The Glamour is Gone

In the summer of 1971, my husband, John, was posted to the Canadian High Commission in Lagos, Nigeria, and I prepared to go with him, as foreign service spouses (read: wives) were expected to do back then.

Posting confirmation in hand, John rushed straight to the finance section of then-External Affairs and took out a posting loan to top up our meagre outfitting allowance; I grabbed the money and headed to Ogilvy's, where I used it to buy 12 sets of crystal, china, cutlery and table linens. It didn't matter that we were hopelessly in debt: We could set a beautiful table in hot, humid, post-Biafran War, Nigeria.

"How come you're buying all this stuff?" asked the bewildered young sales assistant, as she rang up my cache.

"My husband's being sent to Africa," I replied loftily, "as a diplomat."

"Oh," she exclaimed, no doubt wondering what a diplomat was, "so what're you going to do?"

Stumped, I answered, "Entertain."

"Wow! Singer or dancer?"

Loyal appendage would have been closer to the truth. I'd read the official handbook and knew my role would be strictly supportive. But I was anxious to do well. In those days, wives figured prominently in their husbands' annual appraisals, and we were in this career together.

According to the handbook, my first task was to send a note to the wife of the high commissioner, declaring our delight at having been selected for Lagos. Composing the message took me half a day and writing it ate up six of my expensive new Birks "informals." Like the calling cards issued to me, these fold-over white note-cards with my official name — Mrs. John R. Schram — prominently embossed on the front, were part of the diplomatic kit.

Once at the post, it was my duty, within three days of our arrival, to call on the high commissioner's spouse, and in full regalia: afternoon dress, nylons, high-heeled shoes. I clearly remember the green and white linen suit that clung to me like a dry-cleaning bag, the white shoes into which I had horned my little sausage feet, and the droplets of perspiration that ran off my nose and trickled down the backs of my pantyhosed thighs.  I knew how important it was to make a good first impression and, sitting nervously on the chintz couch, my teacup and saucer rat-tat-a-tat-ing loudly in my slippery, quivering hand, I just hoped I was succeeding.
 
In those days we all knew that an invitation from our high commissioner — or ambassador — and his wife was a command performance. The diplomatic handbook was quite succinct on the subject: attendance at the Official Residence (O.R.) was mandatory, except in cases of personal ill health or if the officer himself was hosting a function at home; we were there as co-hosts, not as guests; our job was to engage official visitors in conversation, not to stand around talking to our friends.

An invitation to the O.R. also meant arriving 15 minutes ahead of the first guest, and leaving 15 minutes after the last one had gone home. And if, occasionally, it looked as if one or two invitees might not show up, it meant virtually springing out of the hall closet at the last moment, appropriately attired, to fill the vacant chairs at the dinner table.

In return, we were given suitable accommodation (for which we paid a substantial rent, compared to our pathetic salary), a tiny entertainment allowance that was minutely scrutinized, and the promise of a fascinating — and glamorous, too, we hoped — life.

But all that's changed now. These expectations and responsibilities no longer exist. Ask an officer today to attend a dinner in honour of a visiting cabinet minister or a local VIP and chances are the response will be, "Thanks for the invite but I think we'll pass. Taylor's got soccer practice that night."

Suggest that he/she might consider hosting a dinner at home, and you're likely to hear, "Sorry, my spouse isn't interested. And besides, we don't have matching dishes."

Spouses, with busy and fulfilling careers of their own, no longer see themselves as unpaid handmaidens — or the male equivalent — of the now-Department of Foreign Affairs Trade and Development Canada (DFATD). And chatting up a bunch of locals at a formal dinner or attending a charity bazaar with the ambassador's wife have little appeal.

Nor should they. The days of the adoring little wife, lower lip aquiver with pride, working assiduously to support her husband, are over.

No one, we're told, is entertaining at home any longer anyway, so the expectation of lovely accommodation is gone too. Many of the graceful flats and houses in Paris and London, that we used to be put in so that we could host elegant lunches and dinners and get to know -- and influence -- people that mattered to Canada's foreign policy objectives, are about to go on the block, and the profits used to open new missions in emerging economies.  Or pay down the deficit.

Unlike our European and Asian and African and Latin American colleagues who still see value in hosting events at home, Canadian diplomats — at least in London and Paris — will soon be billeted in small apartments, and officers will be encouraged to meet officials, counterparts and contacts in expensive restaurants, the only kind that exist in these particular capitals.

Of course, it doesn't matter a hoot really where the socializing takes place, provided it serves its purpose and gives Canadian taxpayers value for money. But as Canada's former ambassador to the U.S., Allan Gotlieb, points out, inviting someone out for a meal is not the same as having them home: the personal touch is gone, along with the possibility of a more nuanced — and ultimately fruitful — relationship.

Personally, I regret the change: entertaining at home meant I got a vastly expanded world view, complete immersion in an unfamiliar culture, and even the opportunity to exert some influence. There was a sense of purpose, an esprit de corps and, dare I say it without sounding too naive, pride in what we were accomplishing. And if it meant preparing a meal for 10 or 12 after a long day at work, it was — usually, but not always — worth it.

In my opinion, the regalia, the calling cards, the candelabra and the effort that went with them provided Canada with a grown-up, international-standard backdrop to the serious business of diplomacy. But then I'm just a wistful old bag with a cupboard full of crystal, china, and cutlery. And a box of informals with my husband's name on them.

(c) Alena Schram
alenaschram@gmail.com 
  

AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, GO TO NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX); 
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM. 
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

An African Moment

My husband John and I were standing dispiritedly on a streetcar platform on Spadina in downtown Toronto. We had just returned from a succession of African postings – first to Ghana, then Ethiopia, and finally Zimbabwe – and the light overcoats we were wearing, so fashionable when we’d put them into storage 11 years earlier, were now hopelessly dated, their waterproofing and insulation long gone.

We were bone-cold.

It was one of those dim, late-November evenings, the kind that strum the mind, evoking memories of burning leaves and dank soil, and the baleful onset of a Canadian winter. Children were safely indoors, tucked up behind the comfort of curtains, waiting for their suppers. Shops were beginning to close. And the homeward-bound were pulling on their woolly toques and padded gloves, and rushing to catch their buses and subways.

John was shuffling the large shopping bags I’d weighed him down with, trying to rebalance the load.

“Remind me again,” he said, “what were our reasons for moving back to Canada and not to the French Riviera?”

He sounded a little exasperated. Carrying two new winter coats can do that to you, especially if you’re also lugging two pairs of boots and seven sets of long underwear, both uppers and lowers.

“I think it had something to do with money. Like not having enough of it,” I said, my bone marrow starting to congeal.  Where, I wondered, was Africa’s lambent sunshine when I needed it? And where was that darned streetcar?

“Did we fully explore possibilities in Greece?” I asked, returning to the subject of temperate climates, “Or Cyprus? Egypt? Algeria? What’s a little upheaval when you’re not shivering …”

But we both knew the truth: It was family and friends that had lured us back. And the promise of a good life in a great country. Thirty-six years in the Foreign Service had ratcheted up our pride and, dare I say it, our patriotism.

The platform was starting to congest. People from everywhere on Earth: Canada’s legendary cultural mosaic made flesh. All of them jammed in with us on that long chilly concrete islet, looking into the distance for their transport home.

Just as my eyeballs were beginning to gather rime from the misty night air, I spotted a dazzling and familiar streak of kente – Ghana’s iconic woven cloth. A man nearby was wearing it tightly corkscrewed around his neck. He had on a bobble hat, its ear flaps pulled fiercely down, and a pair of red knitted gloves, adorned with white maple leafs. His jacket – the kind I imagine a lineman would want if he planned to work on hydro poles in the high Arctic – was zipped up tightly. He was taking no chances with the weather.

To us, so recently back from Africa, he appeared to be Ghanaian. He was older, quite tall, with a kindly face and a stature that was effortlessly erect.  Nearby in the crowd stood a young girl – possibly Ethiopian, I thought.

 

I saw him glance down at her, then heard him click his tongue loudly and disapprovingly.

“Your coat is not heavy enough,” he declared, pointing unabashedly. In most parts of Africa, elders offer advice without prompting, and younger people accept it.

But the girl stared back at him, lips defiantly pursed.

He was right in his assessment: She had on a distressingly thin pink jacket, more suited to late spring than late autumn; her spindly legs, jutting out from beneath a summer dress, were bare; and she wore flip-flops with rubber daisies on the toe-straps.

What was her mother thinking, I wondered, letting her out dressed like that?

The answer was immediately and trenchantly clear: Standing directly behind the girl was a tall, beautiful woman, her hair plaited with beads in traditional northern Ethiopian – Tigrayan – fashion, tight against her head in front, full and fluffy in back. She was clad in Ethiopian national attire: a short-sleeved white dress made of gauze-like cotton, embroidered with coloured crosses along the neckline and the edge of the skirt. Every finely woven thread of it was hopelessly inadequate against the cold. Even the natela she had elegantly arrayed over her slender shoulders offered little in the way of protection.

“You need a much heavier coat in Canada,” the man with the kente scarf repeated more forcefully this time, turning slightly to include the woman in his admonition.

The young girl glared at him, still silent.

This was a standoff of deep cultural proportions.

Suddenly and without warning, she blurted, “Where are you from?”

“What?”

The man seemed taken aback with her directness and curiosity.

“What do you mean?” he snapped, frowning.

“Well, are you African?” she asked.

He looked down at her, utterly speechless.

“I said, are you African?” she reiterated, somewhat boldly.

I watched his face turn from disapproving to disbelief, and from disbelief to frank offence.

It was a tense moment.Then he pulled up his shoulders, and waving his maple-leaf-gloved hands in the air, declared with gravitas and visible pride: “I am Canadian!”

Now I’d like to be able to say that at that very moment a marching band appeared out of the darkness and struck up the national anthem. And that the entire platform erupted into song: our home and native land … true patriot love … with glowing hearts … we stand on guard.

But that, of course, didn’t happen.

What did happen though was that for John and me, Canada just got a whole lot warmer.

Alena Schram lives in Amherst Island, Ont.

AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK, FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Mandela, South Africa, and Canada

As Nelson Mandela’s long and noble life ebbs inexorably to a close, everyone that ever spied him from a distance or watched him on TV — or, in solidarity with him, gave up Paarl wines, Granny Smith apples, Outspan oranges, Marlboro cigarettes — feels a special relationship with this iconic South African. His effect on people the world over has been unusually personal, intimate even.

Predictably these days, it’s hard to find any white South Africans that were in favour of apartheid — the iniquitous codified system based on race that predetermined the future of every child born there.

 

Indeed, many now imply they were “in the struggle”, “banned”, “nearly banned” or “restricted”, while others insist they emigrated, not for economic reasons, but because they were involved in anti-apartheid activities, and threatened with reprisals by the fearsome South African security services.
 

If you believe that, you probably also believe there were never any Communists in the Soviet Union or Nazis in Hitler’s Germany.

Those of us in Pretoria in the late 1980s, posted to the Canadian Embassy — as it then was — knew well the shamefully small band of white saints and heroes that, with no guarantee of an equitable resolution to the intractable problems facing that nation, and at great danger to themselves, stood up to the authorities and did what was right, alongside their black compatriots.

Successful professionals all, they had nothing to gain from their moral and vocal engagement, and everything to lose.

Some, like young Keith Coleman, were sent to prison — into solitary confinement — as punishment for their activism.

Well-known jurist Albie Sachs, working against the apartheid regime from nearby Mozambique, had his arm blown off by a parcel bomb.

However, many more benefitted happily from a system where the odds were stacked in their favour from birth.

It wasn’t that they were particularly in favour of apartheid, but their silent compliance helped to maintain it.

They weren’t especially racist either; they simply edited blacks from sight.

An elegant, educated industrialist, seated beside me at an all-white luncheon in Johannesburg the year before Mandela’s release, boasted of the efficiency of his large production company.

“And it’s all run by just seven people,” he announced proudly.

“Seven!?” I asked, amazed.

“Oh, and 300 blacks,” he added, absent-mindedly.

What most Canadians are unaware of is the pivotal role that Canada — along with Sweden, Australia, and The Netherlands — played in the battle to dismantle South Africa’s system of legalized racism.

Our embassy in Pretoria took a lead in the South African struggle for a just, multi-racial society — the ‘rainbow nation’ that Mandela envisaged throughout his 27 years on Robben Island.

And our efforts were unstintingly supported by ordinary Canadians who understood the issue and the righteousness of the stand we were taking together.

In those dark days before Mandela’s release, Canadian diplomats joined black and white South Africans at blacks-only bus stops and outside black hospital wards, to press for their desegregation.

Some officers, while observing protests, were tear-gassed, while others — or their spouses — were water cannoned, rounded up, and thrown into police vehicles.

Meanwhile, the embassy’s $1.2 million Dialogue Fund, established by Brian Mulroney’s government, supported human rights groups and anti-apartheid initiatives.

Our brief: to represent the voiceless; to be a persistent, unrelenting presence, watching, listening, bearing witness.

And to press for change.

In 1990, soon after he emerged from prison, Nelson Mandela publicly credited Canadians for the critical part they played in that change. But as everyone knows, it was the towering Mandela himself, whose leadership made the seemingly impossible, possible. Who inspired South Africans to make this modern-day miracle work.

His death is sure to unleash a flood of first-person stories: What Madiba Confided In Me; How I Advised Mandela on South Africa; My Moment with Nelson.

But his eloquent handwritten letter to my husband John and me, as we prepared to leave South Africa, was in fact a first-person story about all Canadians that shared his vision:

“Dear John and Alena, During your stay in South Africa, we have come to know and respect you as people who care about South Africa, about our trials and tribulations, our setbacks and victories. Through your warmth and understanding and positive contributions you have won many friends not only for yourself, but also for Canada.

You have touched our hearts and will be sorely missed.”

Mandela’s legacy will, in some measure, be Canada’s. We have every right to be proud.

Alena Schram and her husband John served in the Canadian Embassy, Pretoria from 1988 to 1992. John was Minister-Counsellor and Alena administered the Dialogue Fund.

© Copyright (c) The Ottawa Citizen

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM 
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.