Wednesday, January 16, 2019

My College Mentor


Hello Reader,
Got mentor?
Got meetings at work that function, or meetings that people hate?

Introduction

I had the most inspiring mentor back in college, and I’d like to tell you about him… because I have just done the required “mentor speech”  last week at Toastmasters (TM) International, a worldwide organization of weekly public speaking clubs. Who was my mentor, and what was his lasting effect?

First, about mentoring: Some years ago, well back into the previous century, finding your individual mentor became a self-help term in the business world, as people sought help, sought to “have an edge” for their corporate climb. I take that idea with a grain of salt. Meanwhile, at work, my Chief Executive Officer mentors all of us at once with her often-expressed belief in personal growth and how “you have to hear a new thing six times before you learn it.”

Every month Toastmasters magazine (subtitled The magazine for Communicators and Leaders) includes an article on mentoring, with equal focus on the “mentor” and the “protege,” with the hope that mentoring within TM will really take off. The problem? People only want a mentor if they feel a need. A boy who pulls a sword out of a stone, and must become king at a very young age, will surely feel the need to have “advice, direction and support” from a mentor. Hence King Author had Merlin the magician. The rest of us? In Toastmasters? Not so much. So instead of speaking before my club about my toastmaster mentor, I told of when my world was young and I had a community college teacher.

My College Mentor

Gerry Bruce mentored all of us at once as he instructed us in something like “how to lead a meeting.” (Too bad college courses don’t have titles, only numbers) This class was a part of my career program in recreation, as the thinking went that someday, in a small town meeting about, say, building an arena, we might have to chair the meeting, with the townsfolk assuming that we graduates knew more than the average farmer about Robert’s Rules of Order, if only from our campus club meetings and student government. Gerry Bruce made sure we would be up to the challenge. (Meanwhile, some campus clubs—but not mine—never need Robert’s Rules as they never do anything more controversial than hold a wine and cheese party every semester)

Bruce once remarked that he didn’t need to prepare a lesson plan as we would make lots of mistakes and provide lots of “teachable moments.” He could say this only because, as our kids say, he “knew his stuff.” 

I am sure Bruce could have walked into class talking, and then kept on talking right up to the bell; walked in again next class and totally talk-talk-talked all class. But he didn’t. He had us doing practical exercises, holding meetings. Now, I’m a university graduate, and I can appreciate lots of data. Head knowledge. But what Bruce knew was what Plato said in Greece thousands of years ago: “The purpose of education is action.” What Plato didn’t need to add was: “You won’t learn a new thing, not well enough to take action, until you hear it six times.” What Bruce did was decide, before the term started, what few things he would keep repeating all semester, things for us to internalize. Forget loads of data: He knew people don’t drink from a fire hose.

“You can be competent, or you can be incompetent,” Bruce often said. This concept needed to be repeated because my classmates were, many of them, “post high school,” meaning: still flaky, still irresponsible, still a liability in a student group project. At the time I was in my twenties, fresh from the army base across the road, where keeping your word was taken for granted. I was aghast when the program secretary complimented me for always returning my “overnight” materials the next morning. Turns out half the class was being irresponsible to the point where the secretary was considering a black list. You might assume, “Oh well, everybody finally shapes up when they graduate to the working world.” Then again, you might assume graduates with a business degree know how to be responsible in a workplace meeting.

Certainly Bruce was competent. He had once been a small town recreation worker, but now he owned a fixed wing aircraft and made his living across the time zone as a “municipal consultant.” Surely he had taken responsibility to become competent before he started his business. 

We learned abstract things such as what to do if a group became stuck—Right now, over in Britain, a big group called “parliament” is stuck over trying to take action to decide on Brexit. They claim they are “gridlocked—” We learned practical things such as how to run a debate or a panel, and precisely why to have one in the first place. We practised standing up to speak, just like in real life: The college default, as it happens, is for students to timidly speak from their seats, which is easier, but not done in real life, not for a town hall meeting.

One morning we began the class by writing a midterm. Open book, since we would have our books in real life. After the test was over, we resumed learning.  We had a low stage at one end of the room, and it was here that some of us, after the test, had to go up and role model having a meeting. I remember one of us was to be a member of the Royal Canadian Legion, as the legion is a traditional funding source for children’s sports. Others were similarly from the community. The goal of the meeting? To start up a summer camp. I forget who I was to be, I only remember I was on stage too, but not as the chairman, thank God: Our meeting got stuck.

We stayed stuck, right there in front of our classmates, as our chairman did the usual chairman things such as having only one person speak a time, on a maybe-not-so-clear topic, but stuck we were, spinning our wheels ever deeper into the sand, and stuck we stayed. Until our teacher had mercy on us, and released us to slink back to our seats. 

Then our mentor raised his voice, not from hatred, not from anger, but for emphasis. “What the heck happened? You were stuck!…” We all shrank. “How could that be? You just wrote the mid term! Silence. “What should you have done?” …I’m pleased to say that I was the first person to timidly come up with something from our textbook. “Uh…”  “YES!” Once I had broken the logjam, Bruce knew we would all rush to consult the textbook and our notes, our bag of tricks… So he could immediately drop the topic. But not before giving us a final concept.

Bruce stormed, “You all reverted to old behaviour patterns!” Some things, I guess, you have to hear more than six times if you are to change. As it happened, I had just learned that community organizer Saul Alinsky—later, after President Obama was in the White House, known as “Barak Obama’s mentor”—had discovered the same frustrating limitation in trying to teach his people. I put up my hand and I said so, adding, “Now I’m feeling sorry for myself, because how the heck am I supposed to ever learn to change?” Our mentor replied that we students can learn the same way he did: By keeping an open mind.

What Was My Mentor’s Lasting Effect?

In my small-picture personal life, I have served as chairman of the board of directors of an evolving for-profit company: The other directors were eager action-oriented extroverts: As I kept them in check, yet moving forward against their realistic fears, I’m sure my classroom and textbook learning showed. 

For my big-picture citizen life, I have been able to see the world all the clearer… such as, during the past year, the British parliament, and the scandals of American social media. If two heads are better than one, and if their meetings were functional, then maybe Facebook’s CEO Mark Zuckerberg would not now be cravenly dodging a summons to speak in London before parliament. He knows “he done wrong.” 

And maybe Google would not have been found guilty and fined so heavily by the court of the European Union, not if at a Google meeting, someone had reminded the group of their former corporate vision of “Don’t be evil.” But if social media leaders—I’m looking at you, Zuckerberg—have bad character? Then it takes not a meeting but a miracle to save them. (On a computer nerd’s blog a commenter from Google exposed the ethical gap of his company: It was not pretty)

At the agency where I work, I once went around to each senior executive and I asked. Answer? I learned we do indeed have functional meetings, both at the senior executive level, which I don’t see, and at lower levels, which I do see. The sad thing is that I will read/hear/view on the internet, again and again, that businesspeople hate their workplace meetings. Why?

I don’t know why, but I will say this: I have read several sources about “how to be a facilitator.” It seems that if you are a consultant, called into a business to facilitate a meeting or workshop, for a half day or a couple days or more, then the usual procedure is to start with a flip chart or white board and ask the seasoned, serious, work-ethic, mature businesspeople to generate a list of behaviours, “the role of the member,” for having a functional meeting. What does this list, for all to see, show? 

It shows that folks in the working world, years removed from their flakey days as college students, know what to do—but they just can’t do it. Hence they need the prominent list to remind each other. For the remainder of the year, sans facilitator, they hate their meetings. Why? 

Besides prominent human nature reasons… perhaps they revert to old behaviour patterns. I suppose functional groups start with a functional management. While I see no excuse for incompetent meetings, I try to be charitable towards groups and executives, as I know human nature is very prevalent.

In my current life the closest I get to facilitating is being the chairman of Friday Free Fall, a voluntary weekly group of talkative, artistic, individualistic writers. Can you spell wild horses? A no-nonsense lady there commented I was a good chairman because I have both kindness and toughness, adding she couldn’t chair because she lacked the kindness.

And now I lean back from my keyboard, look into space, and then bend over to tap these kind words: 
Dear reader, I hope you may be willing to have personal growth… from hearing something six times, with an open mind… and then avoid reverting to old behaviours.

As Tiny Tim says, “God bless us, everyone.”


Sean Crawford
January
(Wow, how did it get to be)
2019 (so fast?)
On the Great Plains

Footnotes:
~If you want me to quietly observe your meeting, then contact me here. (I hold a Master of Facilitation through Mount Royal University Continuing Education)

~Based on Gerry’s teaching, as shown in my essay, if you do a speech at toastmasters, then you don’t have to talk all through, for the full allotted time: Less is more. Use pauses. Repeat things as needed.

~On my blog “about me” page I said I like the series by David Gerrold of the Chtorr Wars: the U.N. versus an alien nature infestation. Humanity is shown trying to “up their game,” to meet this unprecedented world challenge, through having meetings, both functional and dysfunctional. 

A happy memory: I once sat with a small business owner, on the grass behind her store, because she ran meetings, here in Alberta and over in British Columbia, for (Scott Peck style) “community building.” I read aloud from Gerrold’s third book: A Day for Damnation. The composite cover showed a diseased forest on fire, a man in a flight suit, and a deadly jet fighter. 

My friend, who would never have read that book herself, loved the description of a training meeting where individuals want to “cop out” but the chairman is holding them accountable to reality… (She was the mother of the boy I knew K.I.A. in Afghanistan—lest we forget)

I can’t resist saying more: Halfway through the first book a U.N. science meeting is shown being dysfunctional. Now I understand: It’s partly because a) members don’t know/won’t do their role, and b) the first string leaders, the “A team” have all been killed by a Chtorr plague. (As have all the physicians)
Also, folks are still “in denial,” and the organizers don’t realize how they may fix that denial.

~Remembering that my essay on Assimilation a fortnight ago included aboriginals: 

A mentor can have an “effect” in many ways. Gerry Bruce, who lived in a small town, was quite sympathetic to indigenous, without using the phrase “white racism,” because “they had been hammered on.” Hence I silently said to myself: For our indigenous to achieve self-esteem it would be more energy-efficient, quicker, for them to switch away from trying for assimilation to trying for a “separate but equal” culture. Was I saying they should give up? Wimp out? I was saying they should make an appropriate decision as to where their energy goes. Like blacks did in the U.S. after 1969. (By the way, up here in Canada, blacks are just whites in black skin, in the eyes of indigenous) 

How creative of me: Because this would have been before the new Charter of Rights and Freedoms had officially said indigenous had a separate culture, and before I had heard the idea six times. (Cultural change lags behind government decrees and new technology) 

~My own “mentoring effect,” which surprised me, was a young woman at my university toastmasters club saying she was starting to read because of me. 
(Not all students, with their university level I.Q., are readers; some will not read even after graduation is behind them, when they merely have a straight job, sans course-load) 

It’s possible I had been unconsciously quoting books as I talked to my club, more likely I had made no secret of being an avid reader.

~I like students learning to be competent. For various comments on excellence, and the role of boards of directors, click on my label to the right for Olympics… One of the essays is called Olympics and Boards. You might also like Arete means Excellence, archived February 2014.

~In Gerry’s class, we even had to stand to tell a joke. I remember one day, just before the bell, he was seriously telling us recreation students about how people can escape life in many ways, not just through substances. For example: A man who wouldn’t crawl into the bottle, would instead leave his wife and kids at home to go jogging for miles.

I raised my hand, then stood to say, “That’s what I call, ‘running away from your problems!’”

Wednesday, January 9, 2019

Imaginative Travel with H.G. Wells

essaysbysean.blogspot.com

Hello Reader,
Got imaginative travel in this mundane realm?


January. Gaining speed on a new year’s road, seeing the crest of a low hill just ahead. Then what? We may drive on past newly dreamed of gymnasiums, past bogs with wispy new year’s resolutions: This month, according to the travel agencies, is when folks make travel plans. How ’bout that jet to the Isle of Wight? If it’s not too dear.

Of course we are careful about our dearly earned money, but I’ll tell what’s always free: imagination. Like travel writer H.V. Morton: Look out to sea, and over to that rocky natural harbour. Can you see them? Pirates, Vikings, and Pilgrims? That’s three different worlds, three visits for the price of just one harbour.

Travel is like a carrying out a new year’s resolution: The hardest part is getting started. I wanted to romantically travel to the land of invasion by evil Martian fighting machines, up high on three stilts. I managed at last to get going, and wrote a poem too.

Three Legs

The hardest thing in my life 
was to leave the old farm, 
where the easiest and proper number of legs 
for a dirt floor milking stool
is three.

Easy to search the big city for a nice flat.
Hard to keep my new digs tidy and clean.
Hard to get out into the neon bustle.
Easy to stay in the yard by starlight
pressing my eye to a telescope
on a tripod.

Easy to have careless cables and cold screens.
Hard to get off that deep couch.
Hard to roll over the bumps for getting a passport.
Easy at last, to get airspeed for flying to Gatwick.

Easy then 
to stand painting romantic colors 
using an easel
on three legs.



I imagined the first cylinder from Mars silent in the sandpit on the common.

On Horsell Common

Heat-Ray periodically sweeps 
past
black sticks on purple heath

Gay ladies, unknowing, stroll out
to view the Thing in the pit.
The coals of their waiting hearth 
fade to cold black.


Have you read The Time Machine? Or The Invisible Man? Both from the mind of H.G. Wells. You may recall that in the 19th century, while living in the town of Woking, Wells wrote his classic about his neighbours being blasted by Martians. I journeyed there, (population now 60,000) to see the sandpit where the first Martian cylinder landed on Earth. Here’s a poem I wrote of my travel.

Into Woking

I flew the strato-jet from Calgary to the airport,
from the airport I rode a passenger train to Woking,
from Woking station I backpacked to the historical society.
I met Duncan who expressed his regrets 
that Occidental College is now Occidental Shopping Centre.
We both remember how the Martian Heat Ray 
blasted the college, 
putting the chimney 
of Mr. Wells’ house 
in line of sight of the Ray.
Crack! went the chimney.

The house of H.G. Wells has a little plaque.
I stood outside his home 
with my back to the raised rail line across the road.
Wells knew the station was close yet too far
so he borrowed a cart and drove his wife to Leatherhead.

The cart was borrowed 
from the owner of the Spotted Dog.
The horse, 
poor brute, 
suffered a broken neck.
The owner, 
poor man, 
was found dead in dark of night.
Wells, 
mercifully, 
was innocent of
what was to become of Leatherhead.

Today there is no Spotted Dog.
Locals raised on Wells tell me with distaste
a few years ago 
a car dealer 
levelled it to make a paved lot.

A bar named Ogilvies has a sign of a telescope.
Inside are many old pictures of telescopes—
etchings, lithographs, engravings,
but no mention of Ogilvie, 
a friendly astronomer
and a good man 
who perished under a flag of truce at the sandpit.

A bar of the Witherspoon chain has a Wells theme.
On the ceiling are two great illuminated glass circles,
a clock face,
and a circle of book pages,
readable from the floor. 
A local eagerly asks, 
“Do you want to see time go backwards?”
“Yes.”
He rushes over to the secret switch 
for the Time Machine.

Someone says George over there 
was the model for the Invisible Man.
George raises his glass to salute
while the Man sits alone 
in the window 
wrapped in his bandages.

I pull out my walking map from the town library.
A drinking buddy tells me the sandpit isn’t marked. 
“Just go there, and turn here,” says the friendly man.

No one wants to drink under the gaze of nasty Martians. 
Far down the hall to the loo is an old steel etching,
a stiff Martian holds a projector to blast a bridge.
Be thankful those times are long ago.



Sean Crawford
Calgary
January
2019


  

Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Assimilation

essaysbysean.blogspot.com

E pluribus unum
"Out of many, one" U.S. national motto, found on most U.S. currency

Hello Reader,
Got history?

Amusing idealism for assimilation: I once a read a letter by the founder of Boy Scouts, Lord Baden-Powell, referring to Northern Britain. A footnote explained that this was the term for Scotland, for some people, back then.

Amusing reverse assimilation: During elementary school in British Columbia everybody sang the Twelve Days of Christmas line: 
four collie birds, (three French hens)… from the Scottish word collie meaning black. 
(And we spelled Hallowe’en with an apostrophe, and we had a portrait of the queen in every classroom) 
Now we have assimilated the song into America: on the radio I hear “three calling birds” A collier, as you may know, is a ship or barge carrying coal. My dictionary says it also means a miner. Some folks say the original collie dogs were black.


As you know, the Americans don’t believe in hereditary titles: Sir John, a Canadian hero, was “of North America,” but not “an American.” Maybe you’ve heard of his equivalent, Alexander Hamilton. Here’s the opening song to the current stage musical, Hamilton:

How does a bastard, orphan, 
son of a whore and a Scotsman, 
dropped in the middle of a forgotten
Spot in the Caribbean by providence, 
impoverished, in squalor
Grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

Part of the American Dream was the concept of a national “melting pot” where you would feel shame at being “unAmerican,” a shame fuelling your motivation to be American, and you could even become, in the brave new world, something revolutionary, new, and exciting—a hero. Yes, don’t call Alexander Hamilton a “dirty traitor”—once the revolution succeeded, he became a Founding Father.

Canadians, perhaps as part of their heritage of colonialism, have never said “melting pot.” I remember my grade five teacher, Mr. Thompson, telling us about a father and son from merry old England, down in Washington State, being angrily just about thrown off the bus as they struggled to understand U.S. change for the fare box. Up in Canada, he told us, without a melting  pot, the pressure to fit in was not so intense.

“Hey buddy, got assimilation?” 
At the time of the U.S. revolution in 1776 there were better maps of New England than of the Scottish Highlands.—While earlier in that same century, the kilt and the bagpipes had been outlawed—By next century, by the time Canada had become a formal country, a “confederation” of provinces in 1867, the British maps were up-to-date. And then it was NOT an Englishman, but a Scotsman, Sir John A. MacDonald, who became Canada’s first prime minister. 

By the time Canada had its 100th birthday, in 1967, Scotland was vastly English speaking, as were vast reaches of Ireland. True story from my boyhood: An Irish shopkeeper asked two young schoolboys why they weren’t speaking Irish. The lads replied, “We thought that was only for in school.”

By the 20th century, in national times of strife, such as World War II, or the Falklands, the entire British Isles (except for the republic of Ireland) would instinctively act in unison, with the “Highland” units fighting as British units against tyranny.

In other words, as generations had passed, assimilation had succeeded. As with the coming of the industrial revolution, there had been groans, bruises and iniquity early on. In elementary school we had vinyl record players; sometimes there would be a still-picture film strip projected, we would advance a frame every time we heard a squeeze-horn beep. It was then that I heard Dirty Old Town, a song I would not hear again until the Pogues covered it, so many years later. 

We heard women and children, as historical characters, speaking about the horrors of the industrial revolution. And at the end an adult would tell the child that although there are dark times now, some day the industrial revolution would lead to a better, sunlit world…

You make a revolution by breaking bones, an omelette by breaking eggs, and assimilation by breaking hearts… Maybe there is no softer, easier way.

Comedian George Carlin, known for his cutting no-nonsense humour, was born and grew up in Little Ireland in New York City. Of course he was fond of his childhood “culture,” but, as he put it in his autobiography: I used to be Irish Catholic. Now I’m an American. You know—you GROW.

It was in 2014, three years before “Canada 150,” (national birthday) that I found myself in London England, reading newspapers, short days before folks in Scotland were having a Scottish-only referendum on national independence from Britain.  I wondered if it was to keep their sacred culture. (Maybe it was charming how they idealistically allowed children as young as age 16 to vote on this grave issue—maybe that was part of the Scottish culture. Maybe.)

I can imagine someone like Carlin joking about the letters to the editor posted from Scotland to London newspapers by people who were pro-independence. (I read them with interest) Carlin might ask: 
Did writers lament pre-teen kids not speaking Scottish in stores? 
Or teenage girls kneeling to play discs that weren’t of Scottish folk songs, but of the Fab Four from Liverpool? 
Or teenage boys preferring English blue jeans to kilts? 
No, no indeed. People told the editor about having scorn for “those rascals in Whitehall,” (parliament) and wanting a government closer to home. Carlin would sympathize with distrust of government. 

Sometimes, the ability to perceive tyranny is not always Common Sense: Hence the booklet of that name, by Tomas Paine, to convert colonists from hailing their leader to doing something new: making a revolution. It’s not always easy, but it is common sense to believe whatever your peers commonly believe, even when they agree to not knowing in advance whether assimilation will succeed or be worth the cost.  As they say with techno revolutions, industrial and digital, time will judge.

Canadians might not have been able to perceive their colonial legacy, not able to question their taken-for-granted belief in God and king and country and assimilation. Meanwhile, perhaps a few were frustrated that the rest of the English speaking world respected “American literature” and “English literature” but not Canadian literature. Such is colonialism. 

In Canada there was no revolution. If Canadians, on rare occasion, for their ancestors, use the term “Founding Fathers” one senses an embarrassment at applying this U. S. word to Canadians who are not in the same major league as the neighbouring Founders. Certainly in Canada the “Fathers of Confederation” never risked death by hanging as dirty traitors. In fact, the queen wanted the provincial colonies to assimilate with each other in 1867: “All the better to resist Yankee imperialism, my dear.” 

The United States civil war, remember, only ended in 1865, and it is a sad historical cliche that countries are sorely tempted to imperialize after victory. For example, North America only entered the history books after the Spanish forced out the last of the Moors in 1492. That’s when Queen Isabella did her thing.

A few hundred years after Isabella, a man, a mere mortal, a known heavy drinker, became Canada’s first ever prime minister: Sir John A. MacDonald. Call him the first Father of Confederation. About a century and a half later, in 2018, a statue of that man, outside the provincial parliament of British Columbia, would be deemed persona non grata. (person not pleasing) Removed. This action made the Canadian newspapers coast to coast. 

“Nations get the political leaders (and statues) they deserve.” (As my uncle said, when he dropped bombs on Berlin) 
Why is Sir John being reviled? Besides everything else, assimilation. He instigated Residential Schools, with infamous results. Children of various nations (tribes) were assimilated into the common language, true, but the effort was botched so badly …I will not take space here to explain, as right now experts are explaining better than I… so badly that first nation children would not even be taught to feel pride in their second nation. Not like, say, modern characters in Doctor Who, such as his medical student companion, who speaks proudly of “we British.”  

I think beliefs around assimilation have changed. As there has been, in my own lifetime, a change from citizenship requiring five years residency, voting age being 21, and capital punishment being good. Now we believe in the right of homosexuals to exist, of children to be transexual, and, during my father’s lifetime, of women’s right to vote.

Since about the time that Canadians wrote their own constitution, (I was already an adult) called a charter, there has been official belief NOT in assimilation of Indians but rather, that they will always be separate, in perpetuity, preferring to live and marry among their own kind, with membership officially based not on “race” but on bloodlines. This charter, when I was a young man, had led to a Canadian judge ruling that a person of aboriginal heritage can cross the international border out of loyalty to his tribal-nation, not Canada. 

As well, possibly to avoid a double standard for native and non-native, more probably to include Quebec, (There was a 1970’s government report on Bi-lingualism and Multi-culturalism) when I was still a boy, Canadians began believing in a “multicultural mosaic” in place of assimilation, something “better” than the U.S. melting pot. This meant separate cultural identities were OK provided, like pretty mosaic tiles in plaster, people were assimilated into a common bedrock of language and cultural identity. Times have sure changed: Our very latest prime minister, Justin Trudeau, has said that Canada does not have any common culture. To me he is a minority of one; I think future Canadians, and the next prime minister too, will not agree. Such is Canada. 

In the U.S., from what I’ve read, people have gone from confidently believing in a “melting pot” to less confidently believing in “pluralism.” Their shared plaster would be their constitution. And democracy, of course. And also—?… I will tell you what’s too hard to say with a straight face: “We believe in the values of the enlightenment.” I realize that such is Europe’s response to Islamic extremist asylum seekers, but over here that would be too nebulous for a regular person.

I suppose shared culture is like shared customs: As an anthropologist said, “Better illogical customs than no customs at all.”

I wonder what the next change will be, for the U.S. and Canada? “The pendulum swings as the pendulums do.”


Sean Crawford
January
2019
  
Footnotes:

~I see I'm getting hits from Europe: I wrote Assimilation For Success, about Europe, archived December 2017, with a link(s) and footnote references to my related essays, Also see George Carlin and Diversity, archived October 2016.

~I wrote about Baden-Powell’s idealism and thrift in two essays archived in September 2018.

~The question is binary: Did Sir John ignore the common sense of his peers, just like Prime Minister Justin Trudeau today, to be a "minority of one," or are people today ignorant of history?

~UPDATE: In the newspaper for Saturday Jan 5: The Manitoba Public Insurance agency, referring to the "truth and reconciliation"  (for residential schools) hearings, is considering disciplinary action against staff who initially approved a Star Trek fan's vanity license plate for his car (since revoked) His plate had a border "We are the Borg" and "Resistance is futile" The problem? The plate read ASIMIL8 ...  This news story documents that, regardless of what Sir John may have thought, Canadians no longer believe in assimilation for indigenous. .. although surely they used to, recently enough for the idea to now be hurtful. (Someday, time plus tragedy will equal comedy)

~Now that time has passed, my favorite action of assimilation was right after the civil war. I chuckle at Abraham Lincoln, on the White House lawn, ordering the band to play “the south’s” song, Dixie. To the horrified onlookers gasping, “Dixie?” Abe joked “It’s ours now, we captured it fairly” but what he meant was: There must be no divisions, the U.S. must now be assimilated, all together, for all time… In this effort, unlike certain countries where resentments remain like plastic, the U.S. succeeded.

~As for pendulums, and a map of England, (link) here is a fun 1965 Roger Miller Youtube song, called England Swings.

~And here’s the Pogues singing Dirty Old Town.