Thursday, July 4, 2019

Summer Slang and Idioms

Now that we’ve reached the dog days of summer, you have probably heard some different terms that do not seem to make much sense.  Since Canada has very distinct seasons, we have our share of slang terms and idioms for all of them, so I felt it was time to offer you a small sample of my favourite summer slang terms and idioms.

1.  Molson Muscle (noun): a term of endearment for someone’s large distended belly caused by excessive consumption of beer products.  While this stomach may or may not be caused by the consumption of Molson products, I have yet to hear the term “Labatt Belly” or “Fort Garry Gut.”  Watch for the Molson muscle at recreational sports leagues, fishing derbies and Winnipeg Blue Bomber games.  Synonyms include beer gut, paunch and beer belly.

2.  Farmer Tan (noun): a term for people wearing a T-shirt while working outside, then deciding to walk around shirtless at an outdoor event revealing their brown well-tanned arms but still ghostly white torso.  The classic farmer tan is evident throughout Manitoba but is highly conspicuous at Grand Beach or during Folkfest.  There are no known synonyms, but these tans can also exist around the ankles of golfers.

3.  Two-Four (noun): the largest single box of beer available at the MLCC or local beer stores around the city.  The “two-four” is usually purchased for such events as going up to the lake, having friends over for a patio party or simply when you prefer to buy in bulk.  People who purchase two-fours often sport Molson muscles (see above) and are frequently seen placing these gargantuan boxes of beer into the back of pick-up trucks on their way to Country Fest.  The typical species of two-four are Budweiser, Labatt Lite and Coors Lite, but not craft beers, which are usually found only in “sixers.”

4.  Catch some rays (idiom): not to be confused with ocean sport fishing, these are the sun’s rays and this practice was common in summer until the rapid increase in skin cancer rates hung a black cloud over the activity.  Back in my twenties, we never used “sun block,” in fact we didn’t even know what sun block or suntan lotion were.  To the contrary, we slathered ourselves with light oil to make ourselves tan (or burn) even faster because nobody wanted to look pale in the summer.  Almost thirty years on, we now all look like blistered and weather-beaten old saddle bags, but at least we didn’t have farmer tans.

5.  Raining cats and dogs (idiom): I must first offer the disclaimer that no animals have ever been hurt during this event so DO NOT call the Humane Society if someone tells you this.  Raining “cats and dogs” simply means it’s raining really hard.  This has to be one of the most ridiculous idioms in the English language since I’ve never actually seen cats or dogs falling from the sky. If idioms can be this ridiculous, I’m going to start some of my own.  When it starts hailing, I want us all to say: “it’s hailing octopi.”  See it’s easy to create idioms and nobody ever needs to question what they mean, that’s the beauty of them.

6.  Give’r  and Givin’r (verbs): these are common verbs associated with many activities in summer time such as driving fast, water skiing, drinking your two-four, pedaling your bicycle too fast down a hill, building a deck or anything else involving speed.  Give’r is a general request used in this context:

“Hey, can I have one of your Molson Canadians, eh?” 

“Sure, give’r, eh.” 

Givin’r is often the state or action immediately following that request. 

“Look at him chuggin’ that Molson Canadian, he’s really givin’r.”

7. Blow this popsicle stand (idiom): this generally means it’s time to leave a place and move on to another.  There is a slightly negative connotation to this phrase, since “blowing this popsicle stand” generally means the place is “lame” and you know of a better place to go.  Sometimes this happens when you’ve finished your two-four and have heard there’s a “kegger” party close by.  Sometimes it’s just time to “hit up” a pizza joint, but always keep in mind that popsicles are rarely served at any of these locations and for heaven’s sake, do not take this idiom literally even if you happen to be at a popsicle stand.

So there you have it, seven slang words and idioms that should help you survive and thrive during Manitoba’s summer months.  Keep an eye out for Molson muscles and farmer tans and don’t forget to give’r with whatever you plan to do in summer.  Catch some rays, but blow that popsicle stand if it starts raining cats and dogs or hailing octopi.

Sunday, May 26, 2019

Labour Divided: Lessons from the Winnipeg General Strike


I must first admit that despite my history degree from the University of Manitoba, I knew little about the Winnipeg General Strike.  It is 100 years old this year and a flurry of activities commemorating the events of 1919 are planned.  Yet even now, the Strike and its aftermath seem historically undervalued, often perceived as a relic of its time and no longer relevant; a statue or mural should suffice.  Not wanting to rehash the established narrative, I began this essay by consulting the newspapers of the day, many of which are available through the University of Manitoba’s digital archives.  Events primarily played out in two newspapers: the pro-strike Western Labour News, and the anti-strike Winnipeg Citizen.  They present a day-by-day account of a city and a society in flux, overflowing with optimism, but with an undercurrent of danger.  This essay will examine the Strike through perspectives in the news media and provide some insight into its current relevance.  First it is necessary to set the scene.
In the spring of 1919, much of Europe and North America were in disarray.  The First World War had just ended--after four years of seemingly endless carnage--and economies were in tatters.  In Russia, Vladamir Lenin led a Bolshevik revolution, which overthrew Czar Nicholas II and sent a shudder throughout the capitalist world.  Not only did Lenin pull Russia from the War in 1917--briefly upsetting the power balance--but the main capitalist social order was suddenly threatened internally by workers and peasants.  With Great Britain victorious and rampant rumours of war profiteering,[1] labourers in North America started demanding better working conditions and a greater share of industrial wealth. Emboldened by events in Russia, labour organizers created the One Big Union (OBU), which, as its title describes, combined all the major trade and labour unions under one umbrella.  Their objectives were the right to collective bargaining and the right to a living wage.
In May of 1919, Winnipeg became the epicenter of labour strife when the building and metal trades unions went on strike.  In the spirit of the OBU, other unions followed suit and within days some 30,000 people were on strike including city police, and the fire department.[2]  A collection of prominent Winnipeg business leaders and lawyers formed the Committee of 1000 to oppose the strike.  They had two weapons at their disposal: a private police force (whom the Western Labour News called “thugs”), and a carefully organized propaganda campaign spun through their newspaper, the Winnipeg Citizen.  The Citizen’s primary focus was to label the strike as a Bolshevik revolution:
“It (Winnipeg General Strike) is a serious attempt to overturn British institutions in this Western country and to supplant them with the Russian Bolshevik system of Soviet rule.”[3]
This dovetailed with their other wedge issue: the dreaded “alien” who was working for Russia and had deep--yet mysterious--ties to Germany.  The Committee aimed anti-alien propaganda at thousands of soldiers returning from Europe, many of whom struggled to find employment.  These aliens, who were primarily Ukrainian and Jewish immigrants, had flooded into cities for war manufacturing, but after the war, some believed these immigrant workers should be cast aside and their jobs redistributed to unemployed veterans. The Committee of 1000 appealed to anti-alien veterans by claiming that the OBU sought to protect “alien enemies.”[4]  On June 12th, the Committee’s police raided the Swift-Canadian meatpacking plant in St. Boniface and arrested two immigrant workers, allegedly for subversive behaviour.  The Winnipeg Telegram headline proclaimed: “Arrest Dangerous Aliens!”[5]
The Western Labour News disputed these claims, saying any connection to the Bolshevik revolution in Russia was fear-mongering by the Committee of 1000.[6]  They argued that the principle tenets of the League of Nations (the failed precursor to the U.N.) included labour rights, such as a living wage and the right to free association.  Later in their June 13th edition they attacked the Committee of 1000 for their anti-alien rhetoric:
“The only conclusion to be drawn… is that the anti-alien campaign of the ‘Citizens Committee’ is a desperate expedient, deliberately waged to confuse the issue, to disrupt the ranks of organized labor [sic], to deceive the public and to distract attention from the misdeeds of the exploiting class.”[7]
The Strike reached its apogee on June 21st with a riot in downtown Winnipeg and the iconic photograph of strikers attempting to flip a streetcar, but a brutal crackdown by the Committee’s private militia and mass arrests of both strike leaders and immigrants eventually broke the will of strikers.  Many immigrants were detained without trial and threatened with deportation, although most were not involved in the Strike.[8]
While the Strike may have failed in 1919, it spurred the rise of the labour movement in Canada.  Unfortunately, the objectives of the OBU have never been fully realized, as new legislation in Manitoba seeks to undermine collective bargaining,[9] while a simple increase in the minimum wage is met with apocalyptic fear-mongering.[10]  Yet, between 1984 and 2014, the upper 0.01% of wage earners have seen their salaries increase by over 130%, while the bottom 50% of wages earners have seen their income decrease by almost 30%.[11]
Just as the Committee of 1000 found a scapegoat in focusing veterans’ rage on the “enemy alien,” today anti-immigrant political messaging--disguised as pragmatism and protecting borders--is mainstream discourse.  Polls show that Canadians are increasingly racist[12] and throughout the World, the working class is fueling right-wing, anti-immigrant, populism.[13]  This should be vexing to anyone who has studied the Winnipeg General Strike, because the salient lesson from this event is that unity and inclusivity are crucial to labour’s success.  Immigrants and refugees must be viewed as allies and not “enemy aliens.”  The exploiting class still uses the media to spread propaganda and stoke division among the working class.  They understand that a divided labour movement is weak.  We need the spirit of the OBU to rise again.









[1]Turmoil on the Homefront: Profits for Lives,” CBC Learning. Canada: A People’s History, 2001. https://www.cbc.ca/history/EPISCONTENTSE1EP12CH2PA5LE.html
[2] Reilly, J. Nolan. “Winnipeg General Strike of 1919.” The Canadian Encyclopedia, February 17, 2006, https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/winnipeg-general-strike
[3] Winnipeg Citizen. Winnipeg, MB: Citizen’s Committee of One Thousand. Vol. 1, No. 1, May 19, 1919, http://hdl.handle.net/10719/2758817
[4] Winnipeg Citizen. Winnipeg, MB: Citizen’s Committee of One Thousand. Vol. 1, No. 7, May 26, 1919, http://hdl.handle.net/10719/2758797
[5] Winnipeg Telegram Strike Editions. Winnipeg, MB: Winnipeg Telegram. Vol. 26, No. 105, June 12, 1919, http://hdl.handle.net/10719/2767806
[6] Western Labor News. Winnipeg: Winnipeg Trades and Labor Council. No. 24, June 13, 1919, http://hdl.handle.net/10719/2758639
[7] Western Labor News. Winnipeg: Winnipeg Trades and Labor Council. No. 24, June 13, 1919, http://hdl.handle.net/10719/2758639
[8] Strikers Defense Bulletin. Winnipeg, Man:s.n., No. 4, August 27, 1919, http://hdl.handle.net/10719/2746968    
[9] Geary. Aidan. “Unions, government duke it out on Bill 7,” CBC News, October, 27, 2016,
[10] Evans, Pete. “Minimum wage hikes could cost Canada's economy 60,000 jobs by 2019,” CBC News, January 3, 2018, https://www.cbc.ca/news/business/bank-of-canada-minimum-wage-1.4469912
[11] Statistics Canada. “The fall and rise of Canada top income earners.” May 17, 2018,  https://www150.statcan.gc.ca/n1/pub/11-630-x/11-630-x2016009-eng.htm
[12] Graves, Frank. “The EKOS poll: Are Canadians getting more racist?” iPolitics, March 12, 2015, https://ipolitics.ca/2015/03/12/the-ekos-poll-are-canadians-getting-more-racist/
[13] Gidron, Noam and Peter A. Hall. “The Politics of Social Status: Economic and Cultural Roots of the Populist Right,” Harvard: Mass., 2017, https://scholar.harvard.edu/files/hall/files/gidronhall2017bjs.pdf (pg. 1)

Saturday, February 2, 2019

Cannibals in Drag: Musings from Mangaia


We boarded the single-engine plane with three other passengers and a fuselage stuffed with cargo then set out on our journey, banking over Rarotonga and into a boundless, blue, ocean horizon.  I stared out the window at cotton-batten clouds, pensive and a little worried this single-engine aircraft couldn’t handle its bloated stomach, when suddenly my hair tossed wildly in a gust of wind.  I shot my head up like a sparrow just as the co-pilot jettisoned a candy wrapper out the window and pulled the window shut.  Julia and I glared at each other with gathering terror.

Our destination was Mangaia, part of the archipelago known as the Cook Islands.  Outside of the Cook Islands, few even know it exists, and the only reason we chose it was because the flight to our intended destination, Atiu, was booked.  With two available seats on the Mangaia flight, an Air Rarotonga employee called her friend (Tu) and booked us three nights at Ara Moana Bungalows.  This impromptu change of plans seemed mildly adventurous, so off to Mangaia we went, with no expectations and no idea what was about to transpire. 

The plane lit on a gravel runway and trundled to a stop in front of a wood and corrugated-steel building, with a hand-painted sign saying “Kia Orana” and “Welcome to Mangaia.”  A large woman stood at the edge of the canopy.

“Tu?” I asked, assuming it was her, since the airport was otherwise deserted.

“Kia Orana,” she responded, her face brightening like an island sunrise.  We attempted to shake hands, but she opened her arms wide and consumed us both with a motherly hug.  She guided us to her 4x4 pickup truck and we set off through lush tropical foliage, following earthen tracks formed by the balloon tires.  Twenty minutes later, we arrived at Ara Moana, which was buried under a canopy of palm and pandanus trees.  She showed us to our bungalow, a tiny A-frame building painted coral yellow.   From the outside, it looked like a garden shed and on the inside, the inside of a garden shed.  Carving out most of the main room was a double-bed and toddler-sized furniture.  Looking to the back, which was about six average paces, there was a toilet, a sink, and a cold water shower that only allowed you to rotate on axis.  We instantly realized that this was not the “Polynesian Room” at the Fantasyland Hotel, but the broom closet at the Howard Johnson.
 
With no itinerary, no apparent recreational activities, and a queue of gangly black hornets on the door-handle of our bungalow, we walked over to chat with Tu and her sister.  They were weaving brooms from broad grasses and coconut husk, which made us feel part of a museum diorama for traditional crafts of the Maori.  Tu’s sister told us she had moved back to Mangaia after her husband died, but that she could still feel his presence.  Glancing around, I observed that Ara Moana had all the ”cabin-in-the-woods” slasher movie tropes, even Tu’s nephew was named “Jason.”

Tu suggested options for our three-day itinerary: “You can take the stairs to the bottom of the cliffs.  You’ll find a lovely beach down there.  There are many hiking trails.  I will talk to my cousin Tere and see if he’ll take you on a cave tour.  Tomorrow morning I’ll drive you to the craft market, oh, and you’ll have to come to the island festival tomorrow night; it’s our biggest festival of the year!”

How serendipitous it was for us to arrive at the same time as their biggest festival of the year.  We expected a cultural showcase of intricate percussion and knee-jerking, hip-jiggling, Cook Island dancing.  We booked Tere’s cave tour for the morning then were forced to retire early because the electricity cut abruptly at 9:00 pm. With little ambient light in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, the darkness was profound and unnerving, the perfect location for Jason to launch into a killing spree.  The door on our bungalow didn’t lock.

We awoke the next morning to dazzling sunlight and walked to the patio where we met Jason, the resident chef and an expert with knives.  A large box of Corn Flakes and jug of milk were perched on the table. I poured some cereal, milk, then listened while Jason apologized for the breakfast choice. 

“There’s no electricity for the toaster,” he said. “The island is rationing diesel fuel for our electrical generators because a TV show, “Survivor,” has commandeered the supply boat for filming  on Aitutaki.  We get three hours of electricity per day and only in the evening.  Oh, and we don’t know exactly when the power is going to be cut.”

“It’s a little rustic,” I said to Julia, “As long as we keep our flashlights close by, we should be fine.”

I passed Julia the box of cereal and as she tipped it over, a cockroach the size of a prune, tumbled out of the box and into her bowl, scrambled out, skittered across the table, leapt off, then disappeared between the floorboards.  I stared blankly at my half eaten bowl. [CLANG!] Julia dropped her spoon and buried her face in her hands.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” she whispered intensely.

After breakfast, we greeted Tere beside the garden for our cave tour.  His Saddam Hussein style mustache belied a friendly, jovial demeanor.  Minutes later, a man approached and introduced himself as Benny.  He, his wife, and another couple had arrived that night, having flown all the way from Sweden.  Our group of six followed Tere into the cave where he carefully pointed out every jagged obstacle that could break an ankle, or stalactite that could cause a cranial wound.  We climbed deeper until we came upon a three-metre wide crevasse.

“This is called the tortoise,” Tere said, pointing to a rock that emerged from a semi-circular mound resembling a tortoise shell.

“Ah,” we all said in unison.

He paused, sat on a rock, then pulled his leg towards his stomach.

“Let me tell you about this place,” he said, his voice deep and oozing gravitas.

“There was once a tribe who lived in this cave that only came out at night. They hunted children from local villages and brought them here.  The children were slaughtered, cooked, eaten, and their bones were discarded down here.”

He leaned over and peered into the crevasse then invited us to look into the black void. 

“Finally, the local villagers came after them,” he said, “There was a great battle in the cave, but the cave people lost.

He gazed back into the crevasse.

“Now their bones are down here too.”

There was a long silence, broken by Tere who, suddenly upbeat, said, “My ancestors, they were misguided.  C’mon, let’s move on.”

Tere’s oral history fused wit with dark humour and was relayed with a toothy grin under his thick salt-and-pepper mustache.

“When the first missionaries came to Mangaia, we ate them, so they sent more, and we ate them too,” he chuckled, “Finally, missionaries came from Samoa with a picture of a man tied to a cross.  It looked like how my people performed sacrifices.  That image led Mangaians to adopt Christianity and end cannibalism.  Did I mention that my ancestors were misguided?”

The trail eventually led us to a field of feral coffee plants and pineapple bushes.  Tere explained that Mangaia had once exported top-quality coffee and their pineapples were “the sweetest in the South Pacific.”  In the 1990s, globalization gutted agriculture then New Zealand austerity measures slashed government services and forced a mass exodus of the Island’s young people.  Most sought service or labour jobs in New Zealand, leaving their children behind to be raised by grandparents like Tu.  I asked Tere about promoting tourism and he told me that Mangaians have rebuffed opportunities to build tourist infrastructure on the Island, choosing instead to preserve Mangaia in its pristine state for future generations.  Mangaians, he explained, are stubborn and fiercely independent, the only Cook Islanders to worship the god, Rongo, instead of Tangaroa.  But with a population of barely 500 and dwindling, Tere worried their very existence was now threatened.

“Soon,” he said softly, “there may be no Mangaians left to stop development.”

After an educational and entertaining morning with Tere, we returned to Ara Moana in mid-afternoon for a brief rest.  At dusk, Tu drove us to the Island festival, where we joined Benny, his wife, and the other Swedish couple as “guests-of-honour” in the front row.  It looked like the entire population of Mangaia was in attendance.  Lanterns swayed and palm fronds sizzled in the humid breeze.  With heightened anticipation, the first group walked on stage and the music started.

Unlike groups on Aitutaki and Rarotonga, Mangaians had few instruments besides ukeleles and a few acoustic guitars they all shared.  Empty plastic tubs and other discarded household containers were used for percussion, but the music sounded virtually the same: a highly-syncopated, time-shifting rhythm, jumping between melodic choirs and pounding, aggressive, drum stanzas.

Between musical interludes, they performed a pantomime about a great warrior who fell in love with a simple peasant woman.  It was an enchanting story, but there was something odd about the peasant woman; she had a chiseled physique like the Statue of David. The second act also featured a female performer with a muscular body and I was beginning to have suspicions.  I bumped Julia with my elbow.

“There’s something odd about these women,” I whispered, “they seem very muscular.”

“I think they’re men,” she responded.

Once the third act began, it was evident: we were watching a drag show.  The crowd howled with excitement as successive men performed transvestite burlesque.  The group from Tu’s village told the story of a princess trying to seduce a lonely king.  She gyrated around the stage and shook her buttocks towards his face, but he only yawned and slumped deeper into despair.  When the princess’ servant boy arrived, the king, suddenly aroused, had a steamy love affair with him while the princess danced obliviously toward the audience.

The crowd roared with laughter then cheered heartily with approval.  When the festival ended, we sat for a few minutes dumbfounded, glancing at each other, mouths agape.  What did we just witness?  Was this culture or folks just letting off a little steam?  I still don’t know, but whatever that was, only six people outside of Mangaia have this story to tell, and four of them live in Sweden.

Driving back to Ara Moana, I sat with Benny and a group of children in the box of Tu’s truck.  The glowing red tailights receded into night as we swayed and yawed.  With our backs against the cab and our asses bouncing on the bare truck bed, Benny and I grimaced every time the truck hit a bump.  The children laughed at us.  Then, seemingly on cue, they all started singing a traditional Maori song.  Their angelic voices rose above the crumpling stones beneath the truck wheels; a sharp crescent moon followed us through the corridor of palm fronds.  Benny and I sat in silence, ingesting the experience, then he turned to me and said exactly what was rattling around inside my head.

“You know, at this moment, there’s no place in the world I’d rather be than right here.”

I smiled and nodded.

That night, with Mangaia blacked-out, Julia and I sat at the cliff edge drinking a bottle of wine.  The Milky Way speckled the night sky, the stars so vivid, they beamed down like billions of minuscule laser pointers.  It felt like we had stepped off the end of the World and were floating in outer-space.

“I’m so glad we came to Mangaia,” I said to Julia, watching a solitary fisherman swing a glowing lantern while strolling across the reef below. “That was an incredible day.”

“It was,” she replied, “but we’re still leaving tomorrow.”