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SEAN ENG TAMALAYA EV TT EA ATURE AY RE . Har Ye lg ra vl Tog aby ga es AER S RELL IAEM) YEAS $55 COM TRI SX SIAL LE ETC RAY : editorial page Po x LE ' eG Fn BL Se A IAG NDA NLT os Zan Raman nS PRIDE AZINE SRC Ae IT or ay 1 PECL Soba A ASCHER Wake up, Canada Or it's too late Canadians were startled last week with the news that our diplomats in Tehran had given refuge to Americans and then smuggled them out of the country to safety. The revelation probably could not have come at a better time for Canada and Canadians, who are caught up at the moment in a dreary winter election campaign, the outcome of which is bound to be somewhat less than inspirational. It is interesting to note that almost immediately after the Tehran story broke, there were reports that the release of the story was somehow "engineered" for political purposes. One would have to be slithering in the depths of political cynicism to believe that a party or leader would use this story for purely partisan reasons. After all, there are still Americans held hostage in Tehran, and their well-being may be further in danger because of the actions of a few brave Canadian diplomats. It is also interesting to note that the national news media in this country immediately "went bananas" over the story, filling the air waves and the front pages with as many details as they could dig out. The national media, caught up like the Canadian people, in a dull winter election campaign, and starving for any kind of positive story, jumped on this one with all barrels blazing. And why not? After a month of Joe Clark, Pierre Trudeau, and Ed Broadbent on the campaign trail, the Tehran story was like a fairy tale; better than the movies or a paperback novel. Not surprisingly, the media also began to come under some criticism for 'blowing the story up", for giving it too much space and too much air time. It's ironic that the media get constant criticism for being too negative and pessimistic, and then when a 'good news story' comes along (and one of international significance) the media also get knocked for "over-doing it." One does not have to look very hard to see that the reasons for this reflect what has become the prevailing mood among Canadians these days: cynicism, pessimism, negativism. At every level of our public life, the mood is anything but positive. There is a lack of confidence among Canadians in just about everything. Granted, the leaders of the two major parties do precious little to inspire confidence. But this mood permeates far beyond just this federal election campaign. Politicians at all levels are under the gun, looked upon with suspicion, dislike, and even mis-trust. Running for public office has become a thankless task, and we only need to look at our national leaders to realize that qualified people are turning their backs of public life. Sadly enough, it is not just elected politicians who are the object of our collective cynicism. But all of those who work in the public sector are feeling it: civil servants, postal employees, even teachers and police officers. It used to be that the dominant feature of the collective Canadian psyche was a kind of inferiority complex. Now that seems_to have changed to cynicism. Not only does this dominate our public life, it is spilling over into our approach and attitudes towards everything. It doesn't seem to matter what the issue is these days, the mood is either 'leave me alone, | don't want to get involved,' or "/I"m against it because I'm against it." Canadians, on balance, have had it so very good for so very long. The standard of living for most of us cannot be matched anywhere in the world. Yet, we are in danger of drowning in a sea of apathy, and even worse than that, pessimism. A change in attitude in this country is long over-due. Whether it be our attitude towards issues at the national level which have an effect on us all, or those of a more local nature, Canadians had better wake up fast and start learning the difference between constructive criticism and cynical pessimism. bill TROUGH PATROL One of the favorite extra duties of a high school teacher is "trough patrol". The euphemism for this is "Cafeteria suer- vision." ari It's such a lively, colourful and v activity that you get teachers vying for it, offering to trade off one dance supervision for a week of trough patrol. Of course, dance supervision is pretty dull stuff. All you have to do is check the girls' purses for mickeys of vodka, look to see who is throwing up in the washrooms, make sure that no one is setting fire to the stage curtains, while enjoying a crafty drag, call the cops if you find someone with dialated eyes trying to fly instead of dance. And there are too many teachers on supervision. We sometimes have twelve teachers to supervise only about three hundred dancers. The only real problem with dance supervisions is trying to retain your hearing under the assault of a rock band. But trough patrol is another kettle of fish. It's exciting, dangerous, and turbulent. Never a dull moment. Oh, it's demanding. You need the smiley resourcefulness of a Thomas Edison, the judgement of a Solomon, the tolerance of a saint, and the ability to wash your hands of the whole matter of a Pontius Pilate. Not to mention eyes in the back of your head, a strong stomach, and a thick hide. But that's why we trough patrollers feel we are a special breed. Like the first men on the moon. Or lion tamers. Or sewage experts. Take a huge cafeteria, once a gym- nasium. Put in it 500 exuberant teenagers just released from four boring monotonous periods in the classroom. Arm then with everything from plastic forks to hard apples. Throw in two teachers, and stir with a mixture of sex, high spirits, the desire to show off, and a hardy streak of latent vandalism. Interesting. Lively? Oh, yes. Over in this corner, two grade-niners are flicking potato chips drenched in gravy at each other. In the middle of the arena, a group of seniors is screaming with hilarity at an off-colour joke. In another corner a pair of young lovers is just on the verge of having sex. As you move to break something up, an apple splatters against the wall where your head just was. Colourful? Well, I guess. Here a squashed orange, festooned by french fries and garnished by sticky ice cream wrap- pers. There a trampled banana topped by a dropped, melting ice-cream bar. On the pastel walls some abstract art manufac- tured by flung apples, peanut butter sand- wiches, half-empty cartons of chocolate milk, and other viands. Adding a nice touch of cool are the green garbage bags, surrounded by brown paper bags, thrown, and missed, from as far away as fifty feet. In the garbage bags, bulging, are about two hundred lunches, made up in the dark of an early morn by a loving mother. They are intact, including sand- wiches, apple or orange, and cookies. The owner is downing his second plate of french fries and gravy, or his third ice-cream bar. Besides the colour,. there is a great appeal to the senses, something we English teachers try to instill in the writing of our students. For the eyes, there is Mary Ellen, bouncing braless around the perimeter of the zoo, pretending nonchalance and drink- ing in every whistle. For the nose, though I can't smell, they tell me there is a pervasive aroma of cooking oil, onions, bodies and feet. For the ear, there is a cacophony, ranging from a noisy group singing "Happy Birthday" with some new words, to a squealing, giggling bevy of young girls, to the triumphant shouts of the poker players as they slam down a full house over three nines. For the sense of touch, there is, of course, the stepping on a banana that shouldn't be there, or the picking up of an empty milk carton only to find a quarter- pint running up your arm. ) I mentioned some qualities the teacher requires. Resourcefulness. Like knowing how to keep your eye on a group that is going to get up and leave their table looking like a trough, and simultaneously breaking up a fight between two banty roosters from grade nine. Judgement? You see a kid sitting alone, sucking an ice-cream bar, at a table laden with debris. ""It ain't mine. I ain't picking it up." He may be right or lying through his teeth. Do you act the petty martinet and snarl, "Pick it up, anyway!", or do you mildly do it yourself? Tolerance? Absolutely. You have to remind yourself continually that some of {hese kids don't learn any manners at home, and others are just forgetful or careless. You need eyes in the back of your head or you'll either be beaned by an apple or have an entire group of boys who have eaten about ten dollars worth of junk food move swiftly and silently to another table when your back is turned, leaving something looking like the town dump at their original table. You need courage, when you see four bearded hoodlums in the cafeteria, casing the joint, and you have a gut feeling they are not students. Tackle them and get a shot in the mouth, or run for the vice-principal? I opt for the latter, it says here in small print. Allin all, a varied life with a myriad of attractions, trough patrol. I only hope that, when I retire, the school board will let me come in a couple of times a week to do it. free, just for the fun of it.