Warren Kinsella

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Trudeau

In November 1982, a hundred lifetimes ago, I was a student at Carleton University’s School of Journalism, and a member of the editorial staff at the Charlatan, the school paper. I was also a Pierre Trudeau Liberal.

Although journalists - and journalism students - are supposed to be scrupulously neutral, I was then (as now) decidedly partisan. I could not help myself. I had grown up in Calgary, and was drawn to the Liberal Party because I believed (as I do now) that only a strong central government could serve as an effective bulwark against Quebec nationalism. Back then, only Mr. Trudeau’s party possessed the necessary fortitude and conviction to confront Quebecois secessionists, I thought.

The xenophobia manifesting itself in the burgeoning Western separatist movement also nudged me towards the Liberals. At the time, legitimate concerns about the National Energy Program were degenerating into a morass of anti-French, anti-immigrant, anti-Eastern bigotry. Among the nation’s political leaders, only Mr. Trudeau seemed capable of making the case for federalism.

And so, there I was, 22 years old, representing the Charlatan at the Liberal Party’s biennial convention in Ottawa. While a card-carrying Liberal.

On the day set aside for a speech by Mr. Trudeau, a fellow journalism student and I were loitering in a hallway at Hull’s cavernous Palais du Congres. My friend, named Michael Galway, was a gregarious Newfoundlander. I think he was probably a Liberal, too, but I cannot say for sure.

In any event, as we were chatting with a couple of elderly women - also from Newfoundland - a huge commotion could be heard in the vicinity of the escalators. In moments, Michael and I spotted a mass of klieg lights, reporters and camera men (they were all men, in those days) coming our way. At the centre of it all - at the centre of the scrum, as we had been taught to call it - was Pierre Elliott Trudeau, the Prime Minister of Canada. Him.

Without any warning, Michael Galway and I and the two women were abruptly at the centre of the scrum. And there, standing not very tall at all, was Mr. Trudeau. Grinning at us, as if he were not surrounded by dozens of lights and lenses and lackeys, when he in fact was.

“Hello,” said Mr. Trudeau.

Now, in the intervening years, I have met - and worked for - many political leaders. Other prime ministers, along with a long list of cabinet ministers, party bosses, senators, premiers, mayors, city councillors. And in all of that time, I cannot recall anything similar to what happened when I met Pierre Trudeau. And what happened is this: everything - and I mean everything - seemed to be focussed, entirely and properly, upon and within a single man. The air, the sounds, the lights - all were right where I was looking. And where I was looking was at Mr. Trudeau.

Like all Newfoundlanders, Mike Galway had a greater facility with language than I. He didn’t miss a beat, and immediately assumed the role of a tour director. “Mr. Trudeau,” he said in the lilt he had, “here are two very nice Liberal women from Newfoundland who wish to meet you.”

Trudeau laughed, a bit, and graciously shook the hands of the women, both of whom were gushing and blushing. Then Michael Galway pointed at me. “And over there is my friend Warren, who is from Calgary, but is a Liberal, too. He worships the ground you walk on!”

I was mortified - horrified - that Galway had said what he said. While all of it was true, I didn’t think an intellectual giant like Pierre Elliott Trudeau would have much use for a political groupie. But he gave me a minute or two, which at the time seemed an eternity. “So you are a Liberal and Calgarian,” he said to me. “We need more like you.”

I cannot remember what I said, but I know it was not very clever. It was probably some strangled attempt at thanks.

He moved on, trailing lights and journalists. I punched a laughing Michael Galway in the shoulder.

Every so often - when something like Meech Lake inflicts itself on the public agenda, or when a political dwarf like Stockwell Day somehow does similarly - I remember that day in November 1982 when Michael Galway and I met Pierre Trudeau. And I marvel that such a giant of a man could have existed, let alone as Canada’s Prime Minister.

Just a couple weeks ago at lunch, I tried out my Pierre Trudeau theory on Richard Gwyn, the author of the best biography of the man. Mr. Trudeau was, I told Mr. Gwyn, someone who we all aspired to - he was cosmopolitan, and bilingual, and almost other-worldly. He made us feel that we were capable of greatness, notwithstanding our comparative size and meagre global influence. We embraced him, in a way, because he was unlike us. Because he embodied the things we wished to achieve for ourselves, and our children.

“Not a bad theory,” said Mr. Gwyn, who was too polite to remind me that I was not the first to think of it.

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