Sunday, June 16, 2013

The Interview.

Testing your responses.







I had a new job. The trouble was that I had no idea of what it actually was. I think it was a big warehouse or something with a lot of office space up in the front two floors of the building, all kinds of people coming and going.

Everyone in the place was ignorant, or threatening or abusive. Either that, or they ignored me, just rolling their eyes when I tried to talk to them. They were all nuts. Nothing they said made any sense, and I had no idea of why I was there—I hadn’t worked in years and I sure as hell wasn’t looking for a job, not that I recall. You’d think that I would remember something like that.

Finally, when I just couldn’t take it anymore, I turned to the nearest guy and let him have a big one right in the kisser. My arm went out to its fullest extension and I caught him on the side of the face, slightly high so I wouldn’t bust his jaw.

He went down.

#

I was confronted by a sloping concrete wall, and I was standing in a foot of water. I wanted out of there real bad so I dropped to my knees and began clawing at the mud and gravel where the slot allowed the dirty coffee-coloured water to flow under and out of the tunnel.

The gap was too shallow. The slot was too small for my body to squeeze through, and there was just a thin slice of air above it. If I could lower the water level, maybe I could slither through on my back. There was light out there. It would take a while, and turning, I saw to my relief a square patch of sunny glare only fifteen metres behind me.

I was in a culvert or something under a road. That must be it.

Sloshing my way to the daylight, the sides of a ditch or drainage canal sloped up, all covered in thick green grass, curling and uneven. The sky was blue, with thin high clouds. The sides of the ditch were ten or twelve feet high. The sides must have been seventy-five degrees. Cold water flowed past my feet as I tried to kick or cut a foothold. Grabbing grass, I pulled myself up, attempting to plunge my fingers into the soil, but it was harder and drier than I thought. It took a couple of attempts, but I made it up, kicking and clawing all the way…

#

My little red sports-car handled fine. It was a lovely summer’s evening about seven o’clock. Dodging oncoming traffic, I pulled off the left side of the road into a field, with a big down-slope and trees coming up fast. I picked a thin spot and discovered it was a narrow lane through the trees, although I had to steer right and left to avoid the bigger ones. The grass was very green. The ground was smooth, or at this speed I would have been bounced right out.

I got to the bottom and the other side began curving up, but I turned left and over in a big arc and then followed the valley up a hillside and over the top, to a wide, open street where I bounced down over a curb. I turned left again, went about two blocks and pulled right into the driveway of a French Colonial house, a monster of a home. The garage door opened so I put the car in there.

I walked through the place, it was very quiet in there, and it had a couch and a few items of furniture. There no curtains on the windows and light streamed in. All the windows were closed. There was a bedroom, and there were empty rooms but someone had been using the kitchen recently. There was cold coffee in a pot and a little food in the fridge. I saw one or two dishes in a rack. I was standing in the end of the kitchen when car doors slammed and some people came in. One guy in an expensive charcoal grey suit came in, and walked right past me. There were voices in the house, but I didn’t see where they went. He went into the other room.

He sat in a chair in the living room and opened up a newspaper as I came in.

He glanced up, and went to the next page, but then he ignored me and I wondered if he belonged there. It could have been my house.

Something wasn’t right here.

There was a funny pricking pain at my left temple. I felt thin wires on my neck, hard, like bell wire going down to somewhere else, and on the side of my head a round pad of something shiny…like plastic.

#

“Not bad.”

“What?”

Jerking against some kind of restraints, I looked wildly around. I wanted so badly to sit up.

We sat in an office, with me in a dentist’s chair. I was wired for sound, wrists strapped to the arms of the chair.

“Congratulations. You’ve got the job.”

“What?”

“Only eleven seconds to pull yourself back to reality. That’s very impressive.”

“What? Who the hell are you?”

“Welcome to the firm.”

He came over and began unsnapping buckles.

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s okay. You passed the test with flying colours.”

All of this was a just little too surreal to me.

“Screw you. I don’t want the job.”

He threw his head back and laughed.

“Don’t worry. You’ll fit right in around here.”

#

And it was true, too.

I’ve been working here for, ah, I don’t know, about twenty-nine years now, and I just love every minute of it.

###


Author's Note: Presently, employers can check out prospective employees on Facebook and Twitter, use photo-search to find their faces on other sites, and check them out in any number of ways. Bearing in mind there will be far fewer 'good' jobs in the future, they can afford to pick and choose. Also, with the market so tight, people will submit willingly to almost any indignity and give up almost any and all privacy in order to get one of those coveted jobs. People have always given up freedom for bread, a sad truth but a truth nevertheless.

In this case, the subject signed a waiver and certain portions of his memories and even his personality have been carefully wiped.

On the other hand, he gets a whopping $11.00 an hour and some small benefits from his employer, including an annual picnic in a local park and a gaily-striped unform with his name on it which he wears as he flips burgers.

At the company picnic, he even gets to watch junior executives with professional amusement as they struggle to cook a burder for him once in awhile.

Remember, you learned it here first.

-Louis

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

The Exchanger.

Fossil-fuel power plant. (WKnight94. Wiki.)






Fred never even knew what an exchanger was until he climbed into one. It’s basically just a heat-exchanger. This one was for hot gases. The space they were in was for maintenance.

An exchanger is two plates of steel, punched full of two-inch holes, set so far apart. Between the two plates is a series of steel tubes, hundreds of them, all welded into place. Hot gases go through the pipes, cold air passes around them. The welds are inspected as the system must hold a given pressure and temperature. The exchanger is welded into a flue, and a cross-flue brings in cool outside air, which flows around the tubes and goes into the combustion chambers pre-heated. It boosts the efficiency of the system. At least that was what Fred thought.

He had dropped out of high school. Hot air from the smoke stack is cooled inside the tubes. Solids in the gas stream condense in the exchanger. It reduces emissions. Every so often guys like him get to suit up, wear goggles, work boots, ear plugs and a hard hat. They clip a respirator on their belts, and carry a couple thousand pounds of tools and equipment up catwalks and ladders. They bring it all in through an eighteen-inch hatch,. They squat and crawl around in a room four and a half feet high, ten feet wide and thirty feet long, with a floor and ceiling full of those damned two-inch holes, and clean them out with a snake. They get to make nine, or ten, or eleven bucks an hour if the guys around him were anything to go by. Starting off at nine, he’d get a buck an hour raise in about six months or so many hours worked. Fred knew the snake intimately by now. Once pink, it was now a grubby red. It was one-point-one inches in diameter and weighed about eighty pounds per fifty foot length. It leaked ‘x’ amount of air at every metallic snap-joint, which slowed the rate of rotation…but didn’t make it any easier on the hauling.

He was eating a lot lately and seemed to crave sleep.

They had all swapped stories over the lunch trailer table, and one or two of them seemed to know each other. They hung out on the weekends at some place up the lake with their wives and kids.

They knew a little bit about each other, but there was always a new face and you only shared what was comfortable. Fred was fitting in. He was drawing a pay cheque, and he had managed to survive the bull work and crappy shifts, always being called in at the last minute, up until now.

They were on the southeast side of the powerhouse, where a tangle of yellow-painted ductwork led into the bottom of Stack One. No one had even the slightest idea of what was in the crud. No one really cared. They just tried to keep it out of their eyes, and their mouths, and some wore dust masks in a forlorn effort to avoid breathing it in.

Macrofouling of exchanger tubes. (tapprogge.de. Wiki.)
There are two operations involved. A generator on the ground provides air pressure to a series of rotating ‘snakes,’ basically a wire bottle-brush on the end of a cable, enclosed inside of a greasy, laminated rubber tube, soft on the outside so it can be handled. It goes around and around and scrubs those tubes right out. There are two snakes and two pairs of guys working in the chamber. It also makes power for the lights, on the ends of hundreds of feet of extension cord. The crew consisted of eight labourers, an operator for the vacuum truck, and the foreman. Two or three are on the ground at any given time, watching over the truck and generator or just on break. The foreman comes and goes, checking on other jobs throughout the plant as the firm had a lot going on during the shutdown.

Guys sort of didn’t like him hanging around, looking over their shoulders all of the time, and all foremen knew that instinctively. He was there to problem-solve but not otherwise interfere. They knew he was around. This was a good crew. He knew it and they knew he knew it. Or so someone had figured only just the day before.

The men sit on a plastic milk crate, the only thing that has been found to be the right height and able to take the weight. Men shove that rubber snake up those tubes for twenty-five feet or so until it pops out into the open flue or chamber which lies, presumably, above the exchanger. Fred had never been up there. You could do fifteen or twenty holes in a half-hour shot. He’d only been working for the company for about three weeks.

Fred’s arms, shoulders and neck were aching, as he sat in the harsh shadows of the quartz-halogen working lights. It was the second of three shifts on nights. They were about four hours into it. He pulled the snake out and looked at his watch before shoving it up the next tube. His partner Lloyd pulled the screaming vacuum hose away and chalked an ‘x’ beside the tube he had just done.

The whine of the snake and the howl of the vacuum hose and the guys working on the other end, yelling back and forth, all combined to make talk difficult.

“Another ten minutes.” They were doing half-hour shots.

Lloyd nodded. Then it would be his turn, and Fred could sit there and rest so to speak. He would also have to hold their vacuum hose, the end of it securely taped to a four-foot length of hockey stick, and try to grab as much crud as he could when it fell out of the hole. Otherwise they would be knee-deep in it and have to shovel it out. Also, the next reactor, right underneath them, still had to be done. It was better than the snake. After that it would be Fred’s first break.

Vacuum Truck. (Remi Kaupp, Wiki.)
The whole crew was filthy with the yellowish crusty stuff that fell out of the tubes.

An inevitable question from one of the new guys, asking why they had to go in from the bottom, had been quickly answered. It prevented clogs and jams, which was what happened when tubes were bored out from above. The crud went down holes already half-plugged, and so they didn’t do it that way. Pulling the snakes back up wouldn’t have been much better anyway. It might have been worse, when he thought about it.

It was six of one and half a dozen of the other for the men involved.

It was killing work, and their twelve-hour shifts were carefully calculated to produce as much progress as possible, with the smallest possible crew, while at the same time just trying to survive for the next shift. They all took equal turns at each job. The safety man outside the hatch, walky-talky in his lap and seated on his own plastic box, would rotate though when his turn came too. There was another labourer down by the vacuum truck as the operator didn’t do unskilled labour, not at any price, and they might need something or someone.

Fred was just looking over at the other guys. Cursing, Davis yanked and tugged at the stiff hose, all curled up around his feet and kinking and moving on its own volition seemingly, as he gave the pink, fleshy-coloured thing another downward pull and a cloud of dust came down in his lap.

His helper Johnson caught Fred’s eye and he giggled like a schoolgirl. He winked at Fred. That’s when he put the end of the three-inch vacuum hose up to Davis’s crotch area. It snapped on with a sick gulping sound and the sounds in the room quickly went up to a higher wavelength.

That’s when they learned nine hundred pounds of vacuum pressure on a black plastic corrugated hose could suck a man’s guts right out of him in no time flat.

Davis was already dead by the time his face jerked down, as white in the gills and big in the eyes as any man ever seen before or since. His arms fell way from the snake, which hung motionless. His mouth was a big round ‘O.’ Johnson stopped laughing, yanked the hose aside in a pink cloud of nameless goo, flung it behind him, and then put his hands up to his mouth. The spreading red stain on the middle of Davis’s white coveralls, right in between the legs, began to drip and flow. No one said a word. Lloyd’s back was turned anyway. He didn’t know what was going on.

But Davis was already dead as he settled slowly backwards off of his perch, holding onto the middle of what was left of him, and making loud rasping sounds, the noise of his falling imperceptible in the roar and whine of the tools.

It just took a while to figure it out.


***



Friday, June 7, 2013

How to blog actively.

Analytics are free with Blogger.





In the last twelve months this blog has received about 64,000 readers using the principles of active blogging, which I define as reposting it on a number of social platforms, rather than just writing something and waiting for the readers to discover it. I rarely worry about the small number of actual followers.

Principles of Active Blogging.

Another principle is regular blogging, and a third aspect of it is audience-building. The blog should have as much original, unique content as the writer can create, and it helps to stay on topic and avoid the more virulent rants although the writer should have something to say.

There should be some deep and fundamental message overall from your work, which will mean that your blog is greater than the sum of all its parts when taken as a whole, an ongoing work of performance art that can outlive its maker. Your personality should be stamped all over it. What is the theme of your blog?

In the article on Active versus Passive Blogging, I mention Squidoo and Hubpages. I haven’t been there in a while. First, with a free account you rarely get any analytics. I have no idea how many people read them, and in order to build up an audience you need some feedback. Also, it’s probably better to focus on one or a small number of platforms and find out what works. Then the knowledge can be applied to any platform. This is what I call Experiments in Publishing, where I talk about measuring results and keeping an open mind more than anything. It’s about constantly trying new things and discarding that which clearly doesn’t work.

Search Engine Optimization

The simplest things you can do about SEO includes a good title. The title should be matched in terms of key words in the first line, within the body of your text, and in the tags. The search engine bots look for key words. Original content is better than a quick paragraph linked to other people’s material, a sterile sort of writing that is effective at SEO and simple page-hits, but disappointing to the reader who searched for the information with some good reason in mind. You have wasted their time in a quick grab for page-hits and that comes across just fine to the readers.

Common hallmarks of an SEO optimized story are little headings—you can use them too, things like lists in bullet-point, because search engines don’t analyze style. SEO-type articles often lead you off to much better stories when you click on the links. I use SEO principles, but not to the exclusion of new, original, and if you don’t mind my saying so, superior content. I say that because I have done this and received these results. I have made myself an ‘authority’ in certain subjects. It takes time and application. How-to articles on anything you are good at make for excellent, search-engine friendly stories because there is always someone looking it up online.

This morning I got up and had breakfast and then my mom called and we talked for fifteen minutes, and then I made a cake.

On bakery, and all things foible.

How to make a devil’s food cake.

If someone needs to know how to make a devil’s food cake, what key words are they most likely to type into their search field? Simple and specific is good.

Here is an example of a good story written with SEO principles in mind, but also with an eye to what someone might actually want to read for its own sake. Look at the title, the tags, and the content of Zach Neal's story, 'Ontario has Natural and Historical Diversity.' The funny thing is, it doesn’t look like an SEO article. What it has is unique content, with a unique combination of elements—pictures, trees, animals, rivers, streams, and personal anecdotes. At least one picture is required to post anything on a site like Pinterest, yet bloggers constantly post stuff without a picture at all. Most of them have cameras on their phones if nothing else. Morguefile has thousands of free images. All you have to do is crop it and you can use it anywhere, (read the license.)

Goals.

The blog should have a clear goal. If you want to blog and be read by as many people as possible, that represents a goal. If I want my blog to be read because it helps people to discover my books, then the goal is slightly more complex, but it’s still a clear and resonant goal. One might judge this blog a failure because it’s not getting a million hits a year. But judging by previous performance, about 5,900 views in four years or so, it’s clearly well on the way to success. In ten years, at the present rate, I would have 700,000 hits on a free, ‘amateur’ blog. If I want more hits, I can do a number of things. I can post it on more platforms, I can write more often, I can write more focused material, and of course I can keep building up that audience on Twitter, Facebook, etc. I can interact more, which results in retweets and re-posting by others. People will pin my stuff on Pinterest and bring it to their own unique audience.

Are you too passive in your blogging? (Adjitize.net.)

This story was published at lunch hour, and will be posted to a half dozen major social platforms. A blog with ten entries carries less weight than one with hundreds, and over time this has an effect as well. It helps to develop a core readership who will come back for a read time and time again.

END

Monday, June 3, 2013

Depression: Night and Day.

The thousand-yard stare.





The difference between a normal mood and depression is like night and day.

A buddy posted the following link on Facebook, and while I’m sure he meant well, it kind of sent me into a tailspin of depression that has lasted close to three weeks now. Anyhow, thanks for the heads-up.

It’s all about the provincial government stealing $469.00 a month from the disabled and putting them out into the streets. (Toronto Star.) 

And the list of symptoms on Wikipedia is bang-on. 

“Life events and changes that may precipitate depressed mood include childbirth, menopause, (or andropause, as I will be 54 this summer,) financial difficulties, job problems, relationship troubles, separation, bereavement and catastrophic injury...” (Like when you fall from a scaffold and break your back in three places, which ensures a life sentence of poverty, pain and suffering.)

And society’s biggest priority is to label you something other than an injured worker, too many of whom end up on disability or welfare, homeless and on the streets. Injured workers deserve justice—now we can’t have that, can we? Justice costs money after all.

Here’s an interesting perspective; is it terrorism/ Or is it just mental illness? (Psychology Today.)

Beating depression without the use of drugs: yes, and I hope you sell a lot of books, too. (Guardian.)

Why antidepressants don’t work. (Huffington Post.)

I know this to be true, as I was on Ativan, (Larazepam) for seven years. The withdrawal was sheer hell, and I weaned myself off of them over the course of some months. Even then, it was like my skin was crawling for about the next three and a half years, and there was a temptation to go back on it, if only for a little while, if only to get some relief. Long-term use leads to further psychotic effects. That’s because anxiety and depression can only be squelched for so long, and something has to give. Something will trigger it, and give rise to an expression of it. Of course, after relying on the dope for so long, I really didn’t have any coping skills. I had to learn some new ones. Just to warm the cockles of the bourgeoisie, you should know that they prescribe this shit like candy in our nation's jails. But of course, it doesn't work. Also, it increases psychosis, including paranoia and agression. Also, it's very cheap and the docs get a kickback. They have a vested interest, just as anyone working in the industry, to ensure the problem of crime never goes away. And they'll have jobs for life. They can buy nice big houses and live in calm and sequestered dignity.

The depression would be bad enough without the aggression, the irritability, the inability to do any work at all, even work I once enjoyed. That attack-dog syndrome is hard on the self-esteem, for we over-react to almost any provocation, and we live in provocative times. Naturally, we feel like shit afterwards.

The only good thing I can say about depression is the contrast. When it’s over you know it’s over. When other people are having a normal day, you feel fantastic—because you’re not depressed anymore. The difference is that vivid.

***

This may not help, but I wrote something about depression a long time ago. It’s a poem of sorts.



What about depression?

Give us your first impression

***

It hits like a physical blow

One is aware, that it will eventually go

But there is nothing else that you can do

In the meantime.

You can’t smile, you can’t laugh

No matter how funny the joke is

You feel a sense of shame

Because you cannot control

The way your face goes

It seems to be triggered;

A responsive phenomena

The switch

Into manic, sudden and intense

Uncomfortable, yet fantastic

You don’t need heroin when you’re manic

Like you could almost climb Mount Everest—

If you felt like it. But that’s for insecure people.

Ah! If only there were time. Still, while it lasts…

Seems like nothing and no one can touch you

Those are the really precious times, for it ends too soon.

But it’s when you are normal

Whatever that word defines

Trying to level out, all the peaks and valleys,

That’s what it’s all about

It’s the only true perspective

Now I must go forth, unto the grocery store

Get while the getting’s good; for after all

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

While I still have a sense of self esteem.

And anybody that don’t like that can bite me.


END

Friday, May 31, 2013

Dependence and Coercion.

Photo by Virginia Reza (Wiki Commons.)






I was standing out in front of the food bank, waiting for the doors to open, when the cops drove by. It’s the same thing every time, and it got me thinking.

"...there is a strong correlation between intolerance and insecurity..." - Patterns of Dominance, Phillip Mason.

In terms of context, Mason is speaking of the image of the Indian, subject to both social dependence and coercion in the past.

At first, the fur traders lived among them, and saw them as indispensible for the trade. When settlers displaced the fur trade, attitudes changed. Native Canadians were in the way of agricultural development. Settlers had gone through a social upheaval, having immigrated from another country, in search of fortune—a kind of social mobility promised by cheap land and a chance to be independent. They were scared, they had heard all kinds of lurid accounts of native Canadians, and they saw what they expected to see.

Extrapolating from that, the same attitudes apply to other minorities, and it holds true today in terms of attitudes towards Muslims, recipients of social assistance, the disabled, gays, you name it. It applies in a kind of universal social law. It is almost as if the insecure need to reassure themselves that they are in fact superior to someone else. They are in the process of improving their social status, with its concomitant rewards of better food, better housing, better educational prospects for their children.

Like the natives in the fur trade, a disabled person is someone who is not useful in society. They have become a burden, an impediment to progress and 'prosperity for all.'

ODSP Reform.

Is the government serious about ODSP reform? I think it's a scare tactic--a form of coercion. The object was to scare the disabled into shutting up about our very reasonable demands for social equity.

In situations of dependence, there is very often a kind of coercion to be found.

Battered women are unable to leave the abusive relationship for any number of reasons. The spouse is a good provider. There is a kind of security in the relationship, it doesn’t happen all the time, and perhaps the victim is afraid of repercussions. They find a way to justify it, for the price of leaving may be very high. There is extortion, often something held over their heads, anything from custody of the children, to threats of murder, other forms of blackmail, or in some cases it’s just the constant battering of the victim’s self-esteem that renders them unable to act effectively on their own. The abusive partner has defined them, and after a while, the victim knows who they are and is no longer able to resist. The abusive spouse gets a domestic and sexual slave—their motivation is much clearer.

Don't let others define you.

That’s why it’s so important to set our own agendas, not to accept someone else’s terms of reference or definitions. Obviously this can be very difficult for a victim whose personal resources, especially of the inner, moral kind, are at low ebb. They have been broken down.

When you think of Canada’s native peoples, the same principles apply. In spite of reputed efforts of government after government, native peoples have never been assimilated into mainstream Canadian society. Over time, all immigrant groups have successfully done so.

Are native Canadians somehow ‘different?’ They didn’t even have to immigrate. They start off right here at home.

Or were they just trained differently, over the course of several generations?

Outstanding issues of historical redress, land claims issues and the like are never resolved, and yet decades and centuries have gone by. And native stereotypes persist—the drunken Indian image, the criminal cigarette-smuggler image. The masked warrior at Oka image, the image of a people who are four times more likely to end up in jail compared to ‘regular’ Canadians sort of image…for surely it works both ways and can be twisted back and forth to suit the prejudice of the beholder.

Natives still live on reservations. For our society to give up that reservation mentality, would be very difficult after all this time. It is seen as the natural thing to do. It has become accepted. And in some ways, native Canadians themselves don’t want to give up those reservations, because they are a symbol, and the land they hold is all that is left of their heritage in the material sense. This is an oversimplification, but it has been accepted by both sides of the equation for too long.

People are sometimes marginalized for sound economic policy.

One of the reasons Ontario’s disabled people are afraid to speak out strongly about social equity is because they fear repercussions, reprisals against them, and of course they are dependent on the largesse of the taxpayers. This may seem irrational, but a captive audience can be made to believe anything, even things they knew to be untrue before being exposed to long-term propaganda. Luckily, a lot of disabled people used to have jobs, used to have homes, and had independence of their own. They remember the higher social status, and how there were treated before becoming dependent on the government and the taxpayers.

Negotiating social order.

Negotiating social order and the equitable redistribution of wealth, important in any state, also takes experience at communication, and many disabled aren’t particularly well-educated. It takes self-confidence to present an effective argument. Where would they acquire such self-confidence?

In my personal experience, self-confidence stems not from success so much, but in surviving defeat. Your experience may vary, but it stems from perseverance, and a strong faith in oneself. It stems from a strong sense of self-worth.

No supernatural causes.

When I became an atheist, there were no longer any external reference points for making moral judgments. It all had to come from within. It turns out I’m a pretty good guy, and this when there are no supernatural causes in this universe.

Our attitudes and prejudices are ingrained into us from a very early age. I had a Catholic education, for what it’s worth, and I watched all the same TV shows and read all the same books as the reader probably did. I went to the same schools and played in the same little-league sports.

It would cost money to provide jobs, it costs money to make public and private buildings wheelchair accessible, it costs money to train unskilled people in the sort of skilled occupations that would be appropriate to someone with a given disability. It’s cheaper to keep them at home, although the government never admits that. Society in general, and intolerant people in particular prefer to think of the disabled as criminals, mentally ill, dependent children with no thoughts or minds of their own. Lazy and useless people who don’t want to work. We get paid to sit around and do nothing. I’ve heard that one a million times.

We are all retarded in the view of some people. And retarded people don't have an opinion.

'Surely there must be something you can do.'

Mental illness can make a person unemployable. This is an unpalatable thought for some. Yet the very same folks, if they knew a job applicant suffered from depression or schizophrenia, wouldn’t hire them. They wouldn’t be willing to take a chance on them, even as they were telling the victim of this discrimination, ‘Surely there must be something you can do.”

I throw the words right back into your face.

“Surely there must be something you can do.” And there is—you just don’t want to do it.

Surely most if not all disabled people would prefer to be self-sufficient. Have you ever wondered what would happen if someone actually succeeded, and got off of ODSP? Under the terms and provisions of the ODSP guidelines, recipients can be asked to pay back benefits. When you think in terms of a single person who might have been on benefits for ten years, that would be well over $120,000. That’s a pretty daunting prospect for someone who might be barely keeping their head above water on some minimum-wage job, and it’s still daunting even if they had the great good fortune to bag employment as a pension administrator at $70,000 per annum.

Let’s be clear: it would be hard for the average Canadian bourgeois family, with a household income of $150,000 a year, because after all, they still want a roof over their heads, they’ll need transportation to and from work, then there’s food, fuel, insurance…the list is long. The point is, that repayment of benefits is not only punitive—a kind of coercion—and an obvious disincentive to succeed at anything. It is essentially restitution—a criminal paying back the proceeds of a crime to the courts, and of course a very small percentage of that would end up in the victim’s pocket. That’s because administration costs are everything in such situations.

Self-sufficiency is a key element in personal well-being.
While this theory speaks about Imperialism or colonialism, there are certain parallels.

Coercion theory.

Coercion diplomacy.

***

Kenneth Coates, from Best Left as Indians, on the police administration of welfare in the Yukon.

“Relief, or welfare, has long been the government program most readily associated with Indians.
A myth developed in the 1900-1950 period, and persists today, concerning the natives' reaction to the availability of relief. The standard account is that the Indians readily surrendered to the convenience of government assistance, abandoning more rigourous pursuits in favour of supplication at the Indian Agent's table. Those administering the relief program in the territory almost universally shared this belief, and their attitudes played a major role in shaping the program. As the Yukon experience demonstrates, that image was a misleading portrayal of native interest in government handouts.

Federal authorities initially refused to accept any obligation for native suffering, doggedly maintaining that the arrival of the white man had been of considerable benefit to the Indians.

Faced with the potential starvation of a small band of Indians at Moosehide in 1900, the government finally acted.

N.W.M.P. Inspector Z. Wood of Dawson authorized immediate distribution of food to alleviate the crisis, only applying for official permission after the fact.

The government insisted that ‘whenever possible the Indians should be required to perform labour or supply game, skins or other commodities in return for the provisions issued to them.’

In the short term, however, police officers were enjoined to ‘provide against anything like destitution.’

From 1900 onward, the government provided parsimonious relief assistance to those truly in need. Few took up the offer however, limiting the welfare rolls to a small number of widowed, aged or infirm natives.

The relief system was occasionally required to respond to more widespread destitution, as occurred in 1905 near McQuesten and 1912 in the southern Yukon, when game stocks unexpectedly proved insufficient. While few came forward to claim these fruits of the government's munificence, the police officials in charge of the program before 1914 believed that the availability of relief rendered the Indians graceless supplicants.

As the Commanding Officer of the Whitehorse Detachment commented in 1908, ‘It is evident that the government assistance given to sick and destitute Indians at Whitehorse is most injurious to the well being and morale of the Indians.’

He then proceeded to ascribe alcohol abuse, prostitution and general laziness to the ‘pernicious effect’ of relief. As a counter-measure, the police imposed controlling mechanisms to protect against abuse. Inspector Horrigan noted in 1912 that ‘young husky Indians asking for provisions were asked to split some stove wood. Needless to say in every case they found that after all they did not require provisions. This plan has worked admirably in weeding out the undeserving cases.’

Those in need found assistance from the government but, self-righteously convinced that the Indians were inveterate malingerers, police officers closely regulated their disbursements.”

***

Hopefully the reader will bear in mind that the police administration of welfare was the cheapest option. Acting quickly in an emergency was the right thing to do. Over the long term, the police probably hated the duty.

The infrastructure, such as it was, was already in place. Also, welfare, while it is social assistance, is not a disability pension. By definition, the recipient is able to work. What is interesting in Coates’ story is that the natives were reluctant to accept subsistence except when it was strictly necessary for survival, and an ‘entitlement mentality,’ if I may call it that, simply did not develop.

Anybody that doesn’t think subsistence—food, shelter or clothing, can be used in a coercive manner has never told their kid that if they don’t behave, they won’t get any desert. In other words, it’s bullshit.

Best Left as Indians, Kenneth Coates

Ontario’s disabled, the mentally ill and working poor families are lining up at food banks three or four times a month. Why is that?