Wave the flags

Let’s just say, at the beginning of the hype I wasn’t going to watch any of the Olympic coverage. Nothing. No way. Damn that Putin for his intolerant, homophobic ways. I was going to show him. Yup. That’s what I was going to do. Instead of watching the Olympics I was going to do something creative or productive. Maybe I’d paint a mural. Maybe I’d finish writing that novel. Maybe I’d clean the junk drawer in the kitchen. Whatever. I wasn’t going to watch the Olympics. And then? Well, and then a good friend said, “It’s not about an insecure, fearmongering arse like Vladimir Putin. It’s about athletes who have worked hard to be in Sochi.” I felt myself warming to the idea of watching. My resolve to be Olympic-free started to melt away like the second day of a weight loss program. My friend was absolutely correct, though, it isn’t about Putin. The Olympics are about families and friends and communities who devoted their lives to their athletes. It is about thousands of early morning training sessions and bake sales to fundraise for the countless dollars needed pay coaches and for travel to qualifying contests. It is about the hardships, the sacrifices, the defeats and the victories. It isn’t about me and it, most certainly, isn’t about the likes of Putin. So, here I am. I’m up early, and up to my ears watching the Olympics. The novel writing is on hold. The painting won’t be painted any time soon and the junk drawer, well it’s a junk drawer, for goodness sake. I’m still put off by Putin’s politics, but who isn’t? Right.

Tolerance, noun: the ability or willingness to tolerate something, in particular the existence of opinions or behaviour that one does not necessarily agree with. Synonyms: acceptance, toleration.

When I was a kid, my parents weren’t exactly what you’d call tolerant of anything they deemed to be different. But what did I know then? I was a kid. Adults were right about stuff. Most of the adults I knew just called it the way they saw it, and apparently that was the norm. I clearly remember all kinds of sweat breaking out, around the breakfast table, when my older sister announced she was dating a person who was born in Canada but whose parents were from Japan. Oh my. Even his name wasn’t Canadian. Dad asked what we were supposed to call him when he dropped by since, most obviously, his name wasn’t exactly Anglo. My mother worried, openly, about their children. At the time, my sister was barely out of high school and not exactly looking for a life mate. If you know my sister, and most of you don’t, she liked to push buttons. My parents were raised during the depression and new to Canada. They wanted to fit in and had a lot of buttons just waiting to be pushed. But, as my Dad noted, “at least he wasn’t, you know”. But, I was a teenager at the time and, believe it or not, I didn’t know what you know meant. We heard all of the jokes with regard to sexual orientation and, for that matter, about skin colour, creed, ethnicity and social status. As far as I was concerned “you know” could have been any of those things. If you’re about my age (and many of you are), or older (and some of you might be), you probably heard the same stuff from your parents. And, like most of you, I attended schools filled with kids who were white, who were going to grow up, get married and have children. If they weren’t on track for marriage, they’d better be on track for holy orders. “Family” meant a mother, a father, a son, a daughter and, sometimes, a dog named Spot. The mom stayed home cooking, cleaning, mending, gardening and fetching. The dad went to work, smoked a pipe, read the newspaper and benefited from the mom’s cooking, cleaning, mending, gardening and fetching. The son rode a bike, delivered newspapers, played baseball, took the garbage out and kept notes on how to be like his dad. Sis went to school and, when she was at home, she helped mom. There wasn’t any room for issues of race, colour, creed or sexual orientation. In our world, the family unit was caucasian, white, Christian and, without a doubt, heterosexual. And, deep in our little phobic hearts, “tolerance” was what we thought we did best.

Phobia, noun: a persistent, abnormal and irrational fear of a specific thing or situation. Synonyms: dread, distaste. In particular homophobia is a noun: a fear of sameness or monotony or of homosexuality or of becoming a homosexual.

I believe most of us have phobias, those deep, heart-pounding, blood pressure-raising, dry-throated fears of something. Fear of creepy-crawlies, confined spaces, clowns, heights, dogs, cats, fire—you name it, but our biggest fear is probably our fear of what others will think of us. I was afraid to watch the Olympics because I thought someone might think I didn’t care about Putin’s idiotic personal idiosyncrasies and public policies. I should have been afraid of missing truly great athletes in the competition of their young lives. Wave the flags for the best of the best, kiddies.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca