My Watergate Shadows

If it weren’t for the “third-rate burglary” Watergate would likely only be known as a desirable address in Washington, DC and the headquarters of a prostitution ring in the early 70′s.

This picture is in the public domain and provided by its author Indutiomarus.

But then the bizarre paranoia and arrogance of a president and his followers changed all that. They attempted to stage a coup which resulted in the one of the gravest constitutional challenges in American history, right up there with Dan Shay’s Rebellion and the Civil War. The ultimate battle pitted the Congress with it’s impeachment proceedings and the Supreme Court in the United States v. Richard Nixon on one side with the president claiming that the office of the president could do whatever it wanted under the guise of executive privilege on the other.

The events that resulted in the first resignation of a US president and years of drift as Americans tried to figure out what had happened coincided with North Vietnam crushing the South, the Soviets appearing as the more dynamic superpower, America’s economic strength looking as it might not recover from high inflation and unemployment. Client wars and uprisings in Latin America and Africa. It looked for a time that America had lost it’s way.

For one Canadian kid who should have been outside playing road hockey or baseball, the theatre of Watergate in the summer of 1974 was a very powerful lure.

Pretty much no one, including the American media, paid any attention to the Watergate break-in in the short-term. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein’s first article about the burglars having bugs didn’t lead to much, but they continued to publish articles on it. The tide of opinion and the polarization of the event really took off with the Woodward and Bernstein article on October 10 1972 describing what the FBI believed: Nixon re-election team members had been breaking the law to destroy the Democrat presidential campaign.

Although it took many more months to understand what had happened and who knew what, the reporting, criminal cases and other hearings led to the House of Representatives authorizing the House Judiciary Committee to begin impeachment investigations.

Why was this more exciting to a certain 11 year old then playing outside?

My older sister remarked just this morning that I always preferred the news to anything else on tv. Like many folks watching coverage of Vietnam on the nightly news, tv was an increasingly important part of reporting. It was more timely and more visceral.

Yes, I had a very precocious interest in the bigger world.

At the heart of it, though, was the drama and how it connected to everyday life. Our parents told us not to steal, lie or cheat. Yet everyday more stories came out about how it appeared the most powerful person on the planet (as we then saw it) might be doing some of those things we were not allowed to.

Nixon was acting just like a kid my age might do when confronted about cheating: deny, misdirect, blame someone else.

And in watching the Judiciary committee discussions and hearings here was a classic battle, the stuff of a mythic battle.

This will make me sound really precocious, but always in the back of my mind was one simple question. Why would he risk it?

Here was a guy with a great origin story: growing up poor, fighting in World War 2, becoming a lawyer, being elected a Congressman so young and being catapulted into the vice-presidency. Even in losing out to Kennedy in 1960, he kept fighting. I don’t want to suggest that I agreed with his politics, but he had it all. He had lived the American Dream and persevered to make it come true.

Despite all the revelations that come later about Nixon, his White House, the corrupt and personal use of government agencies like the FBI, the CIA and the IRS, one thing was never revealed. We just have no idea why Nixon thought the ‘dirty tricks’ or, more correctly, the employment of a secret group of Janissaries to compromise constitutionally guaranteed rights was more important than upholding the Constitution and making moral choices.

The proof that Nixon not only authorized the cover-up but was aware and consented to the illegal activities is abundant. It is in his own words.

After 40 years, there are few details we don’t know except for one and that one is huge. Why did he do it?

Any new book or article on Watergate gets my immediate attention because the motive is the only real mystery. Was Nixon an example of an America that had lost it’s way as a shining light of democracy or was he and his henchmen an aberration.

Two of my favourite books about the time are Stanley Kutler’s The Wars of Watergate and Woodward and Bernstein’s The Final Days. Both are great chronicles of the time with Kutler’s being the superior catalog, I feel. The Final Days humanizes Nixon to a great degree, but there is no answer to the question of why in those books.

Of the movies that are connected to Watergate and Nixon, the one that I find most satisfying in Watchmen. I had not read the graphic novel. I was probably the only one among my peers who had not. Seeing the movie was an unexpected pleasure for the Watergate geek in me. When the Comedian says it’s like Woodward and Bernstein all over again while shooting at protesters during a police strike, maybe there is a clue there. Had the American Dream come true and for some that meant anything goes. The only thing left was to exercise unlimited, unfettered power.

Nixon was a person who had it all and was transforming America. Why did he do it?

For a kid who was transfixed by the drama of the summer of 1974, that question powers my continuing interest in that low point in American history.

Happy Charter Day, Canada

It isn’t written on any calendar I can find, but I very much want to call April 17 Charter Day.

On this day in 1982, Queen Elizabeth II and the Prime Minister of Canada, Pierre Trudeau, sat at a table on Parliament Hill in Ottawa and signed two documents transferring all Canadian constitutional matters to Canadians. For a country that has prided itself on just getting the job done and being a little bland, it was a wonderfully fitting moment to finally gain full nationhood. It was like finally paying off the mortgage. For something involving Trudeau, it didn’t even seem to be too ostentatious other than it was outside in April in Ottawa, which isn’t the most pleasant place to be outdoors most April days.

It may seem odd to hear someone say they are proud of that moment. The constitutions that are most often written about like the American or French were borne of blood and sacrifice.

Canada’s written constitution does share a lot in common with those more famous, violently created documents. It was written by a bunch of affluent, middle-aged or senior white guys, most of whom were lawyers.

It also carried with it the aspirations of a people.

In Canada, when the constitutional process and document were being negotiated, memories of the Quebec referendum were very, very fresh. There was still a separatist Parti Quebecois government in the second most populous province in Canada.

We had tried in the early 70′s to modernize our parliamentary democracy and the relationships between the federal government and the provinces. At that time, the scars of a terrorist group in Quebec and the imposition of martial law during the October Crisis were oretty raw.

None of this seems like anything to be proud of.

The birth of Canada with things like the Charlottetown conference was, to be honest, a pretty dull thing. It certainly lacked the thrill of Daniel Shays’ Rebellion powering the Americans to negotiate their constitution in 1787.

In secondary school we learned about the relevant (translated as dull) constitutional milestones along the way: Proclamation of 1763, Upper & Lower Canada, the Rebellions of 1837, Lord Durham’s Report, the Northwest Rebellion, Canadians fighting under their own general in World War l, the conscription crisis, the Persons Case, the Statute of Westminster, Mackenzie King declaring war on Germany in 1939 a full week after Great Britain did. Throw in King-Byng and Rowell-Sirois for good measure. Oh, let’s not forget Newfoundland joining Confederation in 1949.

All very heady stuff when you consider that until 1982, the highest level of judicial challenges were made to the UK. Same thing if the provinces and the federal government couldn’t agree to changing the enumerated powers in the Constitution Act of 1867.

Many things were left off the table by the time that Her Maj and Pierre signed the papers 30 years ago. Quebec refused to sign on and still does. That is disturbing. There have been 2 rounds of constitutional negotiations since that April day and a national referendum to fix a variety of problems that people thought needed fixing. There have been some bilateral agreements to change things like separate school systems in some provinces, but the document and country are still intact.

Why would anyone be proud of what sounds like a tedious, undramatic process that resulted in some paper?

For me, I was never more proud to be a Canadian because 30 years ago we accomplished two wonderful things. First, Canadians were finally in charge of our country. When reminded time and again during the 70′s sitting in class, I found it humiliating that we as a nation were not found capable of making the final decision on matters solely Canadian. I am sure the British recognized the bizarre situation of nations decolonizing in Asia and Africa but Canada could never get the courage up to just ask for independence

An important part of getting complete control of our constitution and law-making abilities is the second reason I have never been more proud to be a Canadian: the Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

Many people leading up to the patriation of the constitution were opposed to the Charter. Some people, like my father, thought it would make us more like Americans. To him that was code for the excesses of the individual trumping the community. Others believed it would lead to a weakened parliamentary system, meaning that governments could do nothing.

On that latter point, many people have viewed a litany of court challenges as tying the hands of duly elected governments and led to the rise of the courts which blunt the will of the people.

I see it very differently.

Charter challenges, as we often call them in Canada, are about individuals telling governments that they aren’t living up to the promise of democracy. I see the courts as being the only long-lasting remedy to ensure that our rights are not being taken away by governments.

There are many people who think that the Charter has become a way of letting criminals go free, but those people aren’t thinking about the flipside of that coin; that we do not want the innocent to go to jail. We are not that far removed in this country from the Japanese being sent to concentration camps and having their homes taken by the state during wartime. Nor is the forced sterilization of people thought to be inferior perpetrated by Alberta that far behind us. Truth be told, the memory of martial law in Quebec is still clear  enough for some.

Many Canadians will point to the “notwithstanding clause” as a way for Canadian governments to get around the courts if they become too activist. Some see it as a threat while some see it as way for parliament to retain its primacy. Notwithstanding allows a government to pass laws that effectively ignore a court decision on a matter. Outside of Quebec where the “notwithstanding clause” was incorporated into every piece of legislation for a while, pretty much to tweak the nose of the federal government, politicians have been loathe to use it. Even those most opposed to judicial freedom seem not to want to start down that road.

In what seems like a typically Canadian way, we have found a bureaucratic and bland way to ensure our rights are respected by governments.

Bland it may be, but for some of us the simple fact of having our own constitution and an enumeration of what we expect governments to protect makes us proud to be Canadians.

Remembrance Day and the Legion Back Home

Both my father and grandfather were farmers and soldiers.

They were born into farming when it was much more likely for Canadians to be born on the farm. It may be tough for many people in Canada to recall a time when people farmed because they spent their lives on the land where they were born. Much of what we see of farming these days are corporate farms or hobbyists who farm after their higher paying jobs allowed them to take it up. The concept of families who pass the land and the farm down from one generation to another is increasingly rare.

I don’t know how far back soldiering goes in my family but it was a connection my father and grandfather might not have had but for the two world wars. Both men volunteered to fight. Both men went straight from the farm and joined up. Neither had been to a large city before signing up, nor had they been on a ship or left Ontario, let alone left Canada or been to Europe.

Both started at the bottom as privates and became corporals. Corporal is only one step above private, but at some point some set of circumstances occurred that moved both my father and grandfather up to that rank, which means they had some responsibility for their men.

I never had the opportunity to talk to my grandfather about his experiences, but when I was able to ask my father he didn’t talk much about it. He most commonly would say “there was a job to do and someone had to do it” or “the Germans were just like us and they had a job to do, too.”

My grandfather was part of the 600,000 strong Canadian Expeditionary Force. My father was part of the small 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion.

In the final years of my father’s life I found out a few more details about his service, most of that knowledge coming as we cleaned out his apartment in preparation for him to move into a retirement home for veterans. I was astonished when he was going through his war records and he produced his army paybook. He proudly read out to me “Parachutist with pay” which appeared in the small book. There were indeed columns with initials confirming that he received pay. I asked if that meant that some guys weren’t paid. If I was dumbfounded at the notion of soldiers not getting paid, I think he was even more surprised that I didn’t know that there were paratroops who were convicts and therefore not entitled to pay or guys who received no money for other reasons.

After his war, my grandfather went back to the farm. My father made the choice to move to a bigger city and became a truck driver, but he went back to the farm often. He helped his father bring in the hay every year and made weekend trips back home. We often went there in the summer and frequent weekend trips in the spring and fall. Among all the amazing things about the farm for me was the lack of electricity and indoor plumbing and this was the case even in the late 70′s when the farm was sold following my grandfather’s death.

Although I hated the drive which seemed to last forever and I was car sick a lot, it was pretty cool to know that here was a place in the world that never changed. It was one of the few constants in my life. Over the years though, it went from being the whole family who would go to just my Dad and me.

A funny feature of these trips involved the Legion. I recall two locations for the Legion. The first was a brick building, which at some point in my childhood was vacated for something resembling a Quonset hut at a different spot in town. Every Saturday afternoon, Dad and I would drive us from the farm to the Legion and he would play euchre. Kids were not allowed in, so I would sit in the car and read. If I got hungry or thirsty, I would honk the horn and Dad would bring out a sandwich and coke.

This ritual went on for years. Dad got to play cards with people he grew up with and I got to read. It was a pretty sweet arrangement, except for one thing: I always wanted to see what it looked like inside. The Legion took on an air of mystery to me. One time I tried to get in by going to the door and saying that my Dad hadn’t heard me honking. I had a small peek and heard his displeasure about me trying to get into this sacred place. I could not know then that the Legion held another mystery for me if I ever gained access to the building.

When my father passed away, the Legion had a wonderful memorial service for him. I was finally inside the Legion and it was a little overwhelming. Not having belonged to the armed forces or the Mounties, I never expected to be allowed to enter the building, although the rules about membership have changed to allow kids of veterans and other relatives to join.

Before the memorial, the leader of the branch explained that Dad was a charter member, but the words didn’t have any impact on me until we walked in through the front door. There on the wall at the entrance was a board listing the men who signed the charter for the branch and how much they had each raised. Remembering my Dad at the time that the branch was founded was a truck driver and it was just a couple years after the war, the biggest mystery about the Legion was now staring me in the face. The cost of starting the branch was $10,000 and my father raised three quarters of that. If going to war was just something that needed to be done and someone had to do it, then getting a Legion branch back home was another job that needed doing.

“Back home,” along with the Legion, is a more of a mystical concept for me than a location, although they both represent a place in my youth. Whenever I hear the term “back home” it means my father’s and grandfather’s little village, not the medium-size city I grew up in. This little speck on the map that is no longer even a town, but part of a larger one, is pretty fixed in mind at certain size. The last time population sign I remember seeing showed 600 people living in that town. Checking online, I see that it is now over 900. Before the First World War there had to be far fewer people living there.

Yet every Remembrance Day there is a long list read of men who served and died between 1914 and 1918 from that small town. In fact, one of Canada’s Victoria Cross recipients in World War One, Wallace Lloyd Algie, came from this tiny place.

At my father’s memorial service, the sitting Member of Parliament and member of the government, David Tilson spoke, as did a representative for John Tory who was the MPP at the time and the Mayor of Caledon, Marolyn Morrison. Since that memorial, I have tried to attend every Remembrance Day ceremony, which is held the Sunday before November 11th. Every year, members representing the levels of government all show up. This past Sunday, at the Legion named in honour of Lt. Algie and supported by my father, the public representatives, Mr. Tilson, Sylvia Jones the MPP who succeeded Mr. Tory and Mrs. Morrison, were in attendance again to lay wreathes. In addition, officials from regional council, fire department, OPP, Scouts and others laid their wreathes at the cenotaph.

After the service, I spoke to a couple of the politicians and the conversation turned as if often does to numbers. The list of those who died during the First World War as mentioned is long. This year about 120-150 people watched the Remembrance Day ceremony and the political leaders acknowledge how much support the Legion has every year to commemorate those who have served as well as those who have fallen.

The men who left the farm almost 100 years ago or again after 1939 or to fight in Korea didn’t have to go. Why they did may be a mystery to many of us when so few of us these days would even consider that choice. For me, there is no mystery about why so many people connected to this little town show up on Remembrance Day. The past will always be alive when I go back home.