Elbows Up!, page 14
Organized sports were not part of my family culture. My younger brother played peewee hockey because he was male. He was not consulted; he was carted off in the (pee)wee hours to suburban arenas where my dad diligently tied up his skates and helped him with his equipment.
My dad told me I could grow up to be anything I wanted to be. He suggested I might become an ambassador or an astronaut, or why not both? Neither of these ambitions was outside his expectation of what a woman was capable of, especially a daughter of his. He even supported my ambition to become an “actress,” and then, in time, a writer. But recreational hockey player? It was not on the radar. Girls did not play hockey back then—unless they had older brothers and a frozen pond or backyard rink. My own experience consisted of being in net for road hockey games with the older neighbourhood boys. They stuck a stick in my hand and fired shots with a hard ball at my bare shins. Was it worth it? Heck, yeah! But to find actual female ice hockey players, you had to go back to the first decades of the twentieth century, when young women played in long skirts—but they played. Then, like so many other female freedoms and pursuits, hockey was stuffed back in the gender-normative closet, starting in the 1950s.
When I was a kid, the few girls who played on ice played ringette. I first heard of ringette one night when I was ten and my dad thrust me into a game at Kingston Memorial Arena. I forget why. But to this day, I quake at the memory. Those girls were tough! Ringette-tough. Kingston-tough. Back then, ringette was played with no protective equipment—unless you counted the high ponytails and eyeshadow that rendered those girls all the more terrifying. The bladeless stick and hollowed-out puck were supposed to make the game less dangerous. Those girls didn’t get the memo. I was speared, elbowed, and mercilessly knocked to the ice.
Perhaps especially in light of my brush with ringette, I am at a loss to explain why I started playing hockey at the age of forty-six. Why not curling? I can say only that hockey came for me. Like a conversion experience. Ineffable. Inevitable.
Ice hockey might be the world’s hardest sport to master. But it is also a sport that allows even a rank beginner to feel AWESOME. This is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. From my first community hockey skills class at the outdoor rink in Toronto’s Christie Pits, I had wings on my skates, my stick was my wand, and the puck—well, the puck was mine. I am a natural forward, happy playing centre because all I have to remember to do is everything. I’m also happy on the wing, where I can lurk netside and pot one, or else pass to someone who’s better at potting one than I am. But how does our national sport square with our international reputation as polite peacekeepers? Knives on our feet, sticks in our hands, we chase after a hard projectile, firing it at speeds of up to 108.8 miles per hour, and crash into each other along the way—plus there is no “out of bounds.” Compare this to American football: Huddle. Pussyfoot backwards. Throw. All hell breaks loose for a few seconds, then crunch. Stop the clock. Huddle…And they do all this on level ground with shoes on, throwing an inflated ball that never exceeds a speed of 61.98 miles per hour, and when it or they stray out of bounds—stop the clock. So that’s one way I see Americans: as a people obsessed with a game in which the severity of injuries is out of proportion with the amount of action; a game with more “show” than “go.” A game in which the players’ protective padding is fashion-forward.
Then there is the matter of our flags. I remember when the old “ensign” was lowered, and the maple leaf was raised. I was six years old. We stood at attention in the school playground and sang “O Canada.” My grade one teacher wept when the old flag, with its Union Jack filling one corner and the Canadian coat of arms off to the side, was folded by the principal with funereal gravitas. But I remember loving our new red and white flag. It’s a leaf. It doesn’t bear the symbol of an old empire, and nor is it loaded with emblems of chest-thumping victories or grudge-stoking defeats. It’s a leaf. I love it.
I hear the American anthem differently now. Not only is it pretty much unsingable by ordinary people, what with its one and a half octaves, it commemorates a battle from the War of 1812. I don’t understand why a beautiful, bold, former democracy and would-be “land of the free” would choose an anthem that commemorates a battle from a war they lost—to Canada. Wait…I think I’ve figured it out. A big part of the American “national character” is based on Americans assuming that not only are they the good guys, they are also innocent victims. It is a case of arrested development on a national scale, and we are seeing its manifestation. The current president and his regime claim victimhood as they shred rights and freedoms in their own country, threaten international peace, betray friends, treacherously ally themselves with enemies, and proclaim their intention to annex Canada. And Greenland.
These are a people who jammed Thanksgiving right up against Christmas/Chanukkah holidays. They are a people who may or may not be armed at the Tim Hortons. A people who never got over kicking out the king back in 1776—they’ve been trying to replace him ever since; witness the cult of celebrity and the extraordinary powers of the presidency, an office which is now occupied by a celebrity dictator. There are a zillion differences between Canada and the U.S. of course, but one that seems salient to me right now is that our parliamentary system of government, while not foolproof, is perhaps a bit more dictator-proof. We are, however, slipping. We celebrate a voter turn-out of 60 per cent. That’s not good enough. Our creaky old electoral boundaries mean that 70 per cent of Canadians can wind up being represented by the other 30 per cent. Not fair. Not democratic. We are starting to dig a moat of privilege and access between citizens and our elected representatives, and between our elected representatives and our government. We need more different kinds of people on the bus. I happen to believe we dodged a bullet with the 2025 federal election, but our mps need to regain the power to speak up for the folks who elected them, not simply kowtow to the party—whichever one it happens to be. We can see where kowtowing gets a democracy just by looking south.
The current U.S. dictatorship did not come out of nowhere. Nothing does. American history is streaked with authoritarianism and fascist flirtations. Charles Lindbergh, for one, batted his eyelashes at Hitler. But let’s not forget the 1933 riot at Toronto’s Christie Pits—where I took my first hockey skills class—when a swastika-waving crowd busted up a baseball game with shouts of “Heil Hitler!” We like to believe that, whatever our failings as a country, we’re not as bad as the States. But at a certain point, moral relativism becomes just plain immoral. Less fascism is still fascism.
If I had to name a favourite hockey player—if my life depended on it—it would be Erin Ambrose. She plays defence. She has all the skills, finesse, smarts, speed, strength, courage, and composure that make a great D. And something more. When I watch her play, I see something I never expected to see in a hockey game. I see her thinking. Hockey-becomes-thought. The effect of this on my brain is strangely pleasurable. Like a neural massage. An mri might show my brain waves going all Alpha–Theta. Ambrose turns hockey—the rough, non-stop, adrenaline-fuelled sport that I love—into pure thought. I think that is called transcendence. The game itself does not actually slow down, but it seems to do so because Ambrose’s perception of it gets bigger—and when I watch her, so does mine. I think the ingredient that makes her play transcend the great hockey qualities that she brings is selflessness. She sees the whole game. She is curious about the whole game. This selflessness allows her to be completely present. In doing so, she not only distinguishes herself as a great player, she makes her team better, she makes the league better. She makes the sport better. So, while hockey might seem to be the epitome of “move fast and break things,” in the hands of a great player, it becomes the opposite. It becomes “move slow and make things.” I think that’s a pretty good metaphor for a social democracy.
And I think it is significant that we have elected a former goalie as our pm. Goalies are the only players who are on the ice for the entire game. They exhibit extraordinary levels of composure. If you are a goalie, you are always at war—in the sense that long stretches where nothing happens are punctuated by all hell breaking loose. Goalies are calm and on high alert at the same time. They stay in their “house” for the most part, but will pop out of the crease with, at times, alarming derring-do to send a puck to safety, or they will full-on charge out to challenge an attacker. They accept being regularly roughed up with almost beatific equanimity. But if an opposing player gets in their crease—the blue paint that demarcates their “house”—the goalie will spear that player mercilessly with the butt of their stick, or will trip them and send them into the boards. Players protect the goalie with the loyalty and ferocity with which they would protect their moms. “Don’t you f***in’ touch my goalie!!” Because your mom does the same for you and then some. The puck stops with the goalie.
I think Americans should change their national anthem from “The Star-Spangled Banner” to “America the Beautiful.” They’d have to change some lyrics and shorten it, but the melody is beautiful, and some of the words have always brought tears to my eyes: “O beautiful for spacious skies / For amber waves of grain / For purple mountain majesties / Above the fruited plain. America! America! God shed His grace on thee / And crown thy good with brotherhood / From sea to shining sea.”
My only gripe with “America the Beautiful” is that I never refer to the United States as America. This is because America is a continent. Two continents. In a triumph of classic American branding, the U.S. co-opted the name America for itself. I would, however, overlook this in their anthem if they were to change it.
Bring on America the Beautiful. Bring on the opposite of the Ugly American—this was the title of an American novel published the year I was born, and it became a catchphrase. Throughout my childhood, the U.S. was in flames of unrest born of racism, and protest against the Vietnam War. I remember when the students at Kent State were shot dead by the National Guard. I was afraid to grow up and go to university.
But. I am a little bit American, because I am wholly Canadian. We are interlinked. I’ve always believed Canadians should have a one-third vote in American presidential elections. And that the rest of the world should have a sliding-scale percentage of a vote. I am grieving what is happening in the U.S.
Dear America (I know you prefer that name),
Thank you for the fun and the excitement and the art and the pop culture and the boldness and the many yeses that you say, especially when Canada so often says well let’s not rush into this. Thank you for rushing in with crazy creativity, bold ideas, and risky investments, and thank you for the maddeningly precious, sometimes just dumb, but usually amazing former nea. Thank you for a being a place where Canadian artists and entertainers who hit glass ceilings and brick walls at home have been able to soar—and, yes, finally find work in Canada after having made it in the States.
Thank you for my children, both of whom were born in the U.S. Thank you to their birth mother, an American woman who, like so many Americans, had to chart her path without the supports Canadians take for granted—“basics” like healthcare, good public education, and social assistance. She is a brave, strong, brilliant, and independent woman who made the conscious decision to place her babies in a Canadian family.
To the few among my American cousins who voted for Trump: I remember that the letters you wrote when we were kids were not quite literate, and I guess it stands to reason that, as products of a tattered school system, you voted for someone who has opted to simply toss the whole thing into the garbage. But yes, I’m mad at you.
To my American friends and colleagues: we will always be friends, and it’s more important than ever that we remain colleagues.
Thank you to all the Americans who are protesting every day. Thank you to all of you who are still talking and listening to one another. Thank you to all of you who are striving to find a peaceful way through.
My favourite hockey players now are women. But back in the days when I was curled up in the crook of my dad’s shoulder, my favourite player was Gordie Howe. Howe was a great player. And in the way of greatness, he was consistent. He was a forward who played a strong two-way game, and he wanted the puck. He did not look for a fight, but if you went into the corners with him, beware. Gordie Howe’s elbows were up. And they were lethal. If you encountered those bony boomerangs, you might not finish out the game. I feel the elbow is a peculiarly Canadian metaphor: an elbow is a weapon, and it is also the seat of the “funny bone.” Not for nothing is American comedy one of Canada’s most successful exports. And not for nothing is pro hockey disproportionately peopled with Canadian players.
So, from the days when I watched Hockey Night in Canada with my dad, whenever I hit a snag at school—or, later, as I embarked on my career in the physically moderate but psychologically extreme field of acting—he would say, “Keep your elbows up in the corners.” My dad died in 2017. He lived long enough to see his prediction of the demise of American democracy begin to surface like a U-boat in the St. Lawrence. But he died before he could see his advice to me become a national saying in the face of American threats to Canada’s existence.
It is still common to hear these threats ascribed to Donald Trump by name. He is still the butt of endless jokes; his wild proclamations and absurd behaviour are a bottomless source of laughs. But I no longer laugh at Trump. And when I discuss the threats to our country, its people, and all its inhabitants, to the water, the land, the sky—to Canada the Beautiful—I no longer temper those threats by ascribing them to Trump. He speaks for his regime, both elected and unelected. And he speaks for the American people. They elected him. The American people wish to deprive us of our sovereignty. The American people wish to seize and plunder the land and its creatures, including its people, its water and its sky. The American people wish to do this to an extent undreamt of by our worst Canadian offenders—those among us who see Canada the Beautiful as a collection of monetizable resources. The United States of America has stated its intention to take over our country, to end our democracy, and to steal our resources. When the American people decide that they do not wish to do this, we will know, because the current dictatorship will have been deposed. I hope that will happen via an election. For now, my funny bone is numb. But my elbows are sharp.
JESSE WENTE
An Indian at the White House
On March 24, 2016, I went to the White House. Well, sort of. Technically, it was the Eisenhower Executive Office, but it’s within the larger complex at the heart of Washington, D.C., and the American Empire. The security certainly suggested that we were close enough to warrant the many gates and bulletproof glass panes to pass through to gain entry. So, that’s good enough for me.
I was there for a film screening, naturally, as that was my business at the time. I was working at the Toronto International Film Festival as the head of its cinema and gallery programming team, and I was already well established within the Indigenous film sector. And that’s how I got an invite to this particular event. tiff had considered it enough of an honour to cover my travel expenses. The invite came from Chris Eyre—director of Smoke Signals, most famously. A film he had produced, called The Seventh Fire, was to be shown and followed by a panel discussion. I have found the panel discussion on YouTube, though can’t find myself in the audience—but believe me, I was there.
The film is a rather raw documentary about a First Nations gangster seeking redemption through embracing his Anishinaabe culture. It’s named after a prophecy that our people have about a time when we will reignite our culture, its teachings and way of life, so that we may survive. It’s a prophecy that predicts the end of colonialism, when the earth has been almost destroyed, and prescribes the way to survive.
The film is gripping and emotional, although not necessarily my type of movie, but I wanted to attend to show my support for those involved, and because when the hell else was I going to get an invite to the White House/Eisenhower Executive Office? Never, that’s when. So I went.
I was late, as I underestimated evening traffic in D.C., however I did get to see the reception area, which is called the Treaty Room. Now, there are two Treaty Rooms—one in the actual White House, which is apparently used as a den by the president, and one in the Eisenhower building. I was in the second one. It’s used for exactly these sorts of events, or at least it was before the darkness came. One can only imagine now.
If you’ve ever been inside a colonial capital building—not surprisingly, it doesn’t matter which colonial power—then you can probably guess the vibes of the Treaty Room at the White House. It is an ornate room inside a castle, so it has a grotesque beauty that tends to send shivers up this Nish’s spine, even though I know the food will probably be good.
The irony of hosting a screening of this film with a bunch of Indians in the audience, and having us visit the Treaty Room of a nation notorious for breaking treaties with First Nations, was, of course, not lost on anybody. But we were still all there, because that’s what we do. As we try to gain footholds, it requires us to be present in spaces just like this one. Nearly a decade later, as I write this, I’ve now spent much time in rooms not so different from that one, with other governments known for their treaty-breaking ways.
After the screening I went out to a swanky restaurant with the cast, the director, and Chris. It was a loud place that overlooked the White House and surrounding landmarks. It was quite lovely, even as I worried about getting back to my more suburban hotel.
This event occurred during Barack Obama’s second term, and just a year before Canada would celebrate its sesquicentennial. Justin Trudeau had only been elected the year previous, and he was still riding high on the wings of his Haida tattoo. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission had published its findings and ninety-four calls to action a year earlier. In other words, if there was ever going to be a gathering of Indians to watch a movie at the White House, this was exactly the time. It’s certainly hard to imagine it happening again.
