Letters to my Grandchildren

by David Suzuki

  But what does a viewer know about the complex human being I am, with all the good and bad aspects of my personality? Nothing. They don’t know that I love being a grandfather or enjoy watching American football, for example. When I stop hosting The Nature of Things, I will quickly fade from public memory. Think of the millions of forgotten peasants who made their civilization possible over thousands of years. Like my mother, who was a kind, decent, hardworking human being. We all try to live life as well and as happily as possible, forging relationships with people we care about and share experiences with. But then we will die, and like 99.99 percent of all people who have ever lived, we will pass from memory after a generation or two. You can be elevated onto a pedestal only to be reviled or, even worse, forgotten quickly.

  There is a famous video of a statue of dictator Saddam Hussein being pulled down by the people after Americans had invaded Iraq. I always think of that image as a metaphor for any “famous” person who loses his or her lustre. You can be raised up, even worshipped, only to be dashed to the ground, leaving shattered fragments of your previous fame. The real tragedy is when someone who delights in being famous fades into obscurity, leaving a washed-up has-been still yearning to be back in the limelight.

  Some continue to do work after their moment in the public eye. I think of U.S. president Jimmy Carter, who was much maligned by the right-wing American press after the OPEC oil embargo in 1973 for turning down the thermostat, installing solar panels on the roof of the White House, and wearing sweaters—all to demonstrate the need to reduce the use of fossil fuels. Ronald Reagan, who defeated Carter, immediately took down the solar panels and mocked the notion of energy conservation. Carter, instead of cashing in on his fame as an American president and seeking financially rewarding speaking engagements or lucrative board positions, continued to dedicate his time to working for the poor, fighting terrorism, and seeking democratic elections.

  On December 2, 2014, Jean Béliveau, a famous hockey player who played on ten Stanley Cup–winning Montreal teams, died. The outpouring of emotion was far more for what he did after his hockey career as a consummate gentleman in retirement and an ambassador for hockey in Canada. His fame outlasted his playing career, a rarity these days.

  And fame can turn to public dishonour and trans-form a distinguished career into disgrace, as in November 2014, when cBc radio star Jian Ghomeshi was fired for accusations of nonconsensual violence against women, while American comedian Bill Cosby faced renewed accusations that he had drugged and then raped various women.

  A long while back, when the WWF—that’s the World Wrestling Federation, not World Wildlife Fund—was huge around the planet, its biggest star, once called the most famous Canadian in the world, was Bret “Hitman” Hart from Calgary. He told me a funny story. He had gone on safari to see Africa and was in a jeep with two Africans who recognized him as a famous wrestler. They were watching lions when the jeep got stuck in the sand. The two guides jumped out, jacked the car up, and put boards under the wheels right in front of the lions while Bret sat terrified in the jeep. When they finally got the car out of the sand and onto a road, Bret asked, “Weren’t you scared of the lions?” The Africans laughed and said, “Why? You were in the car and we knew you could take care of them!” That’s why being famous can be dangerous, because people don’t really know you and may have unrealistic expectations of what you can do.

  Fame is also dangerous, because when people fawn over you and treat you as if you are special, you can start to feel that you deserve it, that you are better or more important than others, and that you are entitled to be treated that way and to have special privileges.

  Famous people can also begin to think they have a right to express opinions as if they are more than mere opinions in public and to expect them to be accepted as truths or special insights simply because they’re famous. That’s why people get pissed off when a celebrity makes pronouncements about environmental issues like protecting baby seals without understanding the issue or having any reasons for their belief except that baby seals are cute and cuddly.

  Television can establish a familiarity between a well-known personality and the viewers that can lead to a false sense of personal connection. After all, people often watch shows in the intimacy of the bedroom, so when they encounter a famous person, they feel an immediate impulse to have a conversation. People often intrude when I’m having a conversation or carrying out an activity with someone else. Once when Severn was an infant, Tara and I took her to a family restaurant in Toronto. After I had given her a bottle, Severn coughed up a bit of milk on her jumper and my shirt. I picked her up and rushed down the street to change our clothes in our car. I set Sev in an infant seat on the car roof as I fumbled for a key to unlock the door. At that moment, someone who apparently had been in the restaurant and followed me out and down the street rushed up and asked for an autograph. “Not right now, please,” I pleaded. He walked away in disgust and shouted, “You asshole!”

  Nowadays, the biggest intrusion is the cellphone. It seems everyone carries one, and many people approach me asking for a picture. It used to be that a camera was just lifted up, pointed, and clicked, but digital cameras have to be turned on and then the proper program must be found. Most people are not content with a “selfie” and will ask someone passing by to take a picture, which they may do after fumbling with the thing trying to find the right spot to push. Once they have done that, they always do a countdown—3, 2, 1, okay—and then often will decide to get a second shot or will be asked to do so. It all takes a lot longer than film, and if I say “okay” to a request, others jump in and ask for their own personal picture.

  I am impressed when someone who is famous uses that celebrity to take informed positions on an issue. For example, I have great respect for Andrew Ference, a professional hockey player who is passionate about protecting the environment and who uses carbon offsets for flying, drives a Prius, and talks to his fellow players about global warming. He uses his recognition as a hockey player to attract people to his ideas, much like you’ve been doing, Tamo, as an accomplished snowboarder when you have used film footage of boarding stunts to attract kids to your group Beyond Boarding, and once they are caught by your snowboarding shots, you introduce them to environmental issues like the impact of Alberta’s tar sands. I like the way you use humour and the fun of trudging up mountains to board down as a way to draw people in.

  And I’ve met famous actors like Leo DiCaprio, Ellen Page, Daryl Hannah, and Ed Begley, Jr., who are informed about the environment and act on their passion to spread the word. In early 2014, I spent a week on the road with the singer Neil Young. Now, I know he is not your generation’s great singer—though I hope you recognize some of his songs—but for the boomer generation, he is a mega-star. He is also concerned about climate change and built an electric car that is charged by a small engine that burns cooking oil, much like the bus you took on your tar sands tour, Tamo. He decided to drive the car across the United States from Los Angeles to New York, along with his son, who has cerebral palsy like you, Jonathan.

  On the way, he decided to make a detour and drive up to Alberta all the way to Fort McMurray to see the tar sands for himself. He was appalled. He had to put a mask on his son because the smell of the fumes from the tar sands was so strong. He was shocked at how the forest and the muskeg were being ripped up and how huge tailings ponds held wastes so toxic that birds landing on them die. He said the devastation was like Hiroshima after the bomb.

  Allan Adam, Chief of the Athabasca Chipewyan First Nation, told Neil that their lands were being ripped up and that toxic pollution was spreading into the air and water so that the muskrats and fish the people depended on were either gone or too contaminated to eat. Yet their ancestors had signed treaties guaranteeing that their way of life would be preserved forever in exchange for their land. With the enthusiastic support of the Alberta and Canadian governments, the oil industry has disregarded those guarantees as they have develo
ped the tar sands. Outraged by both the destruction of the land and the abrogation of the treaty, Neil decided to support the Chipewyan First Nation in its pursuit of its treaty rights by taking a four-city tour. If those rights were taken seriously, governments would have to protect the air, water, endangered species, and ecosystems.

  “Honour the Treaties” became the theme of the tour, and Neil recruited jazz singer Diana Krall to appear with him in the tour’s four cities—Toronto, Winnipeg, Regina, and Calgary—with all proceeds after expenses going to the Athabascan Chipewyan First Nation’s legal battle to have its treaty rights recognized and supported. Neil asked me to help, and I suggested that each press conference include a young person to talk about the impact of the tar sands on the future, a First Nations leader, a top-notch scientist, and Neil. All of my recommendations were implemented, and I was asked to join the tour in all four cities.

  Neil’s fame guaranteed sold-out crowds in every venue, but far more than that, he held a press conference before every concert. Each one was packed with media. I thought of the enormous efforts it took the David Suzuki Foundation, and me, to get media interest in issues. Neil, by virtue of his stardom, brought in a ton of media and got exposure most environmentalists would die for. It reminded me of Paul Watson, founder of the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, which sends boats out to disrupt whaling operations. At one point, he persuaded Bo Derek, a movie star famed for her spectacular figure in the movie 10, to attend a press conference to support his organization. One of the reporters demanded to know why Derek was there when she didn’t know anything about the issues. Paul replied, “She brought you here, didn’t she? That’s why she’s here.”

  Well, Neil was far more than bait to lure media, although he did do that. He was impressively informed about the issue. There was huge publicity in each city surrounding his arrival and performance—so much so that the federal government, which had ignored pleas from environmentalists and First Nations, immediately responded to the Toronto press conference, while CAPP (the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers), like a shill for the oil industry, launched a vigorous counterattack, accusing Neil of being misinformed while ignoring the economic benefits First Nations were receiving directly from tar sands development. But even as Neil was being demonized in the Alberta media, a poll taken in Edmonton, the province’s capital city, revealed that 77 percent of respondents agreed with him.

  One of the criticisms of Neil was that he was “only” a musician, so why should anyone pay attention to him? Neil batted that off easily, responding that yes, he was a musician, but did that mean he wasn’t entitled to have an opinion? “I’m only telling you what I believe,” he said. “I’m not telling you what to believe. But in a democracy, everyone should have the right to say what they think and believe.”

  “You’re just using your fame,” a reporter exclaimed.

  “Of course I am,” Neil responded. “Isn’t that why you’re here?” Shades of Paul Watson.

  I am so grateful that Neil was willing to use his fame in such a constructive way and in so doing to take the discussion about the development of the tar sands, climate change, and social justice to a higher level. I’m all for exploitation of fame when that exploitation is based on knowledge and values.

  An issue related to fame is popularity, which I ached for in high school. When I came out of the camps where my family had been interned for being of Japanese ancestry during World War ii, I was extremely shy. As a teenager, I was self-conscious about being Japanese but loved grade 9 at Leamington High School. Many of the students were children of farmers and were bused to school. They were open and friendly, and I got along well with them. I was twelve years old and so was put in a class with the youngest students at the high school.

  In the middle of that first year, my family moved to London, Ontario, where my parents felt we would get a better education. I begged to stay in Leamington to complete my year, and so I lived with a Japanese Canadian farmer and finished the year before moving to London.

  I arrived in London in time to begin grade 10 and found that friendships and social cliques were already well formed. Besides, I was like a country hick compared with these big-city sophisticates. I felt very much a social “outie,” a state exacerbated by the fact that I was a “brain”—I got good grades, which in high school was tantamount to being a leper. I never had the nerve to ask a white girl out, though I dreamed of it all the time. Sadly, there were so few Japanese Canadian families in London that there wasn’t much of a pool of potential dates.

  Dad had always said if I became a hardened criminal or even a murderer, he would support me in public (but beat the hell out of me in private). Knowing I always had his support was a great comfort and gave me some self-confidence. When an election was being held at school for student president, he urged me to run, even though I didn’t want to be humiliated by losing.

  “There will always be people better than you,” he said, “but how will you ever achieve anything if you don’t try? There is no shame in losing, only in not even trying.” I got up the nerve to run, and to my astonishment, I won handily.

  As student president, I was asked by a reporter for my opinion on something (I can’t even remember what the question was). I said I didn’t have an opinion. When I told Dad, he was incredulous because he knew I had strong opinions on the subject. “Why didn’t you speak up?” he asked. I replied that I knew my position on it would make some people angry or think badly of me. He was disgusted. “David, if you want to be popular with everyone, you will stand for nothing, because no matter what opinion you have, there will always be people who disagree. So if you have ideas and beliefs worth sticking up for—and you’d better have some—then be prepared to be unpopular with some people.” That was an important lesson for me.

  I know your parents have raised you with a strong sense that you must express your opinions without fear of opposition or disagreement. Tamo, when you got arrested on Burnaby Mountain for protesting the Kinder Morgan pipeline, Midori and your mother joined you. It’s not easy or pleasant when people strongly disagree with you, but I believe democracy is based on our ability to hold on to what we believe and talk about it despite what others think.

  In my last year of high school, after I had been elected student president, a newspaper reporter called to ask whether teenagers should be allowed to vote. I replied that I thought most teenagers still lived at home, were more focused on personal relationships than on politics or larger issues, and hadn’t had enough life experiences to make informed choices—so I didn’t think they were ready to vote. All the student presidents at other high schools had stated that teenagers should be allowed to vote. One said that if teenagers were old enough to be drafted for war, then they should be old enough to vote. Dad was furious that I was the only one saying we were too young.

  But when people congratulated him for having such a thoughtful son, and told him that they agreed with me, Dad apologized and said he was proud of me for sticking up for what I believed. I cried when he told me this, but Dad never understood that my tears fell because instead of sticking up for me as he always said he would, he had been embarrassed that I was the odd man out and he changed his mind only when other adults spoke approvingly of what I had done. What other people thought was more important to him than sticking up for me. Even though he had always been a rebel himself, I suppose he could not rid himself of that Japanese desire to fit in. I had believed that Dad was a giant who would never let me down, but now a crack had appeared in the pedestal I had put him on. I guess we call it “growing up” when we realize that our parents are fallible human beings. I lost some of that blind worship I had for him, but I loved him all the more now that I realized he was just a guy trying his best to be a good father.

  The kindest, most considerate, most self-sacrificing person I have ever known was my mother—your great-grandmother. My father was the one everyone loved because he was so gregarious. Mom just worked away keeping the family
together, doing all the things like shopping, cooking, sewing, washing, and cleaning as well as managing the family’s money and accounts and working full-time. She was usually the first up and the last to go to bed. She was the foundation of the family and, to me, the real hero.

  Like many Japanese women, she shied away from the spotlight. When people visited, she would rush around making them comfortable, offering tea and cookies and letting Dad be the centre of attention. She was also a wonderful, protective, loving parent but never asked for anything back, no recognition, reward, or even acknowledgment.

  When I was about fourteen, I did one of the dumbest, most hurtful things I’ve ever done in my life. Thinking about it fills me with shame. Mom was in the basement doing the washing, and I was sitting there talking to her. We were talking about money and how hard we all had to work to make ends meet. At one point, Mom said she hoped that when I got older I’d be able to help her and Dad out more. I was feeling sassy and thought I knew everything, and I responded that I didn’t ask to be born, so I didn’t think that was my responsibility. Then I looked over and saw that Mom was quietly weeping. It makes me cry just writing this down. I was horrified, but I didn’t even apologize or try to make Mom feel better. I will carry that memory around until I die. My only hope is that she knew how much I helped her and Dad when they got older, from buying a house in Vancouver so they could retire in it to supporting them until they died. Most important, I hope she knew that I appreciated how hard she had worked, how much I loved her, and how grateful I was to her.