Columnists
Letter writers
Not all letters to the editor get published.
Sometimes it’s because the content is expressing incorrect facts rather than providing an opinion. On a rare occasion, it’s because the letter is libellous, and publishing it would put both the paper and the letter writer in a legally vulnerable position. Most often, it’s a matter of unsuccessfully looking for space. This is not a personal slight, but rather a reality of a small publication.
Letter writers are readers. They are passionate people. They are the people who begin discussions about the goings-on of our community. They challenge the decisions of politicians and businesses and, most importantly, our own writers. This is something we encourage wholeheartedly.
When I published a column questioning the relevance of the royal visit to Wellington, many folks disagreed with me. Some corrected me (Camilla is, in fact, the duchess of Cornwall, not Cambridge). Some wrote reasoned arguments about the monarchy’s relevance, and even the newsworthiness of the visit itself. They made some good points, and indeed, we will be covering the visit and its effects in the next couple of issues.
There was one letter I received in the past couple of weeks that caused some consternation. The writer encouraged its publication, but I had trouble.
The racist, xenophobic undertones of the message meant publishing it, with the author’s name, would either lead to encouraging a viewpoint that, for me, crosses a line. Or it would lead to a public shaming of the author, which is not something I’m willing to do to any reader, regardless their views.
Whether the former or the latter is more likely is dependent on the views of a community I belong to, and the answer to that, I think, is not one I care to know.
The text of that letter, with the author’s name omitted, is:
Not really surprised at someone with the name of Mihal Zada having such negative and ignorant opinion such as yours.
If you took the time to read a little history, you may come to realize that it was the British and the French who built this country with sweat and blood. The majority of Canadians are their descendants, who gave you and your forefathers the opportunity of a better life.
People like you may not “get it”, but we do!
Perhaps, to some, this isn’t a big deal. But to me, it cuts to the core of a fear I’ve had my entire life, living here in this country, struggling to accept that someone with a name like mine is not welcomed everywhere. Is not safe everywhere. That if a Canadian is not a descendant of the English or the French, they are somehow lesser. Less worthy of their home and nationality.
It’s a fear shared by many people with unusual names, different accents, skin colours, sexual or gender orientations. It’s also shared, unfortunately, by the people who were here building communities, cultures and civilizations long before the French and English set foot on this continent.
It’s a fear I’m facing by writing this. I am glad to say the vast majority of letter writers to The Times don’t take this approach. I have faith that represents our community’s point of view.
I opened the new edition of the Wellington Times on Wed. May 6 and on page 3 there was a Happy 50th Birthday Tim and I noticed the cake was one that my Dad had made and decorated when he had Francis Bakery in Picton. The cake was vanilla with toasted coconut around the outside and the writing was done with a red piping jelly and cherries on each corner. The boy, now an adult would have been born in 1970 and my Dad would have had the bakery 16 years by then having purchased from the previous owner on May 1, 1954 when I was only 4 months old. With the current state of self isolation and my partner having passed away on March 27 of this year, I have had a lot of time to sort through papers and many memories have come to mind as well. My Dad knew in 1947 that he wanted to come to Canada from Holland and took a book-keeping course, in 1948, he took a bread making course and in 1949, took a pastry making course all of which he passed. At Christmas, he asked his girl friend to marry him and to leave the safety and familiarity of her home land to come to Canada with him. He gave her time to consider what she would like to do and on Aug.9, 1951 they were married and were in Canada Aug. 12. The dates of the proposal and marriage were inside their wedding rings and was not mentioned to us all those years and was discovered after they had both passed away. The three certificates my Dad had accomplished from the courses he took in Holland were also not found until after they had passed and a book on Canada written completely in Dutch was in the bookcase. My Dad was employed at a bakery in Kingston and lived in a small apartment upstairs with possessions they brought from Holland and many of these things they still had and treasured to the very end. My Mom missed her family and Holland and my sister was born in 1952 and I followed in 1953-15 months later. They moved with the help of Al’s Delivery from that apartment to one over Francis Bakery by way of Hwy.2 to Belleville over the swing bridge and on to Picton-Hwy. 49 didn’t exist at that time and there was only one ferry at Glenora which was still iced in, so it was quite a journey, with my 2 brothers coming along after moving to Picton in 1956 and 1960. Many people local and from out of town came in to the bakery and some are still asking for some of the recipes from time to time, either for baking or a memory of a business so beloved.