Slumping

Ugh, my team is slumping. Even with a couple of the best scorers in the league, they've lost three games in a row. Which shouldn't be so bad, because like everyone, they know a slump is just a slump (hence the name) and that it will end.

But the problem with slumping - the very thing that makes it a slump rather than just a lost game or two - is that you don't feel like it will end. When you're slumping you've forgotten how quickly the weather can change. You've forgotten to have faith that it will. You're just on this endless run of thinking and over-thinking and, worst of all, trying not to over-think.

It probably doesn't help that every question a reporter asks you is about the slump. You can't get away from it. And although players, coaches, reporters and fans alike offer every possible cliché, unlike the situation with the weather, no one knows what forces will ultimately be responsible for the end of a slump.

No one knows.

Hockey for everyone!

Do I play hockey? Not yet. I'm still learning how to skate. Trust me, this is difficult enough.

I love my skating lessons, though, and I'm pretty sure my teacher is the best teacher ever, even though what she calls my "process of self-discovery" often seems like nothing more than the discovery of my total inability to process that crazy move she just showed me!

Seriously, though, I could start taking some learn-to-play classes anytime now. You don't need to be a great skater to play in a novice league. What you do need is time and money. Your time - those slivers of the day that aren't already spoken for - needs to align with the time the classes are held and the games are played (often late at night for adults). Your money must be plentiful enough so that you can buy the gear (you need full gear even to just learn to play - those pucks are hard!) and to pay for the classes and, eventually, to pay league fees or dues.

Still, I could learn to play if I made it a priority. Unfortunately, though, a lot of people can't. Especially in places where playing hockey depends on artificial ice - which, thanks to global climate change, is pretty much everywhere these days - hockey is a very expensive game.

Luckily, there are forces in the sport that are working for more inclusivity, trying to "grow the game," as they say, by giving away time and money (i.e., volunteering and donating equipment and ice time) to programs that teach kids who otherwise wouldn't even have the chance to try hockey.

For example, check out this photo montage of one such program in Washington, DC, on a day when NHL players Donald Brashear, Wayne Simmonds and Willie O'Ree came to work with the kids. It must have been seriously inspiring for those young people!

You can't fall in love with the game unless you have the chance to try it. And the game won't thrive without the influx of thousands of young people, inspired to devote countless hours of skating and sweat to playing this awesome game!

P.S. Because ice is so expensive, and because government funding for recreational facilities is often hard to come by, we turn to creative solutions. But they aren't always perfect. Here's an interesting update on the situation at Ft. Dupont, the rink pictured in the photo montage noted above. 

On (bad) language

We were finalizing the manuscript of Seeking when my editor suddenly balked at my use of a certain four-letter word beginning with the letter "c." It had been there for months, if not years, so I was a little taken aback. And yes, it's offensive (although I understand that in Australia it's sometimes used as a term of endearment) but uttered by a 20-some-odd year-old male hockey player as a deliberately ugly way to get under an opponent's skin, it hardly seemed over the top.

In the end, my editor agreed with me, but she did ask me to tone down some of the other language in the story, and I, ever trying to make it my policy not to be defensive, tried to be open to the suggestion.

I had figured that the "f-word" would be the most concerning to her, but she pinpointed the use of "goddamn" as most troublesome. And when I actually counted and discovered that there were no fewer than 65 (!) instances of this word in the novel, I couldn't disagree, at least on the grounds of sheer overuse.

But how to proceed? I started by categorizing them. Some of the "goddamns" were there for emphasis or rhythm. These tended to be hardest to remove or replace, because rhythm is important to me, and once I get a certain rhythm in my head, it's difficult to change. Other "goddamns" were used as adjectives or adverbs. When I looked more closely at these, I felt that some were more justified than others. There were some cases in which, if the offending word was removed or replaced, the writing would be improved. But there were also cases where I felt it wouldn't be.

Sometimes, using "goddamn" as a modifier seemed like an excuse to not think of a more specific word. For example, this phrase:

...number three, for being such a goddamn good hockey player that he'd had to move far, far away;

is actually more lively and more descriptive this way:

...number three, for being such a ridiculously good hockey player that he'd had to move far, far away.

And it's easy to imagine Agnes thinking exactly that. On the other hand, in this case --

Is that really all she wanted? To go to that goddamn party?

-- it's difficult to think of a replacement adjective that would express everything that the "goddamn" expresses. That silly party? That lousy party? That overrated party? That overhyped party? That occasion that is, at the root of it, just a bunch of guys standing around eating and drinking together because they're lonely and single and have nothing better to do? The point is, there are a lot of things on Owen's mind at this moment in the story, and I think it's better to let the reader use the unspecific "goddamn" as an opportunity to conjure those things, than for me to pin it down, reducing it to just one idea. Also, it's hard to imagine Owen's thoughts containing any of those replacement adjectives.

In the end, I removed more than a third of the "goddamns" -- although my editor ended up questioning some of the removals, which led us to reinsert some of them. I also largely rewrote one of the book's scenes using my new criteria. All in all, I think that reconsidering the language improved the storytelling, and I learned some things from doing it. 

What do you think? Are there too many "goddamns" and the like in Seeking the Center? I'd be curious to know!

The hardest part of writing

At a book signing, someone asked me "what was the hardest part of writing this book?" I didn't have a great answer at the time, but I've been thinking about it ever since.

The hardest thing might simply be having faith. Faith that, if you devote a good chunk of time, energy, and thought, every day, for many, many days, you will eventually end up with something.

It's relatively easy to keep the faith when things are going well, when you're in the flow of your work, when you're feeling confident. It's harder when you hit a rough spot. In that regard, writing is no different than anything else.

It's hard to believe in yourself. And it's hard to be selfish enough to keep at it. I always have doubts - especially when I'm sacrificing financially and postponing things that need doing around the house to spend my time writing. That's why I'm so grateful to have family who have been unfailingly supportive, and friends who say, without a hint of skepticism, "wow, you're writing a novel? That's great!"

A visit with some awesome sixth graders

Recently, I had the opportunity to visit with some sixth graders who were, in the words of their teachers, beginning a unit in which they would "look at the past through the lenses of both historical fiction and factual information." They asked me to speak with them briefly about how I used research in writing Seeking the Center.

Seeking the Center takes place in the 1990s, so it's not a deeply historical novel. But because my characters are very much affected by past events, I did quite a bit of research on the history of their region.

The students were bright and engaged and asked great questions. I thoroughly enjoyed being with them and I hope they got a sense of how much fun it is to let your natural interest and curiosity lead you, from one source to another, into a whole new (or old) time and place!

This isn't normal, people

I interrupt our regularly scheduled broadcast for this special message.

This isn't normal, people. In this country, the election of a person with a vocal disregard for democratic values, and even for human values, is unprecedented, destructive, and frightening.

This campaign and election have proven, if we needed proof, that bigoted, horrific attitudes do exist in our country. We can't pretend that they don't.

Let's respond by NOT being afraid and NOT remaining silent when we witness injustice, bigotry and cruelty.

Don't let the forces of evil divide us. Let's stay together.

Depends on who's here

I wrote earlier that a sport can have different meanings for different people. But it can take on different meanings for a single individual, too. In Seeking the Center, Agnes, who prides herself on never playing hockey "just for fun", discovers different facets of the game she thought she knew. In some ways her journey parallels my own research.

Hockey in one form or another has been around a long time. Just how long, no one really knows. The rules of the modern game started to solidify during the late nineteenth century as, like baseball, hockey became part of a trend toward standardization that seems to have been inherent in modernization.

Historically, organized sports including (at times) hockey have been promoted as a way to keep young men "out of trouble" when they weren't working - a way to keep them in order and physically fit. It has often been described in decidedly nationalist and capitalist terms.: a quasi-militarist marshaling of masculine energy in the service of the state and the status quo.

The upside is fitness, teamwork, leadership skills. The downside is, among other things, an assimilationist philosophy that subordinates the individual to the collective.

Prior to the standardization of sport, there was, in theory anyhow, more opportunity for all sorts of people to play. And, play could happen anywhere - not just in "approved" spaces of standard size and shape. Teams could expand and contract to fit the number of willing participants, and the only rules regarding the age or gender of the player were set by the players themselves. Even the rules of play could be adapted to different situations.

It isn't so much that standardization is inherently bad. The modern, professional game of hockey is thrilling and the skills that the players develop through their rigorous training and drills are beautiful to behold. It's just that, we sometimes forget that this particular incarnation of the game isn't necessarily the only one, the natural one, or the best one for everyone.

In Seeking the Center, Agnes's relationship with hockey deepens. As the story progresses she can see its downsides more clearly, but she also finds new reasons to love it. She realizes that playing hockey at the highest technical level isn't the only way to take the game seriously. Hockey is big enough to embrace everyone and flexible enough to serve multiple purposes. In the words of her linemate, Rosemary, "it's different every time. Depends on who's here." 

A hockey-centric weekend in Toronto

Last weekend I attended the fall meeting of the Society for International Hockey Research, which was held at the above iconic location - Maple Leaf Gardens. They don't make 'em like this anymore! Maple Leaf Gardens was the home of the Toronto Maple Leafs from 1931 until 1999, and during that time played host to no fewer than nineteen Stanley Cup Finals. It has since been renovated and is now a multi-use facility, with a beautiful ice rink that hosted a stick and puck session, a public session, and a women's college hockey game on Saturday afternoon.

The Ryerson University women's hockey team plays a game in what used to be Maple Leaf Gardens. It is now called the Mattamy Athletic Centre.

The meeting featured a number of speakers from the world of men's professional hockey and related topics. Most notable to me was Richard Scott, a man who is committed to creating a league history for the CWHL, the ten-year old Canadian women's professional league, through his book Who's Who in Women's Hockey. He believes that tracking player stats, creating game timelines, designating 1st and 2nd All-Star Teams, awarding trophies for MVP and various positions, and the like, will enhance the allure and the legitimacy of women's professional hockey. He also noted parallels between the early years of men's pro hockey a century ago and these more recent early years of the women's leagues - parallels that are cause to be bullish on the future of the women's game. I made sure to thank him for his work and presented him with a copy of Seeking the Center.

In Toronto there's hockey everywhere you look - even in the subway!

In the evening I got to see the CWHL in action. My friend Benoît and I took the subway to the end of the line, and then got on the 44 Kipling Ave. South bus to the Mastercard Centre, a 4-rink facility which, aside from being home to the Toronto Furies of the CWHL, is also the Maple Leafs' practice facility and home to Hockey Canada. Along with several knots of Furies gear-clad girls and a number of families we watched the Toronto Furies take on the Brampton Thunder. The home team lost, but a good time was had by all.

Defenceman (yes, that's how you spell it in Canadian!) Jessica Platt up against the glass.

And there she is defending!

Sonja van der Bliek in goal.

Brampton attacking.

Ensconced in cases at the Mastercard Centre were memorabilia relating to many well-known Canadian athletes, including this amazing mask worn by goalie and 3-time Olympian Sami Jo Small.

Do the little things

A week ago tonight I celebrated the release of Seeking the Center with friends and family here in the town where I live. When I was thinking about the evening ahead of time, I wanted to be sure to thank my guests properly for all the support they've given me over the years. 

There's the support that came in the form of encouragement, and questions about my progress as I made my way through the process of researching, writing, editing and publishing. But there's also been support on a deeper level.

In hockey, there's a stock phrase - one of those hockey cliches - that is often applied to players who aren't necessarily flashy, but who are consistent, reliable, and conscientious. They are said to "do the little things." Implied in that is a type of faith - faith that those "little things" will add up to success for the team in the long run.

I'm lucky to live in a community where we're not only privileged to begin with - we are, and we can't forget that - but also, where so many are committed to "doing the little things": volunteering in the community, in the schools, and with our kids' sports teams; taking an interest in each other and looking out for each other. It's worth noting that many of us are also, in this Washington, DC, suburb, career government servants who work hard every day for the people of our country and the world.

We don't expect some savior to come in and score the winning goal off some flashy play. But we have faith that, if we all try to do the little things, it'll mean success for all of us.

In life as in hockey, true awesomeness resides in those who get up every morning, for years and years, and try to make things better, one little thing at a time. Many thanks to everyone who has helped to make this a place where we can enjoy the peace of mind to do what we're inspired to do. And let's keep trying to make things better, both within our little community and beyond.

Multiple drafts

These are my drafts of Seeking the Center, teetering high atop my bookshelf. The spiral notebooks are where I took notes (when I wasn't using the computer) and worked out ideas. They date back to 2010. The manuscripts pictured here only date back to about 2013. Earlier fragments have ended up in the recycling bin or hidden among endless directories of disorganized computer files.

Now the manuscript has been finalized, published, and released. For better or for worse, it's complete. The characters who have been a part of my life for six or seven years, whose thoughts and feelings became as real as my own, are no longer my daily companions, and I truly miss them. I only hope that you will enjoy them as much as I have!

Launch party!!!

Last night was the "official" Seeking the Center book launch with friends and family! Yay!

I was truly humbled that so many folks made it out on a "school night" to support me -- and to find out just what it is I've been doing all these years!

I offered a few words about the book, a short reading, and then, surprise! Three theater students from our local high school made a special appearance as Agnes, Owen and Jo in a short scene from the book. They were awesome! They made my night!

Many thanks to everyone! The reason a writer writes is that she wants to share her ideas and stories. I so much appreciated the chance to share mine!

Wearing Our Identity: an exhibit of Native clothing at the McCord Museum

Seeking the Center's Agnes Demers is hockey player and a tough, unsentimental young woman. But she also loves to cook for her friends and family, and is a craftswoman as well. Many of the women in my family also take pleasure in making clothing for their loved ones, especially for their children and grandchildren. The impulse to do this is ages old and, I think, very moving. 

Porter Son Identité (Wearing Our Identity), an exhibit at The McCord Museum in Montreal, has been a major source of inspiration to me in writing Seeking. It is an installation of First Nations, Inuit and Métis clothing that has to be seen to be believed. Next time you're in Montreal, do yourself a favor and check it out.

I also invite you to go to the webpage, look at the photos, and watch the short video narrated by Guislaine Lemay, one of the show's curators. (You can also find it on YouTube.) It's in French with English subtitles, and it touchingly conveys the very tangible expression of love that I tried to express in Seeking.

When Girls Became Lions

I grew up female, a teenager in the late '70s and '80s. Now my daughter is as old as I was then. I'm always telling her how different things are for her than they were for me. I know it must get tiresome, maybe even burdensome, for her to hear, but I think it's important.

It's actually not that easy to wrap your head around. The deep, pervasive sexism that kept parents and teachers from encouraging girls to play sports seems so incredibly stupid in retrospect, that it's hard even for me, who lived through it, to believe. But that is the way it was.

When I was my daughter's age, there was a nominal acceptance of the fact that, theoretically, girls had the right to equal opportunities in sports. But the fact is, girls playing sports was not, at that time, a thing. Almost no girls played anything--not in my community and socio-economic category, anyhow. And no one seemed to think it was a problem. I loved watching Tatum O'Neal in the original Bad News Bears (1976)--if you haven't seen it, you should; it's a highly entertaining portrayal of how things were back in those Dark Ages--but it certainly did not precipitate a rush to get girls into Little League.

I resisted reading this novel, by Valerie J. Gin and Jo Kadlecek, because it had an "agenda." But it was interesting and far exceeded  my expectations. A good read and one that tells an important story.

When Girls Became Lions (2015) tells part of the story of how we got from there to here. Set in 1983-4, in a small Ohio town, the novel is a fictionalized account of what happens when, more than a decade after the passage of Title IX, a public high school is threatened with the withdrawal of athletic funding unless it forms a girls soccer team--something its athletic director has resisted for years. It's also the story of how, a generation later, the new coach of the girls soccer team uncovers that original team's story--one that had been purposely suppressed because, well, who cares? They're girls.

Aside from being a compelling read, When Girls Became Lions documents an important piece of women's history, the history of our struggle to get our fair share of our communities' financial and, equally important, its emotional resources.

Every once in a while it's necessary to stop and reflect on what ties us together, as female human beings, across generations. And in my case, to be grateful to those women and men who stepped up so that my daughter can enjoy opportunities that I couldn't.

What does your sport mean to you?

While writing Seeking the Center, I tried to investigate the different meanings that hockey can have for different people. If you're interested in this topic too, I recommend that you read American Indian Lacrosse: Little Brother of War, by ethnomusicologist Thomas Vennum, Jr. 

Most everyone knows that lacrosse originated among various Native American tribes. In American Indian Lacrosse, Vennum explores the significance of the game within these cultures, past and present. Lacrosse, for them, is not just a game to play; rather, it's tied to many other aspects of life. Deeply rooted in the story of creation itself, it can function as a sort of prayer for health or fine weather, a way to train for combat, a mode of resistance against colonialist powers, or a way for young people to express pride in their tribal identities.

That's not an exhaustive list, nor does it do justice to the wealth of narrative, artistic, medicinal, social, spiritual, and other lacrosse-related traditions that Vennum describes, but you get the idea. This is a fascinating account with a wealth of illustrations and well-told stories. And as a bonus, reading it just might give you a new perspective on your favorite sport and your relationship to it.

My dog-eared, post-it-adorned copy of the 1994 classic, in which historical vignettes and contemporary conversations illuminate the contexts for the Native game.

Getting just a wee bit political, maybe

Last night I attended the concert that showcases and honors this year's National Endowment for the Arts National Heritage Fellows. The National Heritage Fellowships are awarded by the Arts Endowment to "recognize the recipients' artistic excellence and support their continuing contributions to our nation's traditional arts heritage."

A basket woven by Theresa Secord, Penobscot Nation

In other words, the awardees are people who have taken a traditional art form--for example, Dakota flute making and performance or Laotian khaen playing, white oak basket making or Huastecan son performance--brought it, through their own personal passion, persistence, and skill, to the next level, and--very importantly--been persistent in their efforts to assure their art's survival by being teachers, spokespeople, and/or advocates.

The concert at which each year's honorees present their art is always an incredibly moving affair, presented by the National Council for the Traditional Arts and a small cadre of devoted folklorists who come back year after year to assist. This year it was broadcast live over the internet, and you can watch it here.

Believe me, I don't want to take anything away from the artists themselves, from the amazing variety and beauty of the traditions represented, or from the profound nature of taking a precious tradition, with deep roots, and carrying it forward to future generations. But to me the evening represented another sort of continuity as well. It began with a set of tunes performed by awardee Billy McComiskey, an Irish button accordion player from Baltimore, joined, to my surprise, by two previous heritage fellowship awardees Mick Moloney, a multi-instrumentalist and vocalist, and Liz Carroll of Chicago, one of the greatest Irish fiddle players you'll ever have the good fortune to hear. I have special places in my heart for both Mick and Liz, because I remember them as good people and great to work with. But Liz is special to me--I don't know why, maybe because she's a woman and not many years older than I am.

When Liz was awarded her heritage fellowship back in 1994, I was a young person working in the field of folklore in DC, lucky enough to score an invitation to the ceremony on Capitol Hill. First Lady Hillary Clinton officiated, and she was very engaged, taking time to greet and congratulate all the fellows, especially D.L. Menard, a Cajun musician from her home state of Louisiana. But she also expressed particular interest in Liz and in Liz's entourage, which included her two young children.

Twenty-two years later? I don't want to make this post political, but I can't help noting that Liz, her children now grown, continues to honor us with her lively, nuanced fiddle playing, and Mrs. Clinton, now a grandmother, is still seeking to further serve our nation.

I have great admiration for people who show such persistence in their true passion over the course of a lifetime. The wisdom and experience that they have accrued and are so willing to share are things that we can't afford to throw away. 

Warrior paradise

The warrior paradise...Valhalla...filled with shields and mailcoats, haunted by wolf and eagle, and provided with hundreds of doors through which the warriors...pour out...[to] an unending battle, continuing forever because those who fall each day are restored to life again in time for the feasting in the evening...*

Hockey season is upon us. We're at the moment when #IsItOctoberYet? yields to breathless bits of hockey chatter. The young prospects bent on showing what they can do, hoping to crack the opening night line-up for the first time. The veterans out to prove their continuing worth, to overcome injury or age, to bring something new this season. And always everyone determined to win: win the majority of the 82 brutal regular season games, and, if the hockey gods smile, win the sixteen increasingly-more-brutal games necessary to hoist the Stanley Cup next June. 

One might think that, after a lifetime of warfare and (most likely) a grisly death in battle, Odin's chosen warriors, granted a seat in Valhalla, would kick back, drink some mead, play some video games, and enjoy the company of the valkyries. And they do. They feast and party all night, every night. But in the morning it's back to the battlefield, where they fight all day, are slain, and then revived to party some more and fight and die and be revived, party and fight and die and be revived, ad infinitum.

It seems exhausting, right? But these hockey players can't wait to get started. They're desperate to get into the routine of the season, the flow of games, where, whether they win or lose, they're going to hit the ice the next morning to fight again. It's their Valhalla, their warrior paradise.

So, my friends, welcome. It's #JustAboutOctober. Time for us fans, too, to revive ourselves (again) for the season ahead.

*quote from H. R. Ellis Davidson, Gods and Myths of Northern Europe

Beyond a Boundary: The classic book on cricket by C.L.R. James

Beyond a Boundary (1963) is C.L.R. James's classic memoir and exegesis of cricket in the colonial West Indies. James (1901-1989), a native of Trinidad who spent many of his adult years in Britain, was involved with cricket as a player, critic and commentator. He was also an historian, novelist, cultural and political critic, and activist. In Beyond a Boundary he describes how irrevocably enmeshed the sport was in his own development, as well as in the political, social and racial struggles of his time. 

Beyond a Boundary was published in Britain in 1963 and in the US in 1983. My copy is from 1993, published by Duke University Press.

I wish I was knowledgeable enough to discuss how this has all played out in the fifty-plus years since Beyond a Boundary was published. I'm not, but I want to offer to you this statement by James explaining the premise of this book. It speaks to the roles sport can play in defining a society and the points of struggle, of contest, and of contradiction within it. 

I haven’t the slightest doubt that the clash of race, caste and class did not retard but stimulated West Indian cricket. I am equally certain that in those years social and political passions, denied normal outlets, expressed themselves so fiercely in cricket (and other games) precisely because they were games. Here began my personal calvary. The British tradition soaked deep into me was that when you entered the sporting arena you left behind you the sordid compromises of everyday existence. Yet for us to do that we would have had to divest ourselves of our skins. From the moment I had to decide which club I would join the contrast between the ideal and the real fascinated me and tore at my insides. Nor could the local population see it otherwise. The class and racial rivalries were too intense. They could be fought out without violence or much lost except pride and honour. Thus the cricket field was a stage on which selected individuals played representative roles which were charged with social significance. I propose now to place on record some of the characters and as much as I can reproduce (I remember everything) of the social conflict. I have been warned that some of these characters are unknown and therefore unlikely to interest non-West Indian readers. I cannot think so.

He was right in that. Beyond a Boundary certainly held my interest, even though its "players" were not only unknown to me (as is cricket, largely, I'm afraid!) but also long departed from the planet. The circumstances James describes are fascinating and, though intricate, they resonate widely. I learned a lot from this book.

A day at the Brooklyn Book Festival

Phew! I just made it home from an exciting and eventful weekend in New York City. I got to see my awesome college and travel friend Emily, have my picture taken with a Viking ship, and visit an ice rink with a view of the Hudson River. 

The purpose of the trip, though, was to attend the Brooklyn Book Festival. My publisher, Cuidono Press, had a table up towards the top of the scrum in a nice spot that backed up to a grassy area lined with London planetrees and carpeted occasionally by frenzied irruptions of pigeons. It was also convenient to the food trucks, which is never a bad thing!

The main event for me was seeing Seeking the Center in print for the very first time. I am happy to report that it is beautiful. The cover looks fantastic, the size feels compact and chunky in my hands--of course I had to have my picture taken with it!

I look radiant, right? And I promise it's not just sweat. (Holy cow, it was humid, though!)

I also had the opportunity to spend some time with Martha, my amazing editor/publisher. I picked her brain about some "business" matters, but we also chatted about other things including life in Brooklyn, Broadway musicals (Fun Home is a mutual favorite), and some old, shared acquaintances. The best part, though, was getting to meet the book lovers who strolled by. Some of them were--ack!--Rangers fans, but hey, hockey is hockey!

A bit about athletes and activism

If any of my players sit on the bench for the national anthem, they will sit there the rest of the game. 

--John Tortorella, coach of the U.S. national team in this fall's World Cup of Hockey

John Tortorella is but one of countless people, inside and outside sports, who have weighed in on 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick's decision to call attention to racial injustice by sitting (or more recently, taking a knee) during the pre-game playing of the national anthem. But being a hockey fan, my ears pricked up when I heard about Tortorella's stance, and being the author of a hockey novel, I immediately tried to put myself in the shoes (or rather, the skates) of Torts's players.

It's common to assume that professional athletes--at least the ones who play in the big-money men's leagues--are privileged, and that their wealth and status afford them protection that the rest of us don't enjoy. I believe that that's true in some cases, yet these athletes remain vulnerable in other ways. 

This vulnerability is one of the themes in my novel Seeking the Center. While the story revolves around Agnes, a character who is locked out of professional hockey altogether because she's female (we're talking the mid-1990s, before the CWHL or NWHL), many of the characters are male professional players who love the game yet struggle to feel comfortable within the cultural confines of their locker rooms and leagues. 

Claude, for example, knows that he must watch his behavior on and off the ice. He's not a top-skill kind of player and he understands that he's considered replaceable. The fact that he's not white makes his position even more tenuous, as Coach obliquely indicates. Likewise, Owen's no fan of the ugly misogyny and racism that he witnesses on the ice and in the dressing room, but he doesn't feel that he has the option to speak out against it. 

These athletes are members of teams, relatively small groups of "guys" (even the ubiquitous use of the term "guys" as opposed to "men" seems to reflect something about the way they're supposed to think of themselves and each other) situated within relatively small communities (leagues) in which conformity and the financial bottom line are paramount. Positions on these teams are highly competitive and no matter how great a player's skill, his days are numbered and he is ultimately disposable. 

Deciding when to stand up and say something (or when to sit down) can be a difficult calculation, and I have to acknowledge the courage of those who take action. For some interesting thoughts on the subject by professional baseball players, check out this link.

Métis fiddler Jimmie LaRocque of Turtle Mountain

Back in the 1990s, as production associate for the Folk Masters concert and radio series, I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Jimmie LaRocque, a Métis fiddle player from the Turtle Mountain Reservation in North Dakota.

I will never forget this remarkably energetic, enthusiastic sixty-something year-old man who drove the entire way from his home near Belcourt, North Dakota (practically on the Canadian border) to Washington, DC (a distance of almost 1600 miles!) and arrived none the worse for wear.

As a young person, Mr. LaRocque absorbed many influences and, like so many musicians, was eager to play the popular music of the day. By age 17 he was in Texas, playing with a band called The Western Kings out of Corpus Christi. Later, he lived in California and played backup fiddle for touring country bands including Grand Ol' Opry performers Kitty Wells, Ray Price and Ernest Tubb.

But he never forgot the traditional tunes that he taught himself to play on his dad's fiddle as a boy. He is quoted in the 1994 Folk Masters program book:

The Indian old-time fiddle music is a lot different. It seems like it's got a lot more meaning. In my mind sometimes I play fiddle here, and I swear to God I close my eyes a little bit and I can see my dad sit there by me with his fiddle. You play this Indian music and then it's like the whole sky, it's like a great big movie camera is showing a big picture on there. On the sky you can see Indians coming on spotted horses and you can see the wind blow.

Mr. LaRocque passed away in 2009.

This link will take you to a short sample of Mr. LaRocque playing the Métis fiddle tune "Road to Batoche" on the Smithsonian Folkways recording Wood That Sings. Batoche (the Smithsonian Folkways listing misspells the name) was a Métis settlement in Saskatchewan and the headquarters of their fight against Canadian forces in 1885. Métis people sometimes call that resistance la guerre nationale "the national war," (i.e., the war of the Métis nation), which gives you a sense of its importance to them as a people.

Batoche is now a Parks Canada National Historic site, as well as the home of "Back to Batoche," the Métis nation's annual commemoration of its culture, traditions and heritage.

Batoche in 1885. Unknown photographer. This image is available from Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec under the reference number P600,S6,D5,P1309. Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44641160