Category Archives: Personal Essay

Today I did something deeply meaningful: I bought staples

stapler

DO YOU EVER get discouraged? Or depressed?

Has there ever been a time in your life you’ve wondered why you bother? You know what I mean: you’re doing a million things, and you feel like the things you are doing are a waste of time. You may as well not bother, you conclude, because you’re not making a difference.

I’ll speak for myself here. For me, there are definitely days I feel like nothing I am doing matters. There are days I am frustrated and discouraged and hollowed out, because I can’t see the point or value of my busy-ness. I feel like I’m spinning my wheels, getting nowhere, making no difference.

The truth is that these days happen. But it’s not the whole truth.

I have a story, and it’s about buying staples. Yes, staples.

The picture above shows a stapler that’s on my desk. It takes a mini-staple I am having a bit of trouble finding. This story isn’t about mini-staples, however. It’s about the many small things you’ll do in a day, having no idea which one of your many decisions and actions will have a lasting effect.

Small decisions, small actions, small staples.

I have had this stapler for thirty-six years. In that time I have taken and left jobs. I’ve changed cities. I’ve re-invented myself. A lot of water has flowed under my bridge. Thirty-six years of learning and growing and changing—evolving into a different person—and this stapler has been with me the whole time.

You’ve deduced by now that this is no ordinary stapler—that it has a large significance. And you’re right.

You see, my grandmother gave me this stapler for Christmas when I was a teenager. My grandparents gave me a lot of other things for Christmas, too: toys and clothes and money and gadgets. I’m sure that there were years that I begged and pleaded for a particular present that was popular at the time. The fact is that I don’t even remember. And I certainly don’t have these once-coveted possessions, all these years later.

All that, despite the fact that Christmas at my grandparents’ house was as close to a sacred occasion as I’ve ever known. I will never forget the sights and sounds and smells of their house. The anticipation and the joy, the comfort, the familiarity. I have so many memories.

Uppermost in my recollections, as in my possessions, is the mini-stapler my grandmother bought over three decades ago, with me in mind.

This is a story about a stapler.

My grandmother was embarrassed and felt an apparent need to apologize when I pulled the small red stapler from the stocking. “It’s not a serious gift,” she said. “I don’t even know why I gave it to you. I just thought it was cute.”

My grandmother is no longer alive. I am in a stationery store in Bloor West Village, telling an employee stories about my grandmother.

“Every time I look at this stapler,” I say, “I think about my amazing grandma, and I smile.”

And it’s true. This silly little mini-stapler has travelled with me through so many turns. In good times, and in bad times, it has yielded its practical and dependable service. Writer and business-person that I am, I have never run out of uses for a humble, serviceable mini-stapler. And I never will. I like to think that she somehow intuited this, all those years ago. But even if that’s not that case, it’s quite enough for me that she saw the stapler and thought of me.

The point of the story is simple: all those years ago, my grandmother made a small, in-the-moment decision with lasting effect. She bought a stapler. I’m sure she didn’t think much about it. She was probably having an ordinary day. Maybe even a frustrating or difficult day. Definitely she was not thinking, “here’s a mini-stapler that my grandson will carry with him for through is life, for decades to come, thinking of me every time he uses it.”

But that’s exactly what has happened.

So now I find myself thinking about the big meaning of small gestures. And while I am no closer to being able to say which small gestures will have big paybacks, I at least know that the smallest thoughtful gesture can yield returns beyond expectation.

I guess the moral of this story is Be bold and think small. You just never know.

Find me on Twitter. Check out my latest book.

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Dear Mr. God, It’s Me Charlie

Dear Mr God I am Charlie

In many places around this world, I would be killed just for posting this dumb letter

THIS IS SLIGHTLY weird for me. I don’t believe that you exist, so it’s like writing a letter to Santa, except I’ve never seen you at the mall or on a can of Coca-Cola or falling down drunk on 53th Street during a Santacon pub crawl (fun!). So maybe you’re not like Santa, or maybe you are—in which case, Dear Mr. God, I will be good this year and I’d like $250,000 and a few award-winning articles in a prestigious publication of your choosing, please and thank-you.

I don’t know if you’ve been listening in on the conversations, but a lot of people are talking about you. Not directly about you. More like about people who bring up your name a lot. Some of the talk is about whether or not it’s okay to make fun of the people who claim to believe in you, and who say they will defend your reputation from offence and ridicule and criticism. In fact, some of your keenest followers object to seeing depictions of you at all. A small percentage of them appear to think it’s okay to kill people who do or say things they (you?) deem improper or objectionable, because they are doing it for you.

Now, I know what it’s like to have followers. I’m on Twitter and I have, like, tens of them. (My handle is @waynekspear, btw, if you and the baby Jesus & anyone else want to, you know.) Like you, I don’t expect to be held responsible for the behavior of my followers. Some of them probably have bed-head and can’t even parallel park or order a proper deli sandwich. Odds are that at least one of my social media followers has feet that smell like cheese. I bet some of them don’t floss. My point is that I will be very embarrassed if one of them ever decides to start a feet-cheese anti-flossing religion in my name.

Okay, so that’s the male-bonding portion of this letter. It’s amazing how quickly I sort of eased into it. See how I’m just chillin with you, like you totally exist?

I gather you’re all about the Truth, and the truth as I see it is that I’m tired of all the killing and bigotry and hatred that people commit, for whatever reasons. I’m equally sick and tired of discussions and debates about: whether or not you exist, what it is exactly that you want from us, your rules for our lives, who speaks on your behalf, and which of your many books is the right one to read. I get it. I’ve written more than one book, too, and the answer to the question “Wayne, which of your books is the right one to read?” is, obviously, get all of them. You’re just doing what any author does, which is building a good product funnel. Heck, you invented that.

So, I’m tired. Many of the people who believe in you, most of them in fact, are just fine by me. They live in peace with their neighbors. They live simple decent lives. Some of them smell nice. Then there are the people who are destroying everything. They’ve made it a nightmare to get on an airplane. They’ve made it likely that civil war and mass murder and persecution will flourish for as far into the future as we can imagine. They’ve ruined entire countries like Syria and Iraq and Pakistan, and they aim to ruin more. They hate music and education and science and books and irony and sex and wine and movies and fun and even cartoons. They love death and war and terror. I mean, that’s not funny at all.

The arguments about whether or not they are “really” believers, killing and hating despite your words, or even because of them, bores me. But what really tires me more than anything are the people—the people!—who find all sort of reasons why it’s the fault of the people who got killed. If only they didn’t make fun of religion! If only they didn’t criticize! If only they didn’t stop being all racist and phobic! Seems it’s everyone’s fault except the people who did the actual killing. Man, you people are even less clever than the killers themselves.

Because, in my view, you are a made-up thing—like the idea that there are unicorns and fairies, or that Sarah Palin “writes” books—I’m not doing this to ask or tell you anything. You don’t exist. There is no evidence for you at all, except inside people’s brains and in the books those brains have made. Homo sapien brains and nervous systems make some people pretty certain you are real, and that’s fine. I can’t prove you don’t, and I’m not interested in even trying.

Here’s the reason I wrote this: in many places around this world, I would be killed just for posting this dumb letter. I think that is wrong and stupid and sick, and I hope everyone out there agrees with me. But I know they don’t all agree with me, and the evidence is in every newspaper, every day. So, Houston, we have a problem.

Anyway, I hope I was able to make you laugh. I like to laugh. Some people, not so much. I can be silly. Some people, not so much. I admit I don’t know the truth about a lot of things. Some people, not so much. So I’m going to make fun of the some people, not because I think they will laugh (they won’t) but because I have chosen Team Fun, Laughter, and Life. [Insert fart joke here.]

Find me on Twitter. Check out my latest book.

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11 teeny-tiny, totally do-able things that are great for your life

flossing and health

WHAT IF I SAID you can change your life for the better, and that all you’ll need is a gazillion dollars, a whackload of planning, and years of back-breaking effort? “That’s not very helpful or surprising,” you’d say. Most of us have limited resources—not only money, but discipline and energy and time. Sure, it’s great to have one big goal for the year, but anything more than that and you’re courting disappointment.

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A Picture. A Thousand Words.

Fort_Erie_High_1933

OTTAWA, 1999: my partner’s uncle shows me the program of a reunion, several years earlier, of Fort Erie Secondary School. Leafing through, I see a photo of a rugby team, taken in the year 1932-1933—the fourth of the school’s operations. In the background, the familiar school building. I discover my grandfather, Alfred Spear, in the front row, second from the right.

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Life as a Man

Men

IN SO MANY PLACES, and at so many times throughout human history, men have known the economic and political and social advantages of patriarchy. Biology has been helpful also: men are larger and stronger than women – not in every case, of course, but as a tendency. Being a man is, for the most part, a good deal. There is also the downside, and it would be impossible to represent life as a man without speaking of this also.

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Why I’d Rather Kill Myself

Syringe and a bottle of morphine

TODAY’S Philip Nitschke Sydney Morning Herald article is titled “We need a new word for suicide,” but we don’t. Whoever wrote that headline knows damn well that we have another word already, and it’s even used in the article. That word is euthanasia. What we need is to deal in a no-bullshit way with the perfectly good words we already have: because, my friends, whatever you happen to call it, suicide is the future. That’s why I’m going to use the rest of this article defending killing yourself, under certain circumstances which I’ll now describe.

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“My Little Pony” Proves that Positive Change Does Happen

men

GREETINGS, Comrades. Today we’re chatting about Grayson Bruce, the nine year-old North Carolina fan of My Little Pony who was bullied by schoolmates when he brought a rainbow-colored backpack to his Buncombe County elementary school.

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Second Thoughts About the Word Bullying

image

TODAY I LOOKED UP the word bullying in the English As It Is Actually Used Dictionary:

Bullying, vbl. n. [bʊlɪɪŋ]: A word that by 2014 was being used by some adults to describe what all the adults were doing to all the other adults, everywhere.

On any day in any news source, there are articles about adult bullying, as well as commentaries and anecdotes and calls to put an end to it, wherever it happens, which according to some people is everywhere.

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Feminism, for and against

ban-bossy

IF YOU HAVEN’T yet heard of Sheryl Sandberg’s Ban Bossy campaign, here is a video, and below is a brief overview of the Facebook COO’s effort, in which she is joined by Condoleeza Rice, Beyoncé, Jennifer Garner, Diane von Furstenberg and Jane Lynch:

When a little boy asserts himself, he’s called a “leader.” Yet when a little girl does the same, she risks being branded “bossy.” Words like bossy send a message: don’t raise your hand or speak up. By middle school, girls are less interested in leading than boys—a trend that continues into adulthood. Together we can encourage girls to lead.

Pledge to Ban Bossy.

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Life Lessons from WhatsApp

JanKoum_1260

HERE AND THERE, you’ll come upon a real-world story that is at-once inspiring, improbable, crazy, ironic, incredible – and that almost didn’t work out in the perfect way that it did. It’s not just rare, it’s Donald Trump good hair day rare. It’s me being told by my partner to pick up three things at the corner store and not forgetting two of them rare.

This, my friend, is the story of Jan Koum, inventor of WhatsApp.

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Coming to the Defence of Science

science

I‘VE KNOWN since the age of eight that I would be a writer, but biology was the subject which came in at a close second. The first book I read in college was Richard Dawkins’ The Blind Watchmaker, for a first-year university biology course. To many Dawkins is the leading advocate of “militant atheism,” and for this reason one may fail to notice that his campaign on behalf of science — necessarily a campaign against anti-science — is defensive in nature. But who would have thought even a decade ago that science would be in need of defence? These were my thoughts last week, as I participated in Stand Up for Science, an initiative of an agency called Evidence for Democracy.

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Reflections on the Random Mass Killing

navy-yard-shooting

WILLIAM MARSDEN observes today, in a Postmedia article “A touch of socialism might tame America’s killer psyche,” that

Murderous rampages have become so commonplace in America they have reached a level of banality that has earned them their own massive, militaristic and bureaucratic response system. The shooter opens fire. Police “active shooter” squads — on call 24/7 — are deployed. The shooter either commits suicide or is shot dead. The police are declared heroes. The victims are mourned and become “patriots.” Their family photos drift ghost-like across TV screens. Friends of the shooter struggle to comprehend why such a good-natured guy would do such a terrible thing. Blame inevitably falls on, as the Chicago Tribune ruled in an editorial Tuesday, “a lethal grudge and a gun.”

There is no repudiating that the mass killing of strangers in crowded public places is a template act, from beginning to end scripted and carried out along known and predictable lines. For years the question Why? has necessarily occurred, under the assumption that a coherent explanation is available.

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