The Classroom Conservative

O Canada? O Brother!

On Friday morning, I heard Kim Campbell on CBC Radio, where her suggestion for an alternate lyric to replace "in all thy sons command" in our national anthem seemed a remarkably sensible one.

Why not sing "in all of us command"?

It turns out that Ms Campbell had first made that suggestion twenty years ago. It is far less radical than reverting to the original words penned by Robert Stanley Weir: "thou dost in us command."

I found myself nodding my head. "From far and wide, O Canada" has been added to the version I learned as a child, so it is not as if our national anthem cannot be altered. And "sons" does feel anachronistic to me, while "us" is nowhere near as bend-over-backwards earnest as "he or she," "s/he" or "sons and daughters." So, even as the government was backtracking from an idea surely rooted in watching dozens of women olympians singing, it seemed as though Ms Campbell had the solution.

But she could not stop talking.

Why not take this opportunity to purge O Canada of all religious references, she wondered. And, while we are at it, let us change "our home and native land" to "our home on native land." No controversy there!

Ms Campbell's ideas, according to the speaker who followed her, demonstrate only that no amount of tinkering would satisfy everyone; while that is true, that is not what I found most objectionable about Ms Campbell's wider plans. What bothered me was how they demonstrated so clearly that people are never satisfied with incremental change, people are never satisfied with small, obvious fixes. If we are going to go to the bother of a fight, after all, we had really better make it worth that bother.

Small, meaningful change is hardly worth the effort. But other things are so dramatic, they scare us back to inaction. From health care to climate change, can we not see this is true?

My Life As A Deadbeat

I am an international student who skipped out of Canada after running up a large debt. Okay, I am not, but a number of collection agencies believe me to be.

When, last autumn, I got my iPhone, Rogers assigned me a recycled phone number. I should have known it was recycled because it was too good to be true. The last four digits, "2215," are wonderfully conventional, and the first three digits are part of a familiar exchange. (There you go, telemarketers: I have narrowed down my private phone number to under a thousand combinations. Fill your boots -- and your long distance bills.) So, it was not the kind of odd combination of numerals one usually gets for new cellphones. I could almost remember the number. And, honestly, is that not the struggle? How often does one call oneself, anyway?

Within days, I started to get calls from unfamiliar people, strange voicemails. When I decided to return one, I learned the extent of the ugly truth: the fellow who used to have my number owed a lot of people a lot of money.

At first, the collection agents did not seem to believe me. I was not a young student from Asia? Was I sure I was not? Okay, but did I know him? Did I live on Columbia Boulevard? Was I certain I did not? Eventually, they all agreed to flag "my" file with this information, and the calls stopped. But as the debts get passed from agency to agency, the calls begin again, and so does the cycle of explanations.

There are two things that have interested me through this process. Number one, these collection agents have been nicer than I expected they would be. Of course, they should be apologetic when they learn about their "mistake," but -- even as I have had to convince them of my real identity -- they have been polite, for the most part. They do, it must be said, answer their extensions rather abruptly, however: "What? Yeah?"

Number two, these collection agents take no care with this fellow's personal information. In an attempt to determine whether I am telling the truth, whether I might actually be his acquaintance, they tell me all kinds of things about him.

Still, I have never been able to bring myself to ask them exactly how much money he was given.  Oh, easy credit.  You really are a gift, are you not?  I believe that credit card companies and other similar businesses have pulled back from the big campus pushes that we saw in recent years.  I used to think that giving students access to all kinds of credit hurt students; it now seems clear that it hurt some creditors, too.

I Helped Catriona LeMay Doan Light The Olympic Cauldron, Or, The Importance Of Popular Culture

Well, not exactly. Bear with me.

Returning to Lethbridge from Ottawa last year, I got caught in a weather delay in Toronto. Realizing that I would miss my connecting flight in Calgary, I worked my way to the front of a long queue at the gate. Air Canada had only one later flight scheduled to Lethbridge, and I did not want to leave to chance that I would, over the course of the next six hours, get automatically re-booked to it. Passengers beginning their journeys in Toronto were concerned about missing their own connections, their own bus journeys to Banff, their live events in Calgary that night. Some were abandoning their trips, resigned to simply take cabs back home.

With about a half-dozen people queued behind me with their own questions, I heard paged to our gate Catriona LeMay Doan, the Olympian. I suspect she was awaiting an upgrade, and so I was not surprised to see a tall, strikingly athletic woman materialize immediately at my side, and she quickly walked forward to approach the agent.

"Hey! There's a line here!" one woman yelled. "Wait your turn!" snapped another man. Ms Doan stopped in her tracks.

Now, I believe that I was, at that moment, in the midst of a genuine Canadian incident, one way or another. Were the angry individuals behind me not ready to make a concession to social hierarchy? I actually think that, as stressed as they were, they did not recognize Ms Doan, had not heard Air Canada summon her. Was Ms Doan, a legend in Canadian sports, deferring to the angry mob in a way that, say, an American celebrity might never do?

Ever the Canadian gentleman, of course, I stepped in. "Folks," I said. "She's been paged." We made eye contact for a moment -- I wish she'd thanked me, I must admit -- and the multiple gold medalist passed on without further comment.

Now, without that simple courtesy, itself a profoundly Canadian gesture, might Ms Doan have been overtaken by an angry mob? Unlikely. But during that interminable wait for the hydraulic cauldron to assemble itself in Vancouver on Friday night, I liked to imagine that I helped contribute to the health and good fortune she has experienced, the series of events that brought her, over the period of the past eighteen months, to stand again in front of a world-wide audience. Happy to have been of assistance, ma'am.

The announcers for NBC coverage of the Opening Ceremonies at the Winter Olympics marveled at the participation of prominent Canadians from different walks of life. And I wondered, of course, that, if one had heard Sarah McLachlan, would one know Romeo Dallaire? Would one who remembered Betty Fox have ever seen Steve Nash play? Do people have albums from both Measha Brueggergosman and k.d. lang? I too often hear the cultural snobbery (or reverse cultural snobbery) of people who claim to be ignorant of certain elements of our culture, popular or otherwise. My brush with Ms Doan in Toronto was made possible because someone who spent his formative years locked away in a library still places great importance on maintaining his cultural literacy. While it might be to some a badge of honor to not know who is Britney Spears, that is, to me, as puzzling as being proud never to have spent money to watch a subtitled film in a theater. What I took from Friday night is a reminder that our citizenship is rooted in an awareness of all elements of our culture.

On Hearing "No"

An old professor of mine, long gone to glory as a university president, once confided in me how difficult he found hearing "no." It is a strange thing, of course, as this job is filled with "no." We hear it from our students in complaints on teaching evaluations; we hear it from our peers on applications for study leave or for promotion; we hear it from publishers and journal editors when we submit our work. My old professor heard it from his chair: he burned through thousands of pieces of paper and destroyed a photocopier disseminating additional material for our class.

Of course, the odds of someone considering graduate school ever getting that tenure-track job in the professoriate are long, indeed. Our whole enterprise is founded on hearing, and ignoring, the word "no."

But my old professor's lament is still sound. If you hear "yes" enough to get through school, get a job, and progress through the ranks, you can isolate yourself just enough that "no" -- a genuine, final "no" -- feels foreign to you.

What to do when you hear "no"? It is not something with which I deal well. I used to have a paper route as a kid in Newfoundland, for the only local publication that did not have a subscription list. Asking the same hundred and fifty people each week if they wanted to buy the paper they did not want the week before will scar you, rest assured. Is that why I prefer having my work solicited? Even though it is still -- and still should be -- vetted thoroughly, negative feedback in that situation feels different from a rejection received from a speculative submission.

I give myself credit when I let myself pursue anything for which I might likely hear "no." It represents for me genuine growth.

The best advice I ever got for how to deal with rejection from a publisher or a journal editor is to simply turn around and resubmit it elsewhere. Over the years, that has been remarkably effective. The problem, of course, is that it minimizes the value of feedback. If "no" really means "not now" or "not for us," we need less to grow than we need to find the right opportunity.

And that, really, is the issue, is it not? When "no" comes in search of a job, one that you really want, it is hard to imagine any consolation. Do you feel better if you failed in putting forward your best foot? It is less a personal rejection than it is a lost opportunity. But if you know that you did and said what you really wanted to do and say, it is key to accept that "no" means that "yes" would have been fraught with trouble from the start. It should make the personal rejection easier to bear.

Here, for me, is the consolation. I really believe that life is not what you have but what you have done. I knew, as an undergraduate, an Oxford graduate who fretted, constantly, about not being in England. I enjoyed living in England; I would live in England again under the right circumstances. But I do not dwell on trying to recreate something I had for the simple reason that I am satisfied to have had it, already. It is perfectly okay to move forward, seeking new dreams, new opportunities. To imagine a goal moving forward, one that you fail to attain, is not the end of your goals, just the end of one opportunity. If anything, I suffer from a lack of sentimentality, so I am not mawkish in saying these things. I just believe that to focus on one thing, to let any one failure crush you, is to imagine that something in the past was perfect or that something in the future could ever be.

Neither is possible.

I have always admired those creatures in nature that respond to the destruction of some half-completed enterprise with apparent indifference: they just begin again, as if nothing happened, as if they have forever to achieve what they set out to achieve. Knowing that a door has good and truly closed makes it impossible for us to begin again, thus, but it is a fine thought to have, you must agree.

One Man And His Outrage

"What difference can one person make?" I asked myself as I clicked the button to give, online, to Red Cross efforts in Haiti.

It is, of course, a common question. In this case, the Red Cross initiative is endorsed by our university, and I know that my colleagues are also participating. The government is matching charitable donations, and the media reports regularly on the totals raised. When we have the opportunity to support something, we seldom feel alone.

But it is more common for us to want to stand up to protest something, to withdraw our support, and that is a far lonelier undertaking. Yesterday, I watched on television a handful of Lethbridge citizens, out in the snow and out in the cold, protesting Stephen Harper's proroguing of parliament. I suspect that, as a practical measure, the protesters would have been better off making a donation to the federal NDP: few if any of them would vote for Mr. Harper, anyway.

Protests from the inside might be the ones that hurt. How many of the people who now say they would not support the federal Conservatives really represent lost votes? I have voted, at one time or another, for every national federal party, and while I am indifferent as to whether we decide the future of this government now or after the Olympics (and after a budget), I did write a letter of protest last year in opposition to the change in arts funding that will cripple many small magazines in this country. Interestingly, the mealy-mouthed response from the minister's office is as likely to influence my vote as the policy itself. (For the record, my local MP did not reply at all: he is retiring, it turns out.)

Maybe "the market" listens to lonely protests, though I do not think that struggling NBC will care if a household in Southern Alberta never watches Jay Leno in order to protest their shabby treatment of Conan O'Brien. Buying all my books from the university bookstore or the local independent did not slow Chapters.

As we pulled away from Tim Horton's last week, my wife asked, "Are they on the list?" I had to smile. We have a friend in Regina who, in his younger days, used to have "the list." He would methodically and with great discipline refuse to patronize businesses at which the service had been bad. When we made Claresholm on Sunday afternoon, parched and peckish, we were bound for disappointment: our order of pastry and teas was canceled when, after we had paid, the drive-thru manager wanted our food for a customer at her window. But would Timmy's really miss me if I started going to 7/11 for caffeine? Would it make any difference to their competition? More to the point: would I have the discipline never to visit again?

When I was in third grade, through my ninth year of life, our home room was directly across from the washrooms and the water fountains at Dawson Elementary School. From the first day of September, my classmates pestered Mrs. Moore with requests to be excused: "Can I go to the bathroom, miss? Can I get a drink?" Oddly, I resolved never to make use of the facility, waiting for recess, lunch, and the end of the day. It probably started as bashfulness, or a desire to ingratiate myself with the teacher, but -- over time -- it was a quiet challenge in discipline.

I think something similar is the key to protests. When it is not possible to bring about change by shifting allegiance in a meaningful way, we should still undertake our quiet, solitary protests. Writing a letter, sending an email, picking up the phone -- heck, I'll even grant you marching outside -- is good discipline. And if it saves us from seething in silence, all the better.

When You Do Not Know Where You Are, The Terrorists Win

We know, of course, that the damage caused on 9/11 spread immediately beyond Ground Zero. As an attack on capitalism, the destruction of the World Trade Centre was but a prelude to the real costs associated with our response, including the tremendous amount of money spent on new security measures. Cynical (neo-conservative) politicians, fearing that our habits would change, used the goodwill that arose after the attacks to reinforce a return to old patterns: if you do not shop, the terrorists win. But I am reminded that Al-Qaeda's lasting success, beyond hobbling entire systems by which we organize ourselves, is in changes that are made to the small, reassuring comforts that make life livable.

I am not a happy airline passenger. It is not that I grip the armrests with white knuckles, but I do not wake on the morning of a trip filled with the excitement of hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles an hour. I accept fully that if I want the convenience of flying, I will have to submit to a ritual undressing at security. The proliferation of hijackings through the twentieth century scribbled that writing on the wall. I accept fully that the financial pressures on the airlines, evident before September 11, 2001, will make it so that I cannot expect anything like creature comforts on the airplane, itself.

But for those of us who do not love to fly, the loss of control is much of the problem. I understand, and I really believe, that I am more likely to come a cropper on the highway between Calgary and Edmonton than I am to encounter real problems in the hands of Air Canada. But, psychologically, getting strapped to a small seat, facing forward, unable to see where I am going, as I shimmer and shake with turbulence, is difficult to endure. One of the small comforts I have had is the ability to track the progress of our trip. I used to be able to see on a map how close we were to our destination. After the failed exploits of the Christmas Underwear Bomber, this facility has been removed from entertainment screens on the seat-backs in front of passengers. Where, previously, I could watch an airplane roughly the size of the length of Saskatchewan move across the Great Lakes, I now get a "This Option Is Not Available," removing as well our height, our speed, and the "estimated time to destination" data. The idea, you see, is that a terrorist cannot use even this rough approximation to know when to time, for maximum effect, any act of mayhem.

On a recent journey from Calgary to Halifax, I knew only when we were planning to leave and when we should land at our final destination. Not reflected on my itinerary was the timing of a scheduled stop in Montreal. We left a little late, and I nodded off while my plane taxied. We were delayed on the tarmac, and we had a slight tailwind. About what seemed to me three hours into the journey, where were we? Were we almost to Montreal? Were we just half-way? Journey times include getting to and from the gate. How much of what happened on the ground in Calgary should be factored into my estimation?

Now, I recognize that, for many people, nothing I have written above compares to their discomfort at getting rubbed down at security, something I simply accept. But, for me, the response to the Christmas peril makes a real difference to my experience, without delivering anything tangible to safety, in my view. How long will it take before these new measures are quietly restored -- or before we acclimate once more to knee-jerk reactions? And the big question might be: are these changes simply designed to make us feel like someone is doing something, causing more harm than good in practical implementation?

The Passage Of Time: A New Year's Ode

With the weather outside truly frightful, or at least prohibitively cold, I have been using some quiet time to catch up on ripping some albums for iTunes. I was surprised to find, for example, that I had neglected to add Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska or any Kinks to the list. How, with only twelve thousand songs in my pocket, could I have missed "Celluloid Heroes"? Just kidding. But pulling out these old CDs demonstrates to me just how flimsy a grasp we have on time. It seems like an appropriate New Year's observation.

I recall so vividly, for example, the release of David Bowie's Let's Dance in 1983. It was a smashing success, of course, and Bowie has not had as successful a studio album since. But, at the time, it was hailed as a significant "comeback" in the United States. Station to Station had been an American hit in 1976, but his next four records failed to crack the top ten. Let's Dance hit #4, ending a seven-year drought, just when people apparently thought that Bowie would be forgotten. I recall that impression. A big star from the 1970s had lost all significance by the middle of the next decade. Seven years to a fourteen year-old boy just discovering popular music seemed like an eternity. Of course, Let's Dance has now been out for more than a quarter of a century, and to a middle-aged man its release feels like last summer.

I had the same response today when I was reminded that XTC's Skylarking was released in 1986 or that Sinead O'Connor's second record was supposed to make her the first superstar of the 1990s. The nostalgia industry has already begun to repackage the fleeting stars of that decade: Fiona Apple, Shawn Colvin, Deep Blue Something, Divinyls, Duncan Sheik, Joan Osbourne, Tonic.

The modernists whom I teach struggled to find a better way to represent the passage of time in their literature, of course. The meticulous hour spent in class should not be represented in the same way as the easy hour spent in leisure, but how best to achieve this literary sleight of hand? For many authors, they sought only to draw their readers' attention to this paradox. Pages and pages were devoted to the inner workings of a man or woman experiencing a moment, and years could then pass through the words of a single paragraph.

This seems apt, as I realize that the students joining us next week, after taking a few extra months to work, were born in 1992, just as I was making application to graduate school. They feel to some extent as if they have lived whole lives, struggling through years of restrictions, navigating secondary school -- and those years, like this one past, has passed for me in the blink of an eye.

Work A Mile In Another's Clothes

I do not believe in asking anyone to do anything I would not do myself. Now, of course, I work with people who possess skills I do not possess, and I flatter myself by thinking that I have training that allows me to do at least a few things that other people could do only after putting in their ten thousand hours, give or take a few hundred. But, generally, I think that our office is pleasant, in part, because we all agree that the first person arriving in the morning makes the coffee.

Not only are there no small jobs, front-line jobs are, in fact, the best introductions to any operation. When I first got involved in advising students, I put in some time behind the information counter, fielding general questions. Last week, I strapped on my information badge again, and, for my trouble, I got an education.

One of our reorganizations has eliminated a common lunch hour. Students seek advice through noon, so by a series of shifts we can have people available through the whole business day. In preparation for the upcoming wait-listing crush, we closed the office to prepare, to clear old files, and this seemed like a good opportunity for colleagues to decamp for a brief meal together. Unfortunately, our computerized registration system chose that morning to crash, filling students with considerable anxiety. Although there was nothing we could do from the advising side, we decided to open the front of the office to receive students, to reassure them. There were few visitors, but those who did come by appreciated the contact. But what about that office lunch?

The solution was clear; I would run the information desk myself. How much damage could I do? My main concern might have been that it was "Casual Friday": in jeans and a sweater, I looked less businesslike than anyone in the office would likely ever allow themselves to look. But, for triage work, I was sure I would do.

The first eighty-five minutes went without a hitch. But, just before the end of the shift, a young woman came in and flopped her books on the desk. "It's stupid that there are no advisors working today," she said, plainly.

"Oh, no," I assured her. "They are working; they're just taking their lunch. This has been a very busy week, and we're getting ready for wait-listing."

"Well, it's stupid because I need a question answered."

"I'd be happy to try to help you," I countered.

She looked me up and down. "I want to try Archaeology, but it won't fulfill a program requirement for me."

"No, you're right," I agreed, looking at her paperwork. "But it's an interesting elective."

"Electives are stupid. I really don't want to do anything outside my major."

I took a deep breath: "We're committed to a general liberal education here, of course. You'll get a range of courses that complement and supplement your main interests over four years."

"It's stupid that the health centre is closed."

I’m sorry," I shuddered at the non sequitur. "I don't work for the health centre."

"Well, the whole thing is stupid. Who could I talk to if I wanted to get permission to do only courses in my major, only courses I like."

I took another breath, and I looked straight at her. "Well, you’d have to talk to me about it."

"You, she asked?"

"Yes, I’m the Associate Dean."

She turned on her heel and walked out without another word.

I could, all day, defend elective courses. What discouraged me was how the young woman spoke to me. It is not that my skin is particularly thin, and I certainly would never use this as an opportunity to mourn general civility. But what I think happened was that, having immediately dismissed me as someone who could never offer her anything tangible in solving what she saw as a problem, she really closed her ears (and her mind) to what I had to say. I was not worth hearing.

The World Of Unpublishing

Geoff Meeker, the man who first demonstrated to me that I could find a job that, in part, allowed me to write, runs an excellent blog at "Meeker on Media." His analysis of television, radio, and newspapers in Newfoundland is astute, rooted in decades of principled work. A few days ago, Mr. Meeker ran an analysis of Premier Danny Williams' critique of resource management in New Brunswick, a post that drew a comment from CBC reporter David Cochrane. Mr. Cochrane mentioned that he was present when Premier Williams once dropped what appeared to be a bombshell in the Newfoundland legislature about the possible sale of their provincial resource assets. The premier quickly clarified his comments and no one in the media scrum believed what Mr. Williams apparently meant to say warranted reporting, nor did they believe that the original comments represented what the premier really meant to say.

It has long been the case in Newfoundland that much of the local media depends on government largess. I cannot say that it is still the case, but when I lived there you could not open a magazine or turn on the television without encountering notices of congratulations from some ministry or another, paid advertisements that fed the bottom line of many outlets. Now, of course, the CBC does not rely on this kind of advertising support, but you can understand why media independence is such a hot button topic in the province. Mr. Meeker lamented the media decision to "suppress" a story on Premier Williams' statement and clarification, a characterization to which Mr. Cochrane objected. Soon, Mr. Meeker acknowledged in the comments below the original post that he would like to describe the media decision as something other than "suppression," and he made a change on his blog.

This was all very interesting, I thought, but it turned out only to be the prologue: a much larger furor has erupted about when and how one can make changes online.

When I was an undergraduate at Memorial in the late 1980s, I discovered in the library published manuscripts of major twentieth-century works -- The Waste Land, The Great Gatsby -- that demonstrated to me that the canonical texts I was reading existed, very late in their composition, in much different forms than the ones we knew. I was hooked. Much of my scholarly work over the last two decades has been concerned with this idea. I work on manuscripts when I can, but there is also much to be gained by looking at the difference between subsequent editions of published texts. Oh, an author inserted another line here? Why?

This seems relevant to the current issue, which has obviously moved beyond Newfoundland politics and what responsibilities the media has when it decides whether to pursue a story. I was taking a class from the well-known bibliographer D. F. McKenzie at Oxford in 1994, when I asked him, "What will writing on computers do to my kind of research?" He looked at me like I was silly: "Well, people will save multiple versions of computer files for scholars to compare. And, if they don't, there will still be digital remnants of earlier versions." He was prescient on that last point, but McKenzie could never have foreseen a world in which one can publish exclusively in electronic form. He imagined comparing multiple electronic drafts with the printed word.

It is good that people are thinking about the impact of "unpublishing," of course, and best practices in the media are surely evolving. But the most strident comments I have read on this topic over the last few days are from people who see this this as both an unprecedented development and one whose implications are wholly clear. That's just not true. Should I have the right to make silent edits? Does anyone? If they must not be silent, what are the practical implications of having to represent different versions simultaneously? These are much, much older questions that have implications beyond journalism.

The media is a long way from consensus in this matter, but I think the issue demonstrates that there are remnants of older formats that can guide us here. When consulting online journals, for example, I like ones that are formatted for conventional pages, published in pdf. They feel "permanent," even on the screen, and they are more easily printed. Students can cite them effectively. The digital media thus moves into a less equivocal format. This is "published," and any changes to that text represent a new version. Short of that, any contribution has a more nebulous standing, in my view, like a canvas on an easel that can be retouched by the artist before or after exhibition. Indeed, some new digital formats should seek to preserve this fluidity. One of the advantages of blogs is precisely that they are available for a similar kind of retouching.

I think it is a mistake to imagine that online versions of written matter, online-only publications, and blogs are all equal and should be approached in the same manner. It is a mistake to hold blog owners to the same standard as newspaper columnists, as least as long as there are still newspaper columnists. As I told Mr. Meeker, he may have been wrong to make such a change, but, if he was, I am, too. I often make changes to the things that I have written and posted here. I have never deleted a post, but I have changed what I have posted. In the end, the issue will come down, I suspect, to the kind of changes we choose to make. Will Mr. Meeker's change come to be seen as too substantive? Perhaps. But I simply object to people who speak as though consensus and clarity has already been achieved.

Chicago Bears 30, Cleveland Browns 6

Whenever I attend an academic conference or visit a city to do some research, I must always deal with incredulous locals. "You came here to visit a library?" they will ask, looking at me as though I just arrived from Mars. On my recent trip to Chicago, however, I experienced something unique. By tacking on an afternoon at Soldier Field, I won the approval -- and understanding -- of every man and woman I encountered along the way. "Oh, you're here to see the Bears," they would exclaim with pride. "You came all the way from Canada for a football game!"

Although I am a huge NFL fan, buying heartbreak in January 2008 in exchange for having followed many mediocre New England Patriots teams, I had never gone to an actual game until last weekend. It was a fabulous experience. Forget for the moment that the sluggish home team had the advantage of playing the Cleveland Browns, one of the worst teams to take the field for years. The sheer spectacle was unforgettable. When you watch football on television, everything is so focused, so directed. In person, there is simply so much going on that you can never be bored. Sitting in the "nose-bleeds" high above Lake Michigan, I can imagine how one might die of exposure, but no one is dying of boredom.

At that height, having to scale steps that reach up almost horizontally, there is a comradeship amongst patrons. Even the friendly rivalry between Bears and Browns fans seemed extremely playful. "I left my sombrero in the car," said one guy from Cleveland, seeing a local in a Bears pancho. Upon spotting another wandering fellow dressed up as a beer keg, someone else called out, "Hey, how about coming as a guy who can find his seat!" I was surprised only at the callousness of a group of medical students behind us, young men who commented about one aged gentleman, "I'm not (yet) a doctor, but that guy should stay home!" Come on, should we question even a very old fan's right to partake? And, anyway, he was hardly the worst physical specimen at the game. "Chicago," I heard another out-of-towner say, "is the only NFL city where the fans wearing jerseys are bigger than the players!" That might be true: there seem to have been a few deep-dish pizzas consumed on the grounds that day.

What I do not understand, though, is why alcohol consumption plays such a big role at athletic events. I am no stranger to a drink now and then, but I cannot fathom why someone would want to get wasted at a football game, where you come to see and remember -- and where beers cost nearly eight bucks. A fellow in front of us, already feeling no pain as he ascended the steps, arrived with two in his hands. His companion had two herself. When friends arrived, they brought more for this gentleman, and he bought more from vendors and got up, at one point, to secure a fresh supply. By the beginning of the fourth quarter, he was giving them away. With a couple of minutes left, in celebration of a great defensive play, this guy jumped up and proceeded to tumble forward two rows. "I'm just trying to have a good time!" he grinned to all around him, at which point he threw a nearby glass into the concrete beneath his feet: his own end zone "spike." Beer splattered everywhere, and the fellow and his friends retreated down the steps in shame. They left before the game was over.

Whether you love how we organize ourselves economically or whether you loathe it, you must admire how our system can bind to itself people with varied financial interests. The owner of the Cleveland Browns was at the game on Sunday, so appalled by his team's performance that he fired his general manager soon after. A young woman not there was a clerk at Borders who was so excited to hear that I was going to the game that she forgot to demagnetize my purchase, causing me no end of trouble in other stores. "You're going to see my boys!" she squealed. "I haven't been able to afford to buy a ticket yet this year, but I love my boys. I'm worried that they played so badly last week, but you're so lucky to be going."

Lucky I am. But so are the Bears, a team that commands such loyalty. I also get the sense that the fragile fabric of American society is pretty lucky, too. In spite of all the open dissent you see, hear, and read, its citizens hang on to the shreds of those few things that bind them together. A common spectacle, shared by those at the top and the bottom of the economic ladder, keeps those whose interests are mutually exclusive from acting out their frustrations -- at least when the home team plays.