Top Culture
Oprah and Fidel
I read my first novel when I was 11. I had to write a book report, and chose J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit because he used “eleventy-first” in the first paragraph, and the name Bilbo Baggins made me laugh. My report drew wide critical acclaim (my teacher, my mom, and my best friend Gordon).
Gordon and I were best friends because Leroy Crocker liked to beat us up (sometimes both of us at once), and there was comfort in the shared misery and our sly looks of mirth as we relished the splash of blood one of our noses had valiantly spurted on Leroy’s pant-legs.
Now don’t get me wrong: I was a happy child. The occasional trip to the school nurse to plug the porous dike of my nostrils or repair my dislocated ego did nothing to dampen my verve, my passion for life. And certainly books were not an escape from some unbearable reality; back then, reading got you an extra dunking in the toilet bowl in the boy’s bathroom.
But my Hobbit book report was a clear turning point in the history of me. I was hooked; I was in awe of the possibilities; I was empowered. Later, I came to understand that language is a way of shaping the world and that I, as a reader, could accept or reject that world. Stories, novels, poetry—the achingly real in the made-up world of author’s words—taught me how other non-literary worlds are just as made up.
Oprah Winfrey and Fidel Castro know the importance of books. No matter what you say about these two flamboyant public figures, one thing you can’t deny is their appreciation of reading and literature.
Oprah has done more for the publishing industry than anyone. She has single-handedly promoted novels to the extent that publishers now print larger runs—not just the books she covers on her shows, but across-the-board increases in print runs. She has motivated millions to pick up novels and read them. Good books, too: Oprah’s picks are sophisticated, emotionally charged, and primarily about acts of healing and self-discovery. Toni Morrison and Alice Walker novels become agents for change in African-American communities, accomplishing what no political speech, self-help book, or manifesto could.
Ten years ago I travelled to Cuba to research a novel I was working on called Granma, the name of the boat that brought the revolutionaries back to Cuba from Mexico. That voyage as an act of faith, of conviction, of passion for one’s country inspired me. My intention was to connect with writers there. This was not difficult: when I mumbled out escritor or poetas, people pointed to meeting places, offices, and finally the Writers Union in Havana. Not only was it easy to meet writers because they were so numerous and well-known, but—to my delight—I found I was treated much differently when they knew that I was a writer. Unlike my experience in Canada, being a poet in Cuba opened doors and set aside the language barrier: it made me an honorary Cuban.
The president of the Writers’ Union spent the afternoon directing me to writers in the city and discussing the history of Cuban writing, steering clear of the writers I knew were in trouble with Castro. He admitted there was censorship, and signaled to me that he was not at liberty to say much more. We focused on the positives, like Cuba’s astounding literacy rate that far exceeds any other Latin American country.
The differences between Canadian and Cuban views of literature struck home most when I walked into Revolution Square. In the middle of the square, far overshadowing the famous relief mural of Che Guevara, stands a massive monument and statue, probably five stories high, of José Marti–Cuba’s greatest poet. Can you imagine such a statue in Canada? Cuba has an appreciation of literature that Canadian governments and education administrators sadly don’t seem to share.
I want our children to have the same gratifying and valuable experience I had as a student from my Hobbit book report, although they could do without Leroy Crocker’s bullying. But maybe even Leroy got hooked; maybe a novel taught him what it’s like to be a victim. Maybe he learned about his own anger and is a kinder, gentler Leroy now. Maybe he and Gordon meet now and then, and talk about politics and the way the light changes in the northern sky.
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