“Vive le Québec huître!”
—Charles de Gaulle
The Oyster
Foundation’s Third Annual Meeting: in Montreal
We were 16 strong on
We met at
Bienvenu au
Richard O’Hagan
Stephen,
fellow Oysterians: thank you for including me in your very special company on
this Fourth of July. Even before meeting you, I was made to feel welcome by the
warmth of the messages I received. They seemed to me a courtesy of exceptional
grace and thoughtfulness. I appreciated them very much.
You will each be making your own
discoveries here in
Place and time prompt me to recall an
earlier example of Banker’s hosting talent. We’re going back many years to
Washington, D.C. when Stephen introduced me to a Canadian athlete whose name may
be familiar to some of you — Ken Dryden.
He was the All-Star goaltender for the legendary professional hockey team from
this very city — Les Canadiens. Dryden
was in
Ken
now
Ken
then
A prodigy as
schoolboy athlete, he had gone to Cornell and become an intercollegiate standout,
and from there to the National Hockey League and even greater glory — the most
valuable player in the Stanley Cup playoffs in his rookie year. But he was more
than a gifted athlete, as the Chief Oysterian had already discerned. Ken Dryden
was talent compounded, the full shape of which had yet to show itself. But we
know now: lawyer; best selling author, including a classic on hockey; a public
servant and advocate of special causes; most recently president of the Toronto
Maple Leafs hockey club and as of June 28 when a federal election was held,
Member of Parliament (and now a Cabinet Minister) of the governing Liberal
Party. That long ago supper on a muggy night in D.C. was of course the merest
foreshadowing of our present séance where I find myself facing not one but a
whole of host of luminaries — again at the inspired instance of our leader.
Stephen, I salute you.
I hope it won’t seem presumptuous of
me to extend to all of you a warm welcome, bienvenue,
to this historic and prized Canadian city.
It’s where I, like Ken Dryden, spent several contented and stimulating
years of professional life.
For a very long time,
I alluded to the recent election. The
Liberal party, to which I have devoted much of my career, has been in power for
the past ten years and has been our dominant party for a hundred years, was
returned to office, but with a minority in the House of Commons. It is our
first minority government in 25 years. This one is of more than ordinary
interest because of the realignments produced and their regional sources.
Regionalism is a reality of political life in
Because of the issues playing in and
out of this mix, a francophone separatist party, the Bloc Quebecois, emerged
with the third largest number of seats and a grip on the balance of power. That
in itself is at least ironic since the Bloc Quebecois is dedicated to
extracting
Let me conclude with a word on the vexatious
subject of Canadian identity. You know the facts — that we are one of the
world’s most advanced economies, are bifurcated linguistically, and talk
endlessly about our constitution. In the National Review, John O’Sullivan
called our politics “excessively exciting”. But that would be overstating it,
even in wryness.
Michael Kinsley once ran a contest in
the
When we obsess over our image and what
others think of us, it is really the
Mouse?
British PM
Harold Wilson
Other prime ministers haven’t fared so
well. I think back to 1965 and the US-Canada Auto-Pact, forerunner of the North
American Free Trade Agreement, NAFTA. Our Prime Minister then was Mike Pearson,
an affable, easily met man if there ever was one, and a genuine star of the
international arena — one of the architects and builders of the UN and a Nobel
prize winner over Suez. I accompanied him to LBJ’s
Fast forward to 2004 and the G8 summit
in
PM John Martin
British PM Mulroney
Mike
Wallace
And then there was the Reagan funeral. Along with
Margaret Thatcher, Brian Mulroney, a
former Canadian Prime Minister, was invited to eulogize the late president — an
undoubted honour — which he did with some panache. Mulroney, a champion
schmoozer himself, and the Great Communicator had hit it off so famously that
at a summit in
Chances are they all would have gotten
the name right had the charismatic Pierre Elliott Trudeau been their guest. And
if he had been, he might well have taken the opportunity to tell them that the
true richness of
As I learned over my years in his
administration, Trudeau saw the development of democratic federalism and
pluralism as matters of urgency for world peace and the success of new states.
He called
I profoundly hope he is proved right.
And if he is, it may yet fix our identity problem — even in the
After a refreshing
round of bubbly and nibblies, Marty Moleski stepped forward. I had encouraged him to write the best, most
powerful piece he could, but at the same time I had a lingering thought that
some people would resent having a morbid subject presented at what was supposed
to be a celebratory gathering. However,
Marty’s inherent charm, his intensity and his speaking skills made the theme
all the more compelling, framed by compassion.
A Bitter Cup
Martin X. Moleski,
SJ
Hi,
everybody. My name is Marty Moleski, and I'm an alcoholic.
I
recognized this fact pretty much by accident on
Both Brian
and I were on student visas at the
When the
theory of setting a rational limit didn't work, I decided to try rescuing
him. I volunteered to pick up his car
when he got drunk. A few days after I
made the offer, he called from a bar on
The next
morning, the car was gone. Brian had
gotten arrested for walking while
intoxicated, and spent a few hours in the drunk tank. Then he came back to my place, still drunk,
and used a key he kept under the hood to drive himself home. For me, this was the last straw. I realized that he was a hopeless alcoholic,
and I set up an appointment with him to read him the riot act.
As the song
says in Man of La Mancha, I was only
thinking of him—I was only thinking of him, but my drinking bothered me, too.
I went into
the parlor that afternoon armed with materials to prove to Brian that he was an
alcoholic. I had a diagnostic quiz with
twenty questions. Among them:
Do you feel guilty about
drinking? Yes.
Do you drink to deal with your
feelings? Yes.
Have you tried to control your
drinking? Yes.
Do you drink alone? Yes.
Is there unhappiness in your
family due to drinking? Yes.
Do you associate with inferior companions when you are
drinking? Yes.
Have you lost time from work due
to drinking? Yes.
These were my Yes answers. It only takes three Yes answers to pass the
test, and I had seven.
Brian was
much worse, I thought, because he had arrests on his record, and he had many
friends like me who told him that he was in trouble.
When I had
first taken the test, I was shocked to learn that I had passed the test but I
didn't feel guilty enough to stop drinking altogether. I mentally modified all of my answers. Yes, I
drank alone when I was cooking for the community, but the unhappiness in my family was due to Dad's drinking, not
mine, and all the so-called inferior companions with whom I drank were my
fellow Jesuits.
Although I
obliterated the responses from my mind, I neglected to erase the pencil marks I
had made on the quiz sheet. When I
started to give Brian the test, he noticed them and asked whose answers they
were. I admitted that they were mine. He said, "Then that proves that you are
an alcoholic."
He had me.
With him looking over my shoulder, I had to admit that I had passed a test that
I wanted desperately to fail. My life changed that day. Brian's didn't.
I took out
my favorite Bible and wrote on the flyleaf: "I am an alcoholic. I choose not to drink." After I had signed and dated this confession,
I felt a surge of despair. I reopened
the Bible and wrote: "P.S. Please
help me, God."
I had made
a commitment to sobriety. The promise was in front of my eyes every time I
opened the Bible, to say nothing of God’s eyes.
But keeping
the vow was not easy. It took five or
six years for me to join the fellowship of recovering alcoholics. Time after time, I fell into depression. At last, I began to use the 12 Steps of
Alcoholics Anonymous to help me restructure my life.
After I
became active in AA, I realized that both my parents were alcoholics, too. I joined Al-Anon, a 12-Step program for
families and friends of alcoholics. I
reported my father's drinking to the New York State Medical Board; they
informed Dad that he could go into treatment and cease drinking or else he
could give up his license to practice medicine and psychiatry.
Despite
predictable anger and resentment in the beginning, my parents have now enjoyed 16 years of
sobriety. The religious convictions that
led me into the Society of Jesus and the priesthood helped, I guess, but I had
been building on sand for many years while living under the influence of my own
alcoholism.
After the
intervention for Mom and Dad, my life in sobriety gained stability. I thought I understood the nature of
alcoholism and of recovery. Much of my life, including my professional
life — my priestly duty — was constant.
But the learning process had not ended.
In the
Spring of 2002, I was on sabbatical in a Jesuit community in
Michael was
a small man with a big smile. His hair
was close-cropped, and he looked like royalty in his orange or purple
dashiki. He liked to watch TV lying on
the same sofa that I had chosen for myself.
Sometimes he would get to the TV room first, other times I would. We had a long theological argument in a
restaurant in March, the kind of debate that I thoroughly enjoy—passionate,
wide-ranging, and very challenging. I
appreciated his willingness to confront me and felt that we were good friends
in spite of our different worldviews.
Early in
April, after I'd been in the house for a couple of months, I noticed that
Michael had disappeared from evening meals and no longer was competing for
control of the TV room. I asked where he
had gone. Folks said, "That's
Michael. He doesn't like our food very
much. Sometimes he withdraws for a
while."
Early one
morning, after I hadn’t seen him for several days, he knocked on my door,
waking me up. When I opened the door,
there was Michael, jabbering incoherently and waving a cigar humidifier at me. He handed it to me, then came back a few
minutes later with a ragged Cuban cigar.
I didn't know what to make of the entire dialogue, such as it was. I did smoke the cigar later in the day,
sitting in the weak spring sunshine, and I still use the humidifier in my
humidor.
Later that
day, I expressed my concern to others in the community over Michael's
condition. I found out that he had been
treated for alcoholism some years earlier and that he had gone on several
benders in the last month.
I knew the
right thing to do. When a man relapses
after treatment, he needs to go through treatment again. I called the police in
desperation at one point, but they refused our request to come help us get him
into a rehab. So we made plans to take
Michael to Guest House in
It took
five hours for the head of the house, Father Bob Bueter, and me to talk Michael
into returning to treatment. When we
started the argument that morning, Michael was drunk and disoriented. Late in the afternoon, he agreed to pack his
bags. Michael stumbled as we were
walking downstairs, and I caught him.
With some difficulty, we finally got him in the car for the seven hour
ride to
Michael
stirred a few times and drank some water en route, but refused the Big Mac and
fries that I bought him for dinner. I
ate them myself after they had gone cold.
Michael pushed his seat back and put his bare feet up on the dashboard
after asking Bob if that was OK. We
figured it was good for him to sleep off his most recent binge, and we were
grateful that the long debate with him was over.
When we
arrived at Guest House, it was cold and dark.
I opened Michael's door and started tying on his shoes for him, but he
didn't stir. Only after I got his shoes
on did I turn and notice that his eyes were open, staring off into the
darkness. I tried to slap him awake, but
there was no reaction. Then he stopped
breathing. I gave him mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation, and he began to breathe again, though not for long. I kept on trying, but he never breathed on
his own again. The emergency workers
went through all the procedures required in such cases, but I could tell from
the first time they looked at him that they had no hope for him whatsoever.
Michael's
liver had failed. He was a dead man
walking when we started urging him to accept treatment that morning. For Bob and me, it was a long trip back to
Some of
Michael's Nigerian friends were outraged when they learned how Michael had
died. Bob and I met with twenty of them
a few nights after his death. They
accused us of racial hostility. "If
Michael had been a white man, he would not have died." I lost my temper after two hours of
inquisition and yelled at them, "Why do you think we were in the car with
him? Don't you understand that we loved
him and wanted what was best for him?"
The meeting ended very shortly afterward.
I could not
admit it to myself or to them that night, but they were right. When a white man suffers liver failure, his
skin turns yellow, and anyone can see that he is in a crisis. Michael was a very black black man, and I did
not know until he died that when a black man suffers liver failure, his skin
turns grey. I had looked at Michael's
grey feet all afternoon, up on the dashboard, and not once had I realized that
I was seeing the sign of his approaching death.
Michael's African friends were right: if he had been a white man, he
would not have died in the car at the doorway of the treatment center.
+ + + + +
Over the
years, I lost touch with Brian. So far
as I know, he is still drinking. Yet I thank him for the role he played in
helping me confront my alcoholism. When
I remember Michael, I mourn his death and feel the anguish of having failed
him. Both of them were unwitting
messengers, and even as they fell into darkness, they brought light to me.
The
Psalmist says that the Lord has given us bread to make us strong, oil to make
our faces shine, and wine to make our hearts glad. For those of you who can enjoy the pleasant
effects of alcohol, I hope it makes your heart glad this evening. I love the Jewish custom of raising one's
glass to life. I won't be able to drink what you are drinking, but I will join
you in the spirit of the toasts and in the joy of The Oyster Foundation. L'chaim—to
life!
At that point, Joe
Schildkraut stood to say how touched he was by Marty’s presentation and how
grateful he was to Marty for sharing it with us. As I look back, it seems to me that Joe’s deeply-felt
remarks were part of the experience of Marty’s paper. We moved on. Time for refreshments
(each to his own), and then I read my poem about Joseph H. Hirschhorn. I started with a few words of introduction
for those who didn’t know much about the subject.
I'm
going to read a poem today. It’s about,
and spoken in the voice of, Joseph H.
Hirschhorn, whose lasting memorial is the
In 1915 when he was just 16, having followed the trade for four years, he jumped in with his newsboy savings and earned $168,000 the first year. Clearly, he had a knack. His success continued, and so did his uncanny sense of the market, and he cashed out with $4 million two months before the 1929 crash.
What next? Joe Hirschhorn looked north
to
In the mid 1960s, he went to the town
of
Joe died in 1981. The museum remains a focal point for contemporary art. If you visit it, you will be struck, I think, by two themes — first, the loudness of the colors, the primary hues that so excited and attracted him; and second, the unpredictability of the shapes: even the picture frames are not consistently rectangular, and the sculpture is often surreal.
So when I wrote this poem, I decided to represent the bright colors with strong, heavy rhymes and to suggest the uneven shapes by constantly breaking the meter.
There is a disparaging reference in
the poem to the National Gallery of Art, which was of course funded by the
Mellon family. Joe hated it. He thought the Mellons had no taste in art,
except for what they saw in Life Magazine and other arbiters of popular
culture. He said that’s why it’s not
called the
I knew Joe Hirschhorn a little. I made a movie about him for the Canadian
Broadcasting Corp. and conducted several interviews for CBC radio. It turned out he and his wife Olga shared a
pew in the
*******
THE DEVIL ON THE WALL
For Joseph H. Hirschhorn, 1899-1981
Stephen Banker
“Mal nisht den Teifel an die Wand”*
(*Yiddish proverb: “Don’t draw the devil on the wall,” or
“Keep your darkest thoughts to
yourself.”)
*
I, Joseph H. Hirschhorn, with five aitches, born
on the other side, made a name up north,
a kid out of Mitau who came to adorn
this country's capital, of monuments the fourth —
Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and me — it's official,
and not a one of them with a middle initial.
A Latvian child in a
already marked as late to arrive,
a greenhorn newsboy chasing daily wages,
a shrimp in a businessman’s hat,
I sat on the curb and ripped the pages
of Colliers, SatEvePost, and Barbershop Gazette
with color plates and evocation, to use a fancy word,
of something more — faces, pears and apples, mountains — that stirred
my juices, straightened my spine.
How could a shiny sheet of paper drive
me nuts for something not quite mine?
Not yet.
This whole collection I gathered on my own —
I bargain, barter, bundle, beg and steal —
for when I see unlikely colors or hidden lines in stone,
everything goes still in me, there's a hush,
my skin is tight and my blood begins to rush.
First the silence, then a heavy roar
like the train outside the door
when I was small
until I don’t know longing from the real,
and then I pester everyone: I want, I want.
Go tell it to the wall, my mother cried, Geh red zu die Wand,
and that is what I've done. Look! Can you deny it?
Take it from a trader who can smell a deal:
Let your children hear your wisdom and apply it.
Say, don’t you like this better than the National down the Mall
whose dried-up Mellons shied away from fame
with gifts that ran from certified to quaint?
Their lofty contributions were a waste
for grandkids looking for a sign.
But here, your hands, your eyes are mine.
This is my collection and my taste.
I throbbed for every pebble, every fleck of paint.
That’s why it bears my name.
If I had never turned uranium into gold —
suppose I'd led a simple life, grown old
with nothing in my attic but the bags —
where would this need have gone, how to express
the yearning force, the fury to possess
some canvasses your experts thought were rags?
It would have been the same, the same.
I’d pile up things that just don’t cost:
Calendars. Clippings. Pictures of pictures. Maybe prints.
A worn-out copy of a piece that hints
at more than faded hues and tattered frame.
The difference is that this place has my name embossed.
It started when a child was taunted,
a misfit, driven, scared and small,
he hoarded drawings from discarded magazines,
then gathered paintings, sculpture, monumental scenes,
and told them to the wall, like Mama wanted.
©2004 Stephen Banker
That broke the mood. And
I sensed that people appreciated the poetry. Anyway, they laughed at the right
places. The final contributor was Jethro Marks, a protégé of Pinchas Zukerman
who is one of the outstanding musicians of his generation. At 6’ 6”, he cradles the viola as if it were
a violin. He apologized for returning to
a somber theme, for he had selected a piece called “Lamentations of Jeremiah”
by the Canadian composer, Milton Barnes.
CLICK HERE TO LISTEN
When Jethro finished,
there was a long, appreciative pause before the applause started. This performance was unlike anything The
Oyster Foundation had experienced. As I
watched the reaction, I thought of Jethro’s grandfather, Ed, whose writing about
a junket to
Then I pointed out
that all our meetings are strongly regional.
Dick’s talk, of course, was specifically about
But first we had to
see the town. Four calèches (horse and
buggies) awaited us for a tour of Vieux Montréal. I climbed aboard with Dick, Jethro and
Anna. When the driver pointed out the
home office of the Bank of
We returned to our
hotels at about 6. That gave us an hour
and a half to rest up and struggle into our formal clothes. Jethro and Anna, our energetic juveniles,
elected to take a walk and quickly disappeared.
I poked around for a while, napped briefly, and gave myself half an hour
to don my tux, insert the studs and
cufflinks and tie the bowtie. Since I
was sharing my quarters with Jethro, and he still wasn’t back, I wondered if he
would have enough time to put on his tuxedo.
At
Marty wore a special
ruffled dickey, which for priests, so he says, is more formal than the flat
kind.
We reassembled, all
duded up (with a couple of exceptions), at
Napoléon of Anna
potatoes, cream of Vodka and green lemon, marinated salmon shaped as a rose.
Cold
soup: Cappucino of carrot, ginger and
lime
Foie gras poélé,
salsa of exotic fruits, glazed with maple
WINE: Pinot Blanc,
2002, family estate,
Rack of Boileau
Deer, Geniper berries, jelly of green
fir sap
WINE: Mission Hill
2001, Merlot, BC
Assortment of
Déclinaison of L’Ile d’Orléans strawberries
WINE: “Ice Wine”: Konzelmann Estate Winery,
How do you attach those little
Easy!
Everything you need to know is on the license plate
Québec:
La
Compiled and edited by Stephen Banker
Additional photography by Boris
Berenfeld
HTML version by Martin X. Moleski, SJ