CHEERS TO CHOW
SUCCESS IN WIDOWHOOD
I lay on my back listening to mayor-elect, Olivia Chow, give her victory speech. Tears soaked into the duvet cover on either side of my ears. No sobs though - I was anxious to hear the optimistic message from this career politician whose views have so often mirrored mine. My tears were not a reflection of my joy, however. No, my heart ached for the words she dared not utter - how much she wished her husband and political partner, Jack Layton, was here to share in her success.
No-one I know believes former Mayor Tory resigned in February because he’d had an extramarital affair with a staffer in her 30s. There’s obviously more to that story which may one day emerge. Regardless, many in my circle were happy, despite the expense and disruption of going through another election just a few months into Tory’s third term. It felt like a chance to rebuild some of the city’s social fabric and invest in necessary infrastructure after a couple of decades of the tax restraint of centre-right leadership.
Chow* emerged as the early favourite and the only viable progressive candidate in the staggering pack of 102 Torontonians (and a dog) jockeying to fill the vacancy. This was not her first run at the mayor’s chair. Nine years ago, she was trounced by Tory in his first victory, he being the milquetoast answer to the Rob Ford reign of embarrassment.** Olivia’s 2014 loss was just three years after her husband’s rise to the federal leadership of the opposition and then his cancer death the same year. A political lifer, Layton also had an unsuccessful run for the mayor’s chair on his resume. To progressive Canadians, the names Jack and Olivia go together like Bill and Hillary do in the US.
Olivia’s June 26 victory was one of those rare times in my life I’ve voted for a winner. That night, though, instead of jubilation, I felt sadness for her, sadness I would have felt even if she’d been the widow of a staunch conservative.
Guilt is a common byproduct of grief. Guilt at the randomness of surviving when someone else has died. Guilt at the niggling feeling that somehow you could or should have done something different to achieve another outcome. Guilt for not being kinder to someone who was ill. Guilt for reflecting too much on the negative aspects of a lost relationship. Guilt for moving on too quickly. Guilt for wallowing too long. Guilt about losing touch with friends and family. Guilt for getting rid of art that you never liked. Guilt for getting rid of his wedding suit. Guilt for changing your hairstyle. I’ve heard it all through the widow-grapevine. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
What about me, you ask? Well, I have experienced twinges of guilt about getting myself back on the upswing. In a relatively short five years, I’ve put together a new life on the foundation - literally, in the case of my new house - of the life I had with Jack. Coupled with that guilt, though, is a melancholy that I cannot share the excitement of my new house, new job, and writing, with my biggest champion. Oh sure, Jack did his very best to keep my ego contained, mocking me every time I sought or got attention. But with his ribbing, came his ability to strategize like a chess player. He loved nothing more than to help me think through big decisions and toast outcomes that were surely richer because of his coaching.
Twenty-five years ago and long before I had my own strategist-Jack, I arranged for Olivia and her Jack to meet with the Chair of the environmental NGO I worked for. We sat in the living room of a suite at Toronto’s Royal York Hotel where Jack and our Chair blue-skyed about climate emission reduction. Olivia moved in and out of the room offering her own more practical perspectives as she prepared for another event. Theirs was a perfect partnership: Jack was the big picture thinker while Olivia’s skill seemed more like my own - making things happen.
There is no doubt Olivia has lamented not having Jack to help with campaign strategy (although she won regardless) just as on June 26, she grieved not having him beside her at the victory podium. For that I cried. I also cried because if she had even hinted at it, she would have been castigated as a weak widow clinging to Jack’s coattails. So she stayed silent, giving nods to her sizable team, including her family composed of Jack’s children and grandchildren.
In a post-election interview, with Chow’s new office on Nathan Phillips Square as the backdrop, CBC’s senior correspondent, Adrienne Arsenault, asked Chow what Layton would have said, were he alive. With Arsenault’s gravitas as an interviewer, she could get away with ‘going there’ and I applaud her for it.
Chow smiled a little and replied, “He’d say, ‘Olivia, get it done right. Because a lot of people are counting on it.’”
And yes, Olivia, we are. But among your fellow widows, I celebrate your success as a reminder that one life ending doesn’t mean the other has to.
*Olivia Chow was one of three immigrant women in the top flight of mayoralty contenders in the election. She is the first Asian Canadian to be Toronto’s mayor and the first female mayor of the amalgamated Toronto. For more, here’s Chow’s wikipedia entry.
** Readers outside Canada will surely remember the crack-smokin’ buffoon who appeared on Jimmy Kimmel putting us on the map for something more than saying “aboot” (which, BTW, we don’t say).
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