Teenage Right-Wingers

That May morning, in 2005, shortly after Belinda Stronach crossed the floor, I boarded the early morning bus from Toronto to London, all nerves and second-guessing, on my way to impart my wisdom (such as it was), to the Teen Right-Wingers of Canada. Why had I agreed to this? Why had I said yes? Who was I, a freelance writer with unconvincing conservative credentials, being asked to inspire a bunch of teen right-wingers? It made no sense. But I had said yes, following my gut, as Oprah always tells us to do. When you do that, she says, you will never go wrong. Oh really? I guess, I thought that morning, I would find out.
I arrived at the hotel where the convention was being held shortly before the panel was set to begin. A young nerd came to get me in the lobby and usher me to the room where the audience waited. Outside the room there were cookies, sandwiches and coffee. Young Nerd told me to help myself, but I was too nervous for anything but water. All of a sudden Young Nerd said, "Oh, would you like to meet Amos Loewenstein?" I wanted to say, "Um, not really...and anyway, we have already met," but instead I said, "Sure!" Young Nerd brought me over to a corner of the hallway where a short, plump man was hunched over a box, pulling magazines out of it and sorting them into piles, depending on their covers. The magazines were different issues of the Red Deer Report.
"Amos," said Young Nerd. "This is Jane. Jane Avril. She’ll be joining you on the panel today."
Amos Loewenstein looked up, and then stood up straight, revealing that he was a) shorter than me, b) cute as a button, c) possessed of the rosiest cheeks I had ever seen on a man and d) wearing a smart, navy suit and red tie. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and looked so professional. I was dressed like a teenage girl -- strapless green top, black jeans and hair long and loose. What must he have thought?
"Hi," I said, extending my hand.
He smiled. "Nice to meet you."
"Oh, we’ve already met," I said. "About four years ago...but don’t worry. No one ever remembers me."
"Oh no," he said, laughing. "Come on. Come on. You’re killin’ me, you’re killin’ me."
"You were with your wife," I said. "She was wearing a snood over her hair. She was beautiful."His face registered something -- I wasn’t sure what. Pain? Nostalgia? Embarrassment? Had he got divorced? I felt so stupid. I was desperately trying to think of something to say to recover the merriment of a few minutes earlier, when he offered to get me a coffee. "No, no," I told him. "I’m sufficiently caffeinated."
"Oh," he chuckled, pouring himself one instead. "I’m not!"
He asked about my career. I desperately tried to make it sound successful. He pretended to be impressed. I asked about the Red Deer Report. He said they had a growing circulation and that he had convinced VIA Rail to include it among their offerings in their VIA First Class Lounges across Canada.
He gestured over to the boxes. "Actually, if you don’t mind, I want to finish putting the magazines on display." "Oh sure," I said. "Can I help? I’m really nervous, and I just want to keep busy till our panel starts."
"Of course," he said. "But why are you nervous? You’ll be great."
"I doubt it," I said. "I’m a lousy public speaker."
We began sorting magazines, according to cover stories, and placing them on a display table for the students to take. "Get ‘em while they’re young," said Amos.
"You bet," I said.
Pretty soon Young Nerd came back over. "Charles Taylor isn’t here yet, and you’re scheduled to go on in about five minutes. What do you two want to do? Do you want to give him some time, or go ahead as scheduled?"
Go ahead as scheduled, I thought. But Amos spoke. "Well, I’d love to wait for Charles. But I have to be back in Toronto by 5 p.m. I’m appearing on ‘This is Sunday’s Really Serious and Important News Show’ with Michelle Jones."
(Michelle Jones? Ugh. I had never met her, but on the air she seemed hard, full of herself, brassy and hosted an appallingly bad show no one watched. The only thing that could be said in her favour was that she had hair with a little flip at the bottom that never seemed to go limp or move. Quite impressive!)
"Okay," said Young Nerd. "I’ll call Charles on his cell."
Amos looked at me. "Charles has a great little Audi -- I’m sure he’s speeding along and will be here soon." "I hope so, I just want to get this over with."
Amos laughed. Young Nerd came back. "Charles was mistaken about our starting time. He won’t be here for half an hour. So maybe what you two should do is start without him, and he’ll join you as soon as he gets here."
Oh boy! The premier political pundit in Canada and he couldn’t get our start time right. Grrr...
"Let’s do it," said Amos.
Young Nerd led us into the jam-packed room where our panel was set up. There must have been 200 kids there! I was mortified. Young Nerd introduced us -- and then said these terrifying words: "I’ll let both of our guests say a few words about themselves, and about conservatism in Canada." Huh? No one warned me I would have to do anything other than answer a few questions from teenage squares.
"Ladies first," Young Nerd said, handing me the microphone.
OH. MY. GOD.
I was mortified. All I remember is mumbling something about...well, something, as I stared at the front row of spectators. Among them, I recognized Kevin Kelley, an MP from Red Deer. Kelley had dated a friend of mine. She had told me he was gay and in denial about it. She came to that conclusion because he wouldn’t have sex with her, even after they’d been seeing each other two months! She really wanted to get it on with him, but he wouldn’t oblige. He claimed it was because he was a devout Catholic, but my friend didn’t buy it. Nor did I. I don’t care how devout you are -- no nearly 40-year-old man doesn’t have sex! And if he wants to wait for marriage, then he GETS MARRIED. But Kelley was still single. I guess I could understand why he was in denial. He lived in Alberta. It couldn’t be much fun to be gay in Alberta. Anyway, Kevin Kelley’s face is basically all I remember from my "speech." Then, thankfully, it was over, and I handed the microphone to Amos. He got up and spoke and...I had never seen anything like it. He had the room mesmerized, including me. He talked about his magazine and how the students could apply to be interns there and how they could get a subscription discount if they applied that day, he talked about blogs, he talked about Paul Martin and Stephen Harper and...Belinda. His speech ended with him saying that the only time Belinda Stronach ever had a conservative bone in her body was when she was sleeping with Peter MacKay. The room erupted. Oh my.
Amos Loewenstein: Quite remarkable! The Q&A session began, and went fairly smoothly until...Charles Taylor swooshed in, forty minutes late. The room erupted again. Positively. Erupted. Taylor, though late, was allowed to give a little speech. He droned on about Lord Byng and yada, yada and then finally stopped talking. It was clear he loved the sound of his own voice. When his voice was finally quiet, the crowd went wild, even wilder than they had for Amos. Kevin Kelley shouted out, "Taylor for Prime Minister." I could tell by the look on Charles’ face that he felt all of this fuss was his due.
With Charles there, the Q&A session ran less smoothly. He was quite the microphone hog! It was so funny. I had been so nervous about Amos Loewenstein, but he had been generous when we were alone on the panel together. Charles Taylor was not so generous.
The rest of the afternoon went thusly: A right-wing teen would ask a question. Loewenstein would answer in a funny way. The entire audience would burst into laughter and applause. Or, Charles Taylor would answer in a serious, long-winded way and the entire audience would burst into applause and cheering. Or, rarely, I would answer. And there would be quizzical looks and a smattering of applause. My only moment of glory came when one of the students asked about the recent -- at the time -- story, published in Newsweek, of Korans being flushed down toilets at Guantanamo Bay. As a result of the story, Muslims had rioted (what else is new?), and several people had died (what else is new?). "How do you feel," the young geek asked, "being responsible, as a journalist, for those deaths?"
I grabbed the microphone, boldly, and said, "Journalists are not responsible for those deaths. The people who rioted violently enough to kill are the ones responsible."
The room fell silent, until -- and I could feel him staring at me -- Amos said, loudly, "YES!" And he began clapping, followed by Kevin Kelley, followed by the whole room. It was nice, and pretty soon, our panel was over. We were all presented with coffee table books about the history of Western. I got up and found myself swarmed by students who wanted to talk. It was great. Amos Loewenstein was also swarmed and finally extricated himself, approaching me. As at the beginning of the afternoon, we shook hands. "Thanks," he said. "I have to get going now, but I’d like to stay in touch." He handed me his card.
"Oh, thanks," I said. "Sure, of course! I don’t have a card, though, but I’ll email you."
"Great! I’d like that. What are you doing now?" he asked.
"Well, I guess I’ll just schmooze with the kids." Amos laughed. "Good idea."
"Yeah."
"Okay, well, I hope we talk soon. I have to get into Toronto for Michelle’s show."
"Okay -- drive safe!"
Off he went. I regretted that, when he asked what I was doing next, I didn’t just say, "Going back to Toronto." He may have offered me a ride -- and I could have had more of a chance to chat with him.
Oh well, I thought to myself. Whatever. I had his card.
I stayed around and chatted with the kids. It was fun. I even chatted with Charles Taylor, who had one hell of a firm handshake! At one point, I noticed he had six or seven cookies stacked in his hand -- it sort of endeared him to me. I mean, he did have flaws, apparently. He was a sugar-freak and a cookie-hoarder. After a half hour or so of chatting with the young people, I got the bus back to Toronto. En route, I looked at Amos Loewenstein’s business card. People always say, "Let’s stay in touch." But they hardly mean it. He probably didn’t mean it.