![]() ![]() I respect that in people because it’s getting harder and harder to find. This world is a darker place without Gord Downie in it because he seemed, to me, to be someone who was genuine and true. Look at what he did for everyone…” And I stood there, trying to stop from crying even harder, knowing that it was seeing and hearing him speak in that documentary that set me off, just reminding me yet again of why I admire him so. The students shuffled out of the classroom at the end of the period, hesitant to leave, muttering phrases like “It’ll be all right, Miss. He had given of himself and his heart so openly throughout his life, and especially in a very public way in the last year or so of his life. I wept quietly at the back of a class of thirty sixteen year olds last week, poking at my eyes with a tissue, and then trying to explain why I was so moved. Whether it was the struggle for truth and reconciliation and raising awareness of Chanie Wenjak’s story, or helping to bring attention to the state of so many northern Indigenous communities where there is–truly–a sort of cultural apartheid that is still happening, or the health of Lake Ontario’s water (so that you could swim in it, drink its waters, and fish in it), or just the intense natural beauty of this nation of ours, he fought hard for things he believed in. I just keep thinking of how he believed in what he believed in so strongly. It’s a class that contains literature written by First Nations, Metis, and Inuit writers. ![]() I did finally weep, though, when I showed the CBC’s version of The Secret Path last week in my Grade 11 English class. It struck me so viscerally, though, to think that he was gone, that I felt physically ill. I didn’t weep when I heard he’d died this fall. I read that volume of his work voraciously, falling in love with a number of pieces that rippled with brilliant energy and imagery. My favourite poem of his is “Sailboat.” There are others, but I love the last few lines, when he writes that “the most you can do is / spend all your time / giving some of your time / meaning.” When Downie was named as an honorary member of the League of Canadian Poets this past spring, I thought, “Yes. When my second book of poems, braille on water, was released by Penumbra Press in 2001, I remember standing in a Chapters store somewhere in Ontario, my mouth open in shock because my first book of poems with a spine was right up against Gord Downie’s new collection of poems, Coke Machine Glow. I’ve always been a fan of The Tragically Hip, but I’ve been an even greater fan of Gord Downie’s poetry for nearly as long. If you were to tell me I couldn’t go canoeing in Killarney, and swim into what feels like a living Group of Seven painting, well, I’d weep again, and likely lash out somehow. If you were to tell me I couldn’t hike at Point Pelee National Park at least a couple of times a year, I’d probably weep. ![]() I’ve even written a series of Great Lakes poems which are in my newest book, Some Other Sky, and I’m more than in love with these lakes because I’ve gone swimming, canoeing, and hiking along their shores this summer. Each one has its own spirit, personality, and vibrancy. In the last year, I’ve discovered my own great and passionate love for some of the Great Lakes, mostly Huron and Erie. I had admired his advocacy on water rights and health for a number of years. ![]() I emailed it off to Lake Ontario Waterkeeper, where I knew he was a board member, and they said they passed it on to him. I don’t normally write letters to people who are ‘famous,’ but I did write one to him earlier this year. So far, I haven’t written anything about the loss of Gord Downie…and make no mistake…that’s what it is: a significant loss for this country of Canada, but an even greater one for those who love his poetry. ![]()
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