remote just then, a few weeks into the first half of his first year
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Ch.14 Onward and Upward, Toronto 1959
ONWARD AND UPWARD, TORONTO, 1959
They realized gradually, from the Hungarian newspapers printed in Toronto, that while Ottawa was the capitol, Montreal and Toronto were the really significant , important cities which were developing and progressing much faster than small, provincial Ottawa. The three friends moved on to Toronto, in fact Andy had gone even further south, as he had reconnected with a childhood sweetheart in the US and married her. The jointly owned car had been sold and this was the first time they had realized that cars are not good investments in North America.
Peter had started to seriously think about going back to school, starting university. He had written to many schools, inquiring about bursaries and help but none was available in 1959, at least none that would allow him full time study. So self financing was the answer, and finding a job that would allow somehow full time schooling.
While this was complicated, finally the chance came when he had found a job in Toronto’s St.Michael’s Hospital, as an orderly. The personnel manager who was a Polish immigrant himself, was a bit skeptical about Peter’s request for permanent night-shift duty, so that he could attend regular daytime courses at the University of Toronto. It seemed as if the middle aged manager exhibited some jealousy, mixed with a degree of superiority when he questioned, probed Peter. Why on earth was any European immigrant trying to get a university degree, when he, himself, he had already graduated from the University of Warsaw, and look, all that he could “attain” was this miserable little job, with a basement office, in a nuns’ hospital? Not much sense in studying for any degree because the “big” jobs will never be given to immigrants in this country, if they are not of Anglo-Saxon background!
In the end, he obliged and gave Peter a permanent night shift that is from September on, should Peter get accepted at the University of Toronto. But this was still at the beginning of summer in 1959, so Peter was given his training on the afternoon shift, supervised by a fellow orderly, from the south of Italy, called Vito. Poor Vito had immigrated to Canada in the late thirties, and, according to many, Vito had a tough assignment speaking English, while he himself was convinced of speaking fluently! Indeed, within a few hours, Vito could convince one that he mastered English, if all gesticulations, with hands and all were allowed. So formal training did not exist, and Peter had started on the 1-A surgical ward, with Vito, learning as he went along.
The colossal hospital was run by catholic nuns, but all the personnel from doctors to nurses came from the secular part of society. Every ward was run with military precision and the greatest of conscience by a Sister Angelica or a Sister Agatha or some such.
On the 1-A ward were the most needy or uninsured patients, in multi-bed rooms. People from accidents, unconscious and of no fixed address, from barroom brawls and the like usually ended up here. But there were also patients with advanced cancer and other serious ailments, too. The daily chores were excellent for language training. Patients, nurses and student nurses, the hospital had attached to it a nurses’ college, too, with many young trainees on the job, getting experience, they all spoke English.
Student nurses, St.Michael Hospital,1959
In addition to the regular duties, he had a chance to spend time getting to know the odd patient as well. Some had no family or friends to visit them; for them the hospital personnel became occasional “family” or friend with whom they met daily, received some help and sympathy, often the only source of human contact.
A young boy suffering from inoperable cancer became Peter’s favored patient. They would play a few games of chess on quiet evenings. He recalled his younger brother whom he had left back in Hungary, how he had taught him, just before the revolution, to play chess. This sick boy in the hospital was also very grateful for the attention, but it was even more meaningful that at least he could make this boy happy even while missing his brother.
Aside from homesickness, many Hungarian immigrants, especially those who had left families behind, felt strong pangs of conscience, too, for each richer moment, for anything that may have seemed on the level of luxury for the folks back in Hungary. Each better mouthful, each piece of clothing, the freer and worriless life caused inevitable mental anguish. Many tried to help those back in the old country, according to their means available. There was already a travel agency that dealt primarily with Hungarians located in the Bloor and Spadina streets’ vicinity which then was known as the Hungarian quarter. Peter had heard that 100 forint Hungarian bank notes could be purchased there, for about $5, and smuggled in plain letters sent home to his mother and little brother.
Later on, the immigrants could send so called IKKA parcels home, legally, with the cynical acquiescence of the Hungarian government, as they took a substantial percentage from these dollar transactions. They needed that hard currency. Many helped their families, parents with such means.
Thanks to Vito, the newcomer soon learnt the trade and even got new responsibilities. The nuns asked him to go upstairs one day, to the women patients’ ward, as his help was needed. A dead patient had to be placed on a gurney and the nurses could not manage the weight. After helping with the task, the chief nun had entrusted Peter with being responsible for the morgue, also, while he was on his shift. That consisted of opening the morgue and handing out the corpses to the funeral home people, or taking cadavers up to the autopsy rooms. At the beginning he had a rather tough time getting used to the responsibility, but then this proved to be a simple and ordinary job. Many patients had given the staff much more grief at times than those who had passed away.
Orderly, St.Michael’s Hospital, Toronto, 1959
Then again, the cooled morgue was always so much more pleasant in the terrible, damp heat of the Toronto summer than the 1A ward with stuffy and hot rooms. He would not dare to tell anyone that often he would hide watermelons in the empty, refrigerated boxes that were nicely cooled during his shift.
The job in the hospital presented excellent chances for meeting various kinds of extremely interesting people. For example, one of the patients’ elevators attendants was a well read, intelligent gentleman. He read anything and everything about philosophy. He was in contrast with most of the other workers who were invariably newcomers, non Anglo-Saxon immigrants, while this man was born in Canada, spoke fluently both languages of the country, but other than that no one knew anything else about him. And particularly why on earth did he work in this simple job with his intelligence and wisdom? Peter was struck by this intriguing man’s reading habits, as he never saw him without a book, whether in his elevator, or in the hospital’s cafeteria. If they started a conversation, he had many questions about the other person but would never allow any detail about his life. He would cite long monologues from one or another of his well researched philosophers, but declined to answer specific questions about himself. He had lent Peter many obviously well read and annotated books, and while most of these had been over his head in terms of text and thought, he had started to know something about Thomas Merton, St.Thomas Acquinas,Kahlil Gibran, Cyrill Connolly.
What could have been this man’s life story? He never found out. He would only smile when questioned about his present or past life. But this smile suggested superhuman inner strength and self confidence, exerting great positive impression on those he was engaging in conversation.
Within a couple of months Peter was invited to train the next new orderly on the afternoon shift who happened to be a sympathetic young Hungarian. Miklos was an actor who had also escaped after the 1956 Revolution was crushed, who struggled with maintaining an existence and learning English. His wife was a well known actress who now worked as a waitress.
The Hungarian duo at St.Michael’s Hospital became somewhat well known for their exceptional height and humor in many situations. They worked well together and soon shared the responsibility of the morgues as well.
Peter, who came from the country, appreciated the young actor’s savvy from Budapest, particularly the many stories about the theater which still held magic for him. Neither knew at that time that they would soon be sharing the stage of the immigrant Hungarian theater in Toronto, which was to open a year or two.
The time drew near when the forms had to be filled out for university entrance. Since Peter’s high school diploma was from abroad, he had to pass the so called English proficiency exam and his diploma had to be translated into English. After two years in Canada, this did not seem insurmountable, but was nevertheless difficult. Finally, he passed the test and was admitted.
They realized gradually, from the Hungarian newspapers printed in Toronto, that while Ottawa was the capitol, Montreal and Toronto were the really significant , important cities which were developing and progressing much faster than small, provincial Ottawa. The three friends moved on to Toronto, in fact Andy had gone even further south, as he had reconnected with a childhood sweetheart in the US and married her. The jointly owned car had been sold and this was the first time they had realized that cars are not good investments in North America.
Peter had started to seriously think about going back to school, starting university. He had written to many schools, inquiring about bursaries and help but none was available in 1959, at least none that would allow him full time study. So self financing was the answer, and finding a job that would allow somehow full time schooling.
While this was complicated, finally the chance came when he had found a job in Toronto’s St.Michael’s Hospital, as an orderly. The personnel manager who was a Polish immigrant himself, was a bit skeptical about Peter’s request for permanent night-shift duty, so that he could attend regular daytime courses at the University of Toronto. It seemed as if the middle aged manager exhibited some jealousy, mixed with a degree of superiority when he questioned, probed Peter. Why on earth was any European immigrant trying to get a university degree, when he, himself, he had already graduated from the University of Warsaw, and look, all that he could “attain” was this miserable little job, with a basement office, in a nuns’ hospital? Not much sense in studying for any degree because the “big” jobs will never be given to immigrants in this country, if they are not of Anglo-Saxon background!
In the end, he obliged and gave Peter a permanent night shift that is from September on, should Peter get accepted at the University of Toronto. But this was still at the beginning of summer in 1959, so Peter was given his training on the afternoon shift, supervised by a fellow orderly, from the south of Italy, called Vito. Poor Vito had immigrated to Canada in the late thirties, and, according to many, Vito had a tough assignment speaking English, while he himself was convinced of speaking fluently! Indeed, within a few hours, Vito could convince one that he mastered English, if all gesticulations, with hands and all were allowed. So formal training did not exist, and Peter had started on the 1-A surgical ward, with Vito, learning as he went along.
The colossal hospital was run by catholic nuns, but all the personnel from doctors to nurses came from the secular part of society. Every ward was run with military precision and the greatest of conscience by a Sister Angelica or a Sister Agatha or some such.
On the 1-A ward were the most needy or uninsured patients, in multi-bed rooms. People from accidents, unconscious and of no fixed address, from barroom brawls and the like usually ended up here. But there were also patients with advanced cancer and other serious ailments, too. The daily chores were excellent for language training. Patients, nurses and student nurses, the hospital had attached to it a nurses’ college, too, with many young trainees on the job, getting experience, they all spoke English.
Student nurses, St.Michael Hospital,1959
In addition to the regular duties, he had a chance to spend time getting to know the odd patient as well. Some had no family or friends to visit them; for them the hospital personnel became occasional “family” or friend with whom they met daily, received some help and sympathy, often the only source of human contact.
A young boy suffering from inoperable cancer became Peter’s favored patient. They would play a few games of chess on quiet evenings. He recalled his younger brother whom he had left back in Hungary, how he had taught him, just before the revolution, to play chess. This sick boy in the hospital was also very grateful for the attention, but it was even more meaningful that at least he could make this boy happy even while missing his brother.
Aside from homesickness, many Hungarian immigrants, especially those who had left families behind, felt strong pangs of conscience, too, for each richer moment, for anything that may have seemed on the level of luxury for the folks back in Hungary. Each better mouthful, each piece of clothing, the freer and worriless life caused inevitable mental anguish. Many tried to help those back in the old country, according to their means available. There was already a travel agency that dealt primarily with Hungarians located in the Bloor and Spadina streets’ vicinity which then was known as the Hungarian quarter. Peter had heard that 100 forint Hungarian bank notes could be purchased there, for about $5, and smuggled in plain letters sent home to his mother and little brother.
Later on, the immigrants could send so called IKKA parcels home, legally, with the cynical acquiescence of the Hungarian government, as they took a substantial percentage from these dollar transactions. They needed that hard currency. Many helped their families, parents with such means.
Thanks to Vito, the newcomer soon learnt the trade and even got new responsibilities. The nuns asked him to go upstairs one day, to the women patients’ ward, as his help was needed. A dead patient had to be placed on a gurney and the nurses could not manage the weight. After helping with the task, the chief nun had entrusted Peter with being responsible for the morgue, also, while he was on his shift. That consisted of opening the morgue and handing out the corpses to the funeral home people, or taking cadavers up to the autopsy rooms. At the beginning he had a rather tough time getting used to the responsibility, but then this proved to be a simple and ordinary job. Many patients had given the staff much more grief at times than those who had passed away.
Orderly, St.Michael’s Hospital, Toronto, 1959
Then again, the cooled morgue was always so much more pleasant in the terrible, damp heat of the Toronto summer than the 1A ward with stuffy and hot rooms. He would not dare to tell anyone that often he would hide watermelons in the empty, refrigerated boxes that were nicely cooled during his shift.
The job in the hospital presented excellent chances for meeting various kinds of extremely interesting people. For example, one of the patients’ elevators attendants was a well read, intelligent gentleman. He read anything and everything about philosophy. He was in contrast with most of the other workers who were invariably newcomers, non Anglo-Saxon immigrants, while this man was born in Canada, spoke fluently both languages of the country, but other than that no one knew anything else about him. And particularly why on earth did he work in this simple job with his intelligence and wisdom? Peter was struck by this intriguing man’s reading habits, as he never saw him without a book, whether in his elevator, or in the hospital’s cafeteria. If they started a conversation, he had many questions about the other person but would never allow any detail about his life. He would cite long monologues from one or another of his well researched philosophers, but declined to answer specific questions about himself. He had lent Peter many obviously well read and annotated books, and while most of these had been over his head in terms of text and thought, he had started to know something about Thomas Merton, St.Thomas Acquinas,Kahlil Gibran, Cyrill Connolly.
What could have been this man’s life story? He never found out. He would only smile when questioned about his present or past life. But this smile suggested superhuman inner strength and self confidence, exerting great positive impression on those he was engaging in conversation.
Within a couple of months Peter was invited to train the next new orderly on the afternoon shift who happened to be a sympathetic young Hungarian. Miklos was an actor who had also escaped after the 1956 Revolution was crushed, who struggled with maintaining an existence and learning English. His wife was a well known actress who now worked as a waitress.
The Hungarian duo at St.Michael’s Hospital became somewhat well known for their exceptional height and humor in many situations. They worked well together and soon shared the responsibility of the morgues as well.
Peter, who came from the country, appreciated the young actor’s savvy from Budapest, particularly the many stories about the theater which still held magic for him. Neither knew at that time that they would soon be sharing the stage of the immigrant Hungarian theater in Toronto, which was to open a year or two.
The time drew near when the forms had to be filled out for university entrance. Since Peter’s high school diploma was from abroad, he had to pass the so called English proficiency exam and his diploma had to be translated into English. After two years in Canada, this did not seem insurmountable, but was nevertheless difficult. Finally, he passed the test and was admitted.
Monday, 27 February 2012
Although he has been dead for over two months, I keep searching for more Hitchens
and I find something always that was not known about him, at least to me. So, hitherto a proud one-book author, I find the following quote by Christopher Hitchens:
"Everyone has a book inside them, which is exactly where I think it should, in most cases, remain." OUCH! I knew it...
"Everyone has a book inside them, which is exactly where I think it should, in most cases, remain." OUCH! I knew it...
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
Christopher Hitchens, earthly existence and heavenly writing.
"It could be that all existence is a pointless joke,but it is not in fact possible to live one's everyday life as if this were so." (Christopher Hitchens in Hitch 22)
Readers sometimes develop very close relationship with authors.Most never meet in person. Yet it often seems so real, so intense -and almost always unilateral.In the past we usually got to know the writing first, then we may have decided to search for the persona behind the work.
Today's multimedia platforms provide us with several encounters. I have "met" Christopher Hitchens on radio first, then on TV and then started to look for his writings.
I have started reading Hitch 22, his memoirs, in the middle of my chemotherapy last summer, and very shortly after, on the eve of his book tour for Hitch 22 he told the world about his cancer. A fellow sufferer, loved and revered by many, despised by some for his views on religion and God.
Word got to him and he was asked in public whether he'd mind if people would pray for his recovery. While he was obviously touched by these gestures, he doubted whether prayer would help.
That was what most of us could do for him.
Reading Hitch 22 during my illness last year, while watching for any news about him brought him intimately close to me. His last contribution for Vanity Fair, an article to appear, ironically in the January next issue was particularly personal to me, as I have gone through some of the procedures at MD Anderson in Houston just a year before. As he said often, he was in stage 4 of his cancer, there not being a stage 5.
Perhaps prayer.
But Mr.Hitchens missed the point of prayer. It helped us in our impotence
to do something, anything for him. And for ourselves, in our pain and concern, lest our existence is a pointless joke.
Readers sometimes develop very close relationship with authors.Most never meet in person. Yet it often seems so real, so intense -and almost always unilateral.In the past we usually got to know the writing first, then we may have decided to search for the persona behind the work.
Today's multimedia platforms provide us with several encounters. I have "met" Christopher Hitchens on radio first, then on TV and then started to look for his writings.
I have started reading Hitch 22, his memoirs, in the middle of my chemotherapy last summer, and very shortly after, on the eve of his book tour for Hitch 22 he told the world about his cancer. A fellow sufferer, loved and revered by many, despised by some for his views on religion and God.
Word got to him and he was asked in public whether he'd mind if people would pray for his recovery. While he was obviously touched by these gestures, he doubted whether prayer would help.
That was what most of us could do for him.
Reading Hitch 22 during my illness last year, while watching for any news about him brought him intimately close to me. His last contribution for Vanity Fair, an article to appear, ironically in the January next issue was particularly personal to me, as I have gone through some of the procedures at MD Anderson in Houston just a year before. As he said often, he was in stage 4 of his cancer, there not being a stage 5.
Perhaps prayer.
But Mr.Hitchens missed the point of prayer. It helped us in our impotence
to do something, anything for him. And for ourselves, in our pain and concern, lest our existence is a pointless joke.
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Ch.13 Getting a job, tobacco picking in Southern Ontario
On the tobacco farm, 1958 August.
By the summer, the news spread in the immigrant community that in the south part of Ontario there are huge tobacco fields, whose harvest in late summer could present a major new source of income. The terribly hard job of tobacco picking lasts for 4-6 weeks but the pay is exceptional, too.
The tobacco farmers were, for the most part, former Hungarian land cultivators, peasants who came around the turn of the century and were particularly successful growing tobacco in Canada, mostly situated in the area of Tillsonburg and Delhi, Ontario.
The three friends had given up their secure but poor paying, bleak prospect jobs and traveled to the tobacco farms area. Here, in one of the small town’s main square an informal “recruiting” center was set up on a given Saturday morning. It was a real market place for human beings! The local farmers had kept on coming and after an intensive scrutiny, where the judgment had to be made at what the naked eye saw from a physical point of view and after a brief bargaining, which was easy as almost everyone spoke Hungarian, for the daily stipend, the hiring was done.
The farmer wanted only their first names and within minutes they were on the back of a pickup truck speeding to one of the many farms in the area.
Their quarters were prepared in a part of the huge barn, furnished with simple wooden furniture and hay filled mattresses on iron beds. Shortly they were called to dinner which was served on long, covered tables, under huge chestnut trees in the farmer’s courtyard. The “gang” as they were now called consisted of 6 young men. During their short Canadian stay they have never experienced such a generous feast, vying with such a wedding feast that they had occasionally seen in the old country. Any delicacy that could be found and prepared by a well to do farmer in rural Canada with several experienced women chefs and that was steaming on the long table. The gang that to this point hadn’t worked a single hour made a valiant effort to be up to snuff and had achieved an appreciable success putting away most of the food. Tastes and aromas, reminiscent of Hungary came to be savored, almost to the point of shedding a tear or two, after long months in refugees camps and since over a year, in simple circumstances. The son of the farmer had sat with them, too, towards the end of the feast. Michael had a thick accent speaking Hungarian, he was Canadian born, but still managed to detail what was expected of the fresh farm hands.
The start of the tobacco picking season is always determined by the ripening of the so called sandy leaves, near the ground. That year the start happened to be on a Sunday. Only the sandy leaves near the ground can be picked off the plant. As the higher leaves continue ripening, the pickers move slowly higher. During the harvest there are only workdays, without any breaks, except for steady rain. So next day the wake up will be at 5 am, breakfast starts at half past five, so they are on the fields some kilometers away by 7am.
“ But in a few days the picked tobacco will be tied in bunches and placed on long sticks by the women, then wake up will be at 3 am so the tobacco laden sticks can be placed in the huge kiln-houses, for drying” continued Michael.
They didn’t really understand all that, but after the sumptuous dinner and the brief outline as to what will follow in the next few days, they knew that there would be a great need for very rich and nourishing food to cope with work demands.
Their first night on the tobacco farm, near the peaceful, ruminating farm animals, with billions of shiny stars in the August sky could not be spoiled even by the prospect of the early morning call. So close to nature, in such a quiet and peaceful place was such a change for these young men, after months of rather crowded refugee camps and then very Spartan basic city life after their arrival in Canada.
Following the generous dinner the night before, their breakfast was equally fitting and several farm matrons were asking them, one by one, whether they would like omelets from 4 or 6 eggs, with bacon, ham and cheese. By then the gang was getting just a little suspicious of all this attention and generosity ! Shortly after breakfast they hopped up on the cart, pulled by a massive tractor and soon they arrived on the tobacco field. Each green tobacco line spread for up to a kilometer in length, as far as the eye could see.
Tobacco field, Tillsonburg, Canada 1958
Michael had immediately occupied the first row in the field, bent to the ground and with a half circle of his right arm, he tore off the leaves of the tobacco plant. Then, still bent over, he stepped up to the next plant. Then the next and the next…
“You see, only the sandy leaves, the lowest ones you are allowed tear off…” he said looking at their faces for understanding, “…then as they ripen we keep on moving up on the plant. By the end of the season, it will be much less demanding on your backs…” he promised. It seemed simple and logical for these young men, reared in the city.
The six tobacco pickers had occupied their rows and began to work.
Behind them, a docile and “experienced” horse was pulling a wooden sled between the rows into which the collected, “sandy”, tobacco leaves from under their left armpits were carefully placed.
“Don’t break the leaves!” cautioned Michael.
They did not have to advance more than the picked sandy leaves of 10 tobacco plants, so that it can be stated that: they mastered tobacco picking. However, the continually bent backs had started to complain at each next plant, with each step they took towards these plants. After only a half an hour, while continually bending almost to the ground, the pickers believed they could not go on.
But Michael was there and by example he was jumping into one or another’s row, helping out, until somehow, miraculously they reached the end of their first row! At that point the six boys had just fallen to the ground, could only moan from the excruciating pain coming from their backs. Fresh water was brought by Michael and after a short rest they have started a new row.
Every step from now on was a painful maneuver, but goading each other on, the young and tenacious bodies, somehow, with many rest stops they lasted until noon, when Michael, literally picked them up one by one, and brought them back to the farmhouse. Again, a rich table was set up for them under the chestnut trees, but other than a few spoonfuls of soup, they preferred just to lie in the shade. After an hour’s rest, back to the cart and out to the fields. This struggle just to survive the day went on until 5 PM on their first day.
By the time they were back at the farm, they only had strength to wash up from the dust, sweat and the sticky sap from the broken tobacco stems, which dried and matted on their hairy arms, so much so that it simply could not be washed off by soap and water. Frankly, they could not care less about it.
Every part of their body was aching, especially their thighs and backs, so much, that none of them showed up for the evening meal. Within a short time, the whole gang was in deep slumber, awaking only for the pain caused by turning in their sleep.
If the unusual work seemed difficult and caused them pain on the first day, then the stiffness on awakening the following morning surpassed any such experience in their lives. One of the six had politely taken his leave that very morning, and the owner paid him fairly for his one day of work. The other five, overcoming the terrible pain, stubbornly began their second day of tobacco picking. They were still at the “sandy leaves” or sand lugs, as they were called by the farmer and they were still having the greatest pains with each step forward. They were encouraging each other, singing even, and also cursing all those who smoked, blaming them for this inhuman, bestial work! Where did the effort come from after each step taken forward with a back bent almost to the level of the ground, row after tobacco row? They could not explain even today perhaps.
They had overcome the greatest physical challenge of their lives then, in the first days of the tobacco leaves’ harvest. After the second Hungarian had given up and left on the third day, the rest had now stayed just out of spite and sheer bravado. In the meantime Michael had found three new pickers in the nearby town who were experienced, veteran farm hands who joined them and did their job without a word of complaint.
And as the bodies of the newly graduated farmhands adjusted to the physical demands, the muscle cramps abated and the task seemed easier. The veterans educated them on how they should shave their arms so that the sticky, gummy sap of the tobacco plant would not mat the hair on their arms.
Within days the muscles had adjusted, the body accepted and bore the daily punishment, the appetite returned. But by then the women had tied all the picked leaves on long, wooden stick which had to be racked in long, even lines in special places, called kiln- houses to dry. This was done on most mornings when they got up at 3am and emptied and refilled these kiln houses.
Tobacco drying kiln-houses, Tillsonburg,Ont.1958
These simple, wooden, under-roof drying places, with heating inside, were constructed inside of vertical and horizontal beams, resembled more monkey cages than anything else. They had no stairs, ladders inside, while two stories high, the lads, balancing on the horizontal beams, like monkeys handed each other the tobacco laden stick which were placed 3-4 feet apart on the beams, right up to the roof. Only the bravest dared to climb up to the top, one bad move could have resulted in serious injury. On most days the morning program from 3am to 6am was this acrobatic exercise, followed by a generous breakfast and out to the fields. If there was no rain they worked 7 days a week. Their wage was 25 dollars a day, with room and board included, as much as Peter’s first weekly stipend in Quebec City!
As the tobacco was ripening, so did “ease” their daily effort, since the top leaves could now be picked without bending over. It was life’s irony that the most difficult days of tobacco picking happened to be the very first days on the job.
Peter and the gang after several weeks in the country of the August summer in South Ontario were the color of chocolate, muscular and in top physical shape, had graduated possibly from the greatest physical challenge of their lives.
After a “tobacco picking ” session…
At the end of the harvest the Hungarian tobacco grower was satisfied with the boys’ work and paid them all in cash. Those who had survived the first days on the job had to be justifiably happy; their wage seemed like a small fortune. They had heard the stories about those who after many weeks of hard toil wagered all the money in horse races within hours, maybe the very day they were paid. But they had spent days deciding what to do with the money. It seemed they could always find work to look after their daily existence, but the one thing they thought was missing in their lives was the almighty automobile, which stood between happiness (girls) and frustration. Since they could not buy a reasonable car individually, even with the small “fortune” they owned, a few hundred dollars, pulling their money would get them a good used car.
On returning to Ottawa they found a car dealer who would sell them a 1954 Ford Meteor auto. The 4 year old car was in good shape and they believed the dealer that this exceptional automobile was owned by a retired lady school teacher. Since only one had a driver’s license, he taught the other two to drive.
The real purpose of the car purchase was their firm belief that the way to meet local girls was via the ownership of 4 wheels. Of course, the three way ownership resulted in alternating the days or evenings for usage. Of course, the logistics never worked out and the boys remained, for the most part, without significant relationships.
The object of their desire and the owners in their “ Sunday” best
Among the immigrants were many gloomy people who did not know, or realized perhaps only after many years, the opportunities of their new country. Which host country could have made it possible for immigrants capable only of manual labor, without language or professional skills, within a year of their arrival, to have an acceptable standard of living, that a working family could even afford the ultimate status symbol in the fifties, the purchase of a reasonable car?
The wealth from tobacco picking was not all invested in the car purchase, so Peter could realize his long held dream of owning a set of drums. His friend, Andy played on both the piano and saxophone, so their plan was to form a small band, maybe with a third countryman of theirs. However, the “drummer” was only an enthusiastic dreamer since he had no musical training whatsoever. He had practiced diligently in the basement of their flat, especially when the landlady was not at home, since she had many misgivings about the drums when they have arrived, with reason.
The student-drummer, in the basement , Ottawa, 1958
Towards the end of the fifties, when rock and roll was on its peak, light jazz music was not really a desired product. The small and intimate piano bars they had known back in Hungary were not really in vogue in those days. All they could achieve on the field of light music was the occasional Sunday afternoon entertaining the patients in old age homes, gratis.
Perley Hospital, (senior citizens’ home) Ottawa, 1958
By the summer, the news spread in the immigrant community that in the south part of Ontario there are huge tobacco fields, whose harvest in late summer could present a major new source of income. The terribly hard job of tobacco picking lasts for 4-6 weeks but the pay is exceptional, too.
The tobacco farmers were, for the most part, former Hungarian land cultivators, peasants who came around the turn of the century and were particularly successful growing tobacco in Canada, mostly situated in the area of Tillsonburg and Delhi, Ontario.
The three friends had given up their secure but poor paying, bleak prospect jobs and traveled to the tobacco farms area. Here, in one of the small town’s main square an informal “recruiting” center was set up on a given Saturday morning. It was a real market place for human beings! The local farmers had kept on coming and after an intensive scrutiny, where the judgment had to be made at what the naked eye saw from a physical point of view and after a brief bargaining, which was easy as almost everyone spoke Hungarian, for the daily stipend, the hiring was done.
The farmer wanted only their first names and within minutes they were on the back of a pickup truck speeding to one of the many farms in the area.
Their quarters were prepared in a part of the huge barn, furnished with simple wooden furniture and hay filled mattresses on iron beds. Shortly they were called to dinner which was served on long, covered tables, under huge chestnut trees in the farmer’s courtyard. The “gang” as they were now called consisted of 6 young men. During their short Canadian stay they have never experienced such a generous feast, vying with such a wedding feast that they had occasionally seen in the old country. Any delicacy that could be found and prepared by a well to do farmer in rural Canada with several experienced women chefs and that was steaming on the long table. The gang that to this point hadn’t worked a single hour made a valiant effort to be up to snuff and had achieved an appreciable success putting away most of the food. Tastes and aromas, reminiscent of Hungary came to be savored, almost to the point of shedding a tear or two, after long months in refugees camps and since over a year, in simple circumstances. The son of the farmer had sat with them, too, towards the end of the feast. Michael had a thick accent speaking Hungarian, he was Canadian born, but still managed to detail what was expected of the fresh farm hands.
The start of the tobacco picking season is always determined by the ripening of the so called sandy leaves, near the ground. That year the start happened to be on a Sunday. Only the sandy leaves near the ground can be picked off the plant. As the higher leaves continue ripening, the pickers move slowly higher. During the harvest there are only workdays, without any breaks, except for steady rain. So next day the wake up will be at 5 am, breakfast starts at half past five, so they are on the fields some kilometers away by 7am.
“ But in a few days the picked tobacco will be tied in bunches and placed on long sticks by the women, then wake up will be at 3 am so the tobacco laden sticks can be placed in the huge kiln-houses, for drying” continued Michael.
They didn’t really understand all that, but after the sumptuous dinner and the brief outline as to what will follow in the next few days, they knew that there would be a great need for very rich and nourishing food to cope with work demands.
Their first night on the tobacco farm, near the peaceful, ruminating farm animals, with billions of shiny stars in the August sky could not be spoiled even by the prospect of the early morning call. So close to nature, in such a quiet and peaceful place was such a change for these young men, after months of rather crowded refugee camps and then very Spartan basic city life after their arrival in Canada.
Following the generous dinner the night before, their breakfast was equally fitting and several farm matrons were asking them, one by one, whether they would like omelets from 4 or 6 eggs, with bacon, ham and cheese. By then the gang was getting just a little suspicious of all this attention and generosity ! Shortly after breakfast they hopped up on the cart, pulled by a massive tractor and soon they arrived on the tobacco field. Each green tobacco line spread for up to a kilometer in length, as far as the eye could see.
Tobacco field, Tillsonburg, Canada 1958
Michael had immediately occupied the first row in the field, bent to the ground and with a half circle of his right arm, he tore off the leaves of the tobacco plant. Then, still bent over, he stepped up to the next plant. Then the next and the next…
“You see, only the sandy leaves, the lowest ones you are allowed tear off…” he said looking at their faces for understanding, “…then as they ripen we keep on moving up on the plant. By the end of the season, it will be much less demanding on your backs…” he promised. It seemed simple and logical for these young men, reared in the city.
The six tobacco pickers had occupied their rows and began to work.
Behind them, a docile and “experienced” horse was pulling a wooden sled between the rows into which the collected, “sandy”, tobacco leaves from under their left armpits were carefully placed.
“Don’t break the leaves!” cautioned Michael.
They did not have to advance more than the picked sandy leaves of 10 tobacco plants, so that it can be stated that: they mastered tobacco picking. However, the continually bent backs had started to complain at each next plant, with each step they took towards these plants. After only a half an hour, while continually bending almost to the ground, the pickers believed they could not go on.
But Michael was there and by example he was jumping into one or another’s row, helping out, until somehow, miraculously they reached the end of their first row! At that point the six boys had just fallen to the ground, could only moan from the excruciating pain coming from their backs. Fresh water was brought by Michael and after a short rest they have started a new row.
Every step from now on was a painful maneuver, but goading each other on, the young and tenacious bodies, somehow, with many rest stops they lasted until noon, when Michael, literally picked them up one by one, and brought them back to the farmhouse. Again, a rich table was set up for them under the chestnut trees, but other than a few spoonfuls of soup, they preferred just to lie in the shade. After an hour’s rest, back to the cart and out to the fields. This struggle just to survive the day went on until 5 PM on their first day.
By the time they were back at the farm, they only had strength to wash up from the dust, sweat and the sticky sap from the broken tobacco stems, which dried and matted on their hairy arms, so much so that it simply could not be washed off by soap and water. Frankly, they could not care less about it.
Every part of their body was aching, especially their thighs and backs, so much, that none of them showed up for the evening meal. Within a short time, the whole gang was in deep slumber, awaking only for the pain caused by turning in their sleep.
If the unusual work seemed difficult and caused them pain on the first day, then the stiffness on awakening the following morning surpassed any such experience in their lives. One of the six had politely taken his leave that very morning, and the owner paid him fairly for his one day of work. The other five, overcoming the terrible pain, stubbornly began their second day of tobacco picking. They were still at the “sandy leaves” or sand lugs, as they were called by the farmer and they were still having the greatest pains with each step forward. They were encouraging each other, singing even, and also cursing all those who smoked, blaming them for this inhuman, bestial work! Where did the effort come from after each step taken forward with a back bent almost to the level of the ground, row after tobacco row? They could not explain even today perhaps.
They had overcome the greatest physical challenge of their lives then, in the first days of the tobacco leaves’ harvest. After the second Hungarian had given up and left on the third day, the rest had now stayed just out of spite and sheer bravado. In the meantime Michael had found three new pickers in the nearby town who were experienced, veteran farm hands who joined them and did their job without a word of complaint.
And as the bodies of the newly graduated farmhands adjusted to the physical demands, the muscle cramps abated and the task seemed easier. The veterans educated them on how they should shave their arms so that the sticky, gummy sap of the tobacco plant would not mat the hair on their arms.
Within days the muscles had adjusted, the body accepted and bore the daily punishment, the appetite returned. But by then the women had tied all the picked leaves on long, wooden stick which had to be racked in long, even lines in special places, called kiln- houses to dry. This was done on most mornings when they got up at 3am and emptied and refilled these kiln houses.
Tobacco drying kiln-houses, Tillsonburg,Ont.1958
These simple, wooden, under-roof drying places, with heating inside, were constructed inside of vertical and horizontal beams, resembled more monkey cages than anything else. They had no stairs, ladders inside, while two stories high, the lads, balancing on the horizontal beams, like monkeys handed each other the tobacco laden stick which were placed 3-4 feet apart on the beams, right up to the roof. Only the bravest dared to climb up to the top, one bad move could have resulted in serious injury. On most days the morning program from 3am to 6am was this acrobatic exercise, followed by a generous breakfast and out to the fields. If there was no rain they worked 7 days a week. Their wage was 25 dollars a day, with room and board included, as much as Peter’s first weekly stipend in Quebec City!
As the tobacco was ripening, so did “ease” their daily effort, since the top leaves could now be picked without bending over. It was life’s irony that the most difficult days of tobacco picking happened to be the very first days on the job.
Peter and the gang after several weeks in the country of the August summer in South Ontario were the color of chocolate, muscular and in top physical shape, had graduated possibly from the greatest physical challenge of their lives.
After a “tobacco picking ” session…
At the end of the harvest the Hungarian tobacco grower was satisfied with the boys’ work and paid them all in cash. Those who had survived the first days on the job had to be justifiably happy; their wage seemed like a small fortune. They had heard the stories about those who after many weeks of hard toil wagered all the money in horse races within hours, maybe the very day they were paid. But they had spent days deciding what to do with the money. It seemed they could always find work to look after their daily existence, but the one thing they thought was missing in their lives was the almighty automobile, which stood between happiness (girls) and frustration. Since they could not buy a reasonable car individually, even with the small “fortune” they owned, a few hundred dollars, pulling their money would get them a good used car.
On returning to Ottawa they found a car dealer who would sell them a 1954 Ford Meteor auto. The 4 year old car was in good shape and they believed the dealer that this exceptional automobile was owned by a retired lady school teacher. Since only one had a driver’s license, he taught the other two to drive.
The real purpose of the car purchase was their firm belief that the way to meet local girls was via the ownership of 4 wheels. Of course, the three way ownership resulted in alternating the days or evenings for usage. Of course, the logistics never worked out and the boys remained, for the most part, without significant relationships.
The object of their desire and the owners in their “ Sunday” best
Among the immigrants were many gloomy people who did not know, or realized perhaps only after many years, the opportunities of their new country. Which host country could have made it possible for immigrants capable only of manual labor, without language or professional skills, within a year of their arrival, to have an acceptable standard of living, that a working family could even afford the ultimate status symbol in the fifties, the purchase of a reasonable car?
The wealth from tobacco picking was not all invested in the car purchase, so Peter could realize his long held dream of owning a set of drums. His friend, Andy played on both the piano and saxophone, so their plan was to form a small band, maybe with a third countryman of theirs. However, the “drummer” was only an enthusiastic dreamer since he had no musical training whatsoever. He had practiced diligently in the basement of their flat, especially when the landlady was not at home, since she had many misgivings about the drums when they have arrived, with reason.
The student-drummer, in the basement , Ottawa, 1958
Towards the end of the fifties, when rock and roll was on its peak, light jazz music was not really a desired product. The small and intimate piano bars they had known back in Hungary were not really in vogue in those days. All they could achieve on the field of light music was the occasional Sunday afternoon entertaining the patients in old age homes, gratis.
Perley Hospital, (senior citizens’ home) Ottawa, 1958
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2012/01/hitchens-201201
If you have been wandering about how Christopher Hitchens is getting on in his fight against disease, you will get it here "up close and personal."
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