No, Christie Blatchford, Not CancerAIDS.
There have already been scores of dirision for Christie Blatchford’s mind-boggling column in the National Post this past week regarding Jack Layton’s death.
Allow me to add to that.
Let me begin by saying that Jack Layton was a man consumed by public life. That’s not a bad thing. It was a choice be made to spend the majority of his life fighting and working to improve the lives of everyone. From tackling the issue of violence against women, to clamoring for LGBTQ rights, publicly addressing the issue of climate change, championing the anti-war movement; the list goes on. Jack was someone whose beliefs were not political opportunism. They were not the cause-du-jour.
So that’s what’s so sickening about Blatchford’s column. It’s not her objection to the state funeral. It’s not her discomfort with public reaction. No, Blatchford’s writing smacks of one thing; arrogance.
Arrogance in thinking that she knows what Jack’s life and death should mean. Arrogance in thinking that she should have a say in his legacy. Arrogance into thinking that the public reaction is somehow less genuine or less real because of who Jack was, and about the impact of traditional and social media.
The original piece, published the same day as Jack’s death, seeks to wretch away Jack’s legacy from his family, friends, supporters, and Jack himself. She accuses Olivia of essentially forging Jack’s goodbye letter. She accuses them of turning his death into a political stunt.
Let’s get real; Jack turned Jack’s death into a political stunt. Considering the man spent his entire life thoroughly committed to using every tool at his disposal to fight for social justice, would it not be a glaring omission to have his death be anything but ideological?
She tries to turns his death into a fight about cancer. That’s a fair critique, as I think more respect should have been paid to the awe-inspiring force that took his life. However, the implicit meaning in her column is this; Jack’s legacy is not political, it’s about his fight with cancer. That’s absurd, of course.
But I think there are few who agree with Blatchford’s stunning article. The real divisiveness surrounds whether or not it should have been published and whether or not it should have been allowed to be published.
Well, I think there is a majority of us who respect her right to publish the story whenever, and however, she wanted. Should she have done it? Maybe not. Given the immense outpouring of respect and admiration for Jack, some are right to say that having a bit of a check, or a call to objectivity may have been in order. Perhaps that’s true. By making Jack’s death political, that is to be expected.
However, that offers her no protection from the realm of public opinion. Just as it is her right to make hay out of Jack’s death, it is the public’s right to fling the mud right back at her. As they did. As I did.
And so, as is maddeningly common amongst the right-leaning ideologues in this country, she started to cry.
Not physical tears, mind you, but she sobbed literary tears all over her National Post column.
She starts out with a rather bizarre anecdote that leads her to conclude that those who didn’t appreciate her original article were wishing upon her ‘CancerAIDS.’
Yes.
Apparently Blatchford’s mind works like this - she goes after the outpouring of love for a man who died of cancer, Jack’s supporters get mad at her, she accuses them of wanting her to get cancer and AIDS.
The absurdity knows no bounds.
But Blatchford goes on, as every hack journalist does at some point in their career, and pulls the “Look at this offensive hate mail I got!” card.
I’ll let you in on a little secret - every nationally published journalist gets hatemail. That mail increases when you write offensive things. Some of it will be offensive and repugnant. That’s true of every political stripe.
So once she gets over the bemoaning of her sad state and the self-victimization, she throws in a bit about Aboriginal peoples. Why? Why the fuck not, you may as well.
Basically, she amounts her position to that of a cultural pariah. She sits atop her funeral pyre, made up of thousands of nasty and personally insulting words, and acts as though the public and cultural elite are setting her on fire.
No, Blatchford, you light yourself ablaze. It’s one thing to go out there and do the hard job - the job of writing thoughtful, analytic critiques of this society. It’s quite another to do a hitjob of a dead man to increase your own cultural import.
You can feel however you will about Jack Layton. You can feel ambivalent about his life, but sad of death. You can feel inspired by his life and determined by his death. You can be indifferent to the whole thing.
But please, spare us the career advancement. Save the ‘I’m trying to be the voice of reason’ crap.
You can disagree with the man, but you can’t object to his message - optimism, positivism and compassion.
