Sainfeld
for leader
By
Angelo Persichilli
THE HILL TIMES (Versione
italiana)
What
an interesting political year 2003 is shaping up to be: upcoming municipal
and provincial elections, the changes of leaderships at the federal level
and much more.
But
to get an idea of how freakishly phony and hypocritical this business can
be, just take a look at the crowd at last week’s Heritage Dinner, the
annual fundraiser for provincial Liberals held in Toronto.
It
was like an imaginary crossroad at which genuine but radical feelings were
forced to be crushed together, and forced to blend in order to create an
eerie environment where everything looks artificially natural. The only
hint that what you saw was not real, was the perfection of the picture
presented. It was a Walt Disney picture: too perfect to be real. In
reality, perfection doesn’t exist.
Even
the setting of the Toronto Sheraton Hotel helped to lend to the glitzy
environment as the stars glided down two floors of escalators into the
hall. People gazed up at the new guests making their solemn entrance, who
were wearing wide smiles stamped on their faces and their hands were
already stretched out to greet and be greeted. But it didn’t seem to
matter who they were greeting. The smile and the hugs were standard no
matter who was on the receiving end.
Don’t
get me wrong, I really believe there are a lot of good caring and
hard-working people in politics. The only problem is that most of these
folks believe for some reason that perception is reality and the only
reality acceptable is a manipulated one.
At
last week’s dinner everything about 2003, the municipal, provincial and
federal leadership changes, came together and were reflected in the guests
vying for political destinies, interests and ambitions. The campaigns were
melted together that night, creating a new entity. For some reason, it
reminded me of a chipped china teapot pieced back together with Crazy
glue.
For
instance, I spotted former Rat Packers and former friends and former
enemies John Nunziata and Sheila Copps hugging. Both of them are running,
in different directions, but both are running. I saw NDPer Barbara Hall
mingling with new Liberal friends. I saw John Tory, who’s running to be
mayor of Toronto, mingling with Paul Martin, who’s running to replace
Jean Chrétien. It felt as if the uneasiness could be cut with a
knife.
They
were like actors playing roles assigned to them by obscure, backstage
handlers; they are brainstormed and manipulated. They carry a heavy dose
of smiles and nice empty words at functions like this. When they join the
crowd they don’t look at the person they’re talking to, they
"scan" you with the same passion as that of a surveillance TV
camera at the corner store when a new costumer arrives.
They’ve
been told that at these political bazaars, whatever happens, smile, smile,
smile. If you look at them you can almost hear the turmoil inside ripping
between their heart and their brain. Their hearts won’t allow them to
love most of the people in the room, but the brain stops them from telling
the truth.
The
heart says: “Who the heck do you think you are, you schmuck?”
The
brain: “Shut up and smile. He can deliver 150 delegates.”
The
brain wins: “Hi, long time no see. We should have lunch.”
Big smile while the eyes have moved
on to the next “dear friend” whose name is forgotten and their eyes
are desperately scanning the tag on the schmuck’s left lapel.
Next,
the show goes on.
The
only star I saw who was completely at ease with the crowd last week was
former premier of Ontario David Peterson. He was smiling and friendly. His
smile was genuine, the smile of a person who knows the truth. The smile of
a person who was seriously hit by a truck, but was able to come out alive
and with his reputation untouched. He, unlike Bob Rae, came out of his
ordeal in one piece, and is still today the same David Peterson who won
the Liberal leadership in 1982. David Peterson now knows the truth, and he
knows that some of those smiling around him will soon be hit by a truck. I
was wondering who Mr. Peterson believed will be the next victim.
I
couldn’t ask him though what he really thought because there were too
many people surrounding the last living vestigial of Ontario Liberal
glory, and, of course, he would have answered me with a smile.
Meanwhile,
all the lights at this political fair were about to shine on the real
show, starring Ontario Liberal Leader Dalton McGuinty. The media rushed
inside the room to study their next victim. We’re not interested in his
speech already sent to us, embargoed, a couple hours earlier. We’re not
interested in listening to him because who cares about content, right? We,
like the people in the street, know the truth as well. “Give them a
slogan and fill the empty spaces in the future, likely after the
election,” a political strategist told me a few months ago.
So
we focus our attention on how the speakers talk and on their capacity to
fool people, and not at what they’re actually saying. You count how many
times the people stand up to applaud and at the capacity of the orator to
“read” the emotions in the teleprompter. You have to see if the
candidate is good at presenting the obvious and in telling us a joke. In a
few years the best candidate will be Jerry Seinfeld.
While
the people were bargaining votes inside, negotiating with their filet
mignons and complaining about that “S.O.B. at the next table,” I had
to leave to file my story.
Outside,
there was an eerie silence. In the background, on my way to the press
room, I could hear the voice of U.S. President George W. Bush on a TV set
bringing us closer to a war. Who cares?!
Only
a colleague was outside, when I saw from a distance another person
leaving. He looked frail, he was slowly approaching the escalator of the
Sheraton Hotel. It was John Turner, former prime minister of Canada. He
was alone, tired. He, like David Peterson, has a lot of stories to tell to
his children and grandchildren about politics and political fairs like the
one on this night which he was leaving behind. He is another who knows the
truth, but with the dignity and loyalty that have characterized his
political life, he knows that he “has” to be there. He is a Liberal,
small or big “L”, it doesn’t matter. The Liberal family might be a
dysfunctional family, but it’s a family, nonetheless.
I
asked him why he was leaving so early? “I have to go...Angelo. It’s
late.” he answered.
It
was not late, but even for a loyal member like John Napier Turner, enough
is enough.
I
watch him disappear, but as he glided up, the escalator didn’t look so
glitzy or glamorous as it had an hour earlier. It looked more like a way
out from Dante Inferno's pit.
I
follow Mr. Turner at a respectful distance and in a few minutes I was
outside too. I felt more at ease for some reason by seeing a bagman out on
the street. Maybe it’s because he was real.
On
the other side of the street, in Nathan Philip Square, I saw happy and
vociferous children skating on the ice rink. They were real too.
A
subzero blanket slaps my face. It hurt, but it woke me up. I felt like I
was out from the pit “a riveder le stelle,” to see the stars again.