Since the month of May, my son Simon has traveled to the Ecuadorian rain forest and back, scouting possible future locations to bring enthusiastic college science students who want to get a feel for the study of biological systems in situ.
Just a few weeks later, his twin, Jeremy, traveled to Istanbul and then to Varna, Bulgaria, with a mission to inspect huge cargo ships for his employer.
And last but not least, off went their younger brother Christian on July 19th to begin a three-month stay in the northern part of Canada’s Baffin Island—a place just slightly less alien than the surface of Mars.
Welcome to the twenty-first century! When it comes to destinations, ecosystems and cultures, it doesn’t get much more diverse than that.
Of course, their lives aren’t always this nomadic, but Simon, who is perhaps the least likely to travel abroad on a regular basis, has already visited the Americas—North and South—Europe and Australia.
There’s nothing of the retro cool or counter-cultural VW Westphalia quaintness to their adventures. It’s just one dimension of what globalisation means to the generation knocking at the door, poised to take over (probably a step behind Gen X) from my generation, known as the baby boom in the West, that’s fast losing its relevance, anchored as it is to past paradigms that have become cement blocks tied to its leaden feet, and unable to keep up.
Their time can’t come soon enough, as far as I’m concerned. The planet is their oyster, in ways that it can never be for most of their elders. The world came to their neighbourhoods and classrooms. It never did for me. When I was in grade school, the most exotic classmate I had was Kamilla Giedroyc, a sweet girl from Hungary (so unusual was she, that decades later, I still remember her name). But as my sons grew up, here in Montreal, French Canadian names no longer dominated class attendance lists: these were filled instead by the names of children arriving from the Caribbean, China, India, Africa, the Middle East and the rest of Asia, Central and South America, Eastern Europe, and Russia and its former republics. The first Omar who appeared in the school yard took a bit of ribbing for his name (the French word, homard, pronounced exactly like Omar, means lobster—the kids couldn’t resist), but within months, there was no such thing as an exotic name to most kids in French language schools.
My sons, even sheltered as they were, here, in the quiet suburbs of a city that can only thrive through immigration, encountered diversity everywhere they went. It’s the best thing that could have happened to them. It peeled away any constricted sense of human identity they might have, and instead nurtured in them the notion that “We” humans speak many tongues, come in many shades, pray to many gods, love in many ways, enjoy myriad food smells, textures, colours and tastes, admire different heroes, have different sporting traditions, have varying world views, spiritual practices, political opinions and ways of defining and connecting to gender identity, family and community.
The diversity of “We” in their childhoods was perhaps the most formative lesson they could have learned, once they had absorbed into every one of their brain cells that love, kindness and acceptance of each other matter above everything else.
This is the way of all Life. It was good that my children were able to sense their place in the giant web of all living things so soon. It was good that they lived some of the richness and complexity of the natural world and human societies as preschoolers. It opened them up to the incontrovertible fact that life in all its manifestations is complex, interconnected, interdependent and diverse.
The word diversity is immensely important to me, but of late, I’ve been forced to come to terms with the fact that diversity must include (and often does) fringe, freakish, ugly, violent, bigoted, hate-filled, twisted people in various states of arrested development. They can’t all be written off as stupid or ignorant. They are simply a concomitant of diversity. Zealotry mixed with sociopathy or psychopathy is especially frightening, and I’m sure that’s in the mix of this photo of Charlottesville, posted by a Facebook friend earlier this week. It’s the stuff that nightmares and history are made of. This diversity of vision and values and ideas is always there: these people were always there…But it’s so much easier when they’re hidden away in the cracks and basements and every other tainted place where they gather.
All of these youngish white men screaming monstrous things and prepared to do so much harm (but I don’t for a minute doubt that there are lots of equally bent and cruel girlfriends and wives—boyfriends seem less likely among this cabal—egging them on): it is soul crushing. It hurts us all.
These past few weeks, my attention has been drawn to these people who appear to be so terrified of diversity, so desperate to reduce their world to an impossibly simple, stark, suffocating, stunted, hateful and exclusionary society that they are prepared to tear nature’s matrix to shreds.
It’s impossible, of course. This is simply not life. It is not nature. We are interconnected, interdependent and interwoven. We are multitudes.: heterogeneous, complex, and diverse.
The veneer of American society was very thin. It didn’t take much to expose what lay beneath it. Maybe it’s good that high wattage lamps are now shining on them, because in nature, the things able to grow in the dark are often the most resilient.
About this painting:
A teacher at Leith School of Art, David Martin is originally from Fife. He has travelled extensively and his art reflects his experiences; he is interested in exploring new and varied environments. In this scene of Istanbul, though Yeni Cami is one of the best-known mosques in the city, he chooses to capture a variety of elements which explore the diversity of the city and the people who live there.