In Clio I Trust

What first attracted me to history was the ability to trace humanity’s path throughout the ages, and thus get a greater appreciation of how we ended up in our current situation. As much as the study of history is often chided by numerophiles the world over, it lies at the essence of human existence and attempts to answer our deepest questions. Perhaps the greatest question of all time, “what is the origin or life and how did we get here,” is at its core a historical question. In order to accurately answer it we might require science, but it a science of the past. Suffice it to say I have always thought that history has a great deal to teach us, and is a worthy component of the study of any subject.

Before reading Clio in the Clinic by Jaqueline Duffin, my interpretation of adding historical study to all disciplines was along the lines of approaching the study of that discipline from a historical perspective. It was not, as the contributors of Clio in the Clinic chose, the application of a historian’s techniques and practices to the practice of medicine. Having become aware of this alternate interdisciplinary approach as it applied to medical practice, I realized that I had been a proponent of it for years, only in a slightly different context. One of my favourite professors—who grew up in Communist Poland and frequently related his misadventures (perhaps why I enjoyed his lectures so much)—told us one day that students who graduated with history degrees were often recruited by the KGB and the secret police. Turns out the wily commies appreciated the transferable skills of a historian: research, attention to detail, and above all,  the innate practice to always account for the source of the information.

Each article in Duffin’s book points to a different attribute that history had taught him or her, and illustrates how the application of this attribute to the medical practice resulted in better patient care. Often this came from the practitioner's belief in the past as a valuable source of information, both with regard to patient histories, but also through the examination of diseases that has long ago ceased to make the faintest of blips on a physician's radar. As I was reading through the various case stories I realized that these were the types of doctors I would want to be my health care providers; then I realized that it was their thoroughness, attention to detail, analytical skills--in short those qualities they shared with historians--that so appealed to me with respect to their clinical ability. And thus I realized that I trust historians: I trust their ability to dig to the bottom of a pile of evidence for the truth, I trust their inherent objectivity, and I trust their unique ability to admit error when they are wrong. Part of this is probably a sense of pride for my former discipline, but at least some of it comes from the knowledge that history is a good teacher, whether we listen to her or not, and that the lessons she has to teach us are as never ending as time itself.

Middlesex Lite: An Identity Crisis of Smaller Proportions

Normally when I've really enjoy reading a book it turns out that I was able to really relate to one of the main characters, an element of the plot, or the setting. Although I delighted in reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, I was hard pressed to pin-point exactly what part of a story about the coming-of-age of an American hermaphrodite I connected with. It was a few days later when I realized that even though I wasn't forced to come to terms with being a hermaphrodite as a teen and young adult, like everyone else I know there were still physical and psychological aspects of my personality that were at times difficult to digest. So while my personal story was definitely less novel-worth than Callie/Cal Stephanides, I certainly underwent an identity challenge of my own.

In adolescence I struggled with the usual angst that has been overdone by Hollywood since the dawn of film: identity, relationships, popularity, clothes, skin, etc. But it is only with the clarity that comes from hindsight that I've been able to place the deeper source of my uneasiness as a teen and early 20-something: my health. Almost like Callie was oblivious to the fact that her hermaphroditism was the source of her relationship difficulties, I was unaware of the psychological impact my problems were having on me. Unable to properly accept my condition, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, a problem that I now attribute to the fact that no counseling was given to me to help adjust to what was a remarkable burden initially handed to me as a 10-year old.

Even today I struggle to accept that this is the way I am. While I uphold very few pretenses about my personality, looks, or general outlook on issues (as anyone who has spent much time with me will know) I am yet to come to terms with my physical condition and stop trying to "fake it." In an almost asinine effort to pretend that my problems don't exist, I regularly challenge my body to accomplish what it literally cannot in an effort to not succumb to my own limitations. Despite the logical reasoning of my brain, it seems I can't fight off the baser instincts to do what I want and be limited by no man except my own imagination.

So what did Middlesex mean to me? Well, for one, it was a killer read, and I thoroughly enjoyed being immersed not only into the life of a character struggling through such an interesting biology, but the sweeping depictions of World War I-era Anatolia and middle-twentieth century Detroit pandered to the historian in me. But on the more serious note I have been talking about in this post, Middlesex showed me that whatever our struggle is, and we all have one, everything is a lifelong journey, and it is naive of me to think I should be over it by now. As the various present-day segments of the book show, Cal is still struggling to figure out his own sexuality and sexual interactions. Perhaps this whole notion of teenage angst is not so "teenage" after all: while there are certainly extra pressures during that time of our lives, I don't think that it is something we can ever grow out of. Life will always have problems, and those problems will always gnaw away at us in one way or another. Perhaps like the fictional Cal we should write a memoir about it. Or perhaps we should just keep on keepin' on, comforted by the knowledge that figuring all this out is the stuff life is made of.

Moose and Financial Regulation?

Everyone knows you aren't supposed to judge a book by its cover, but no such rule exists for titles. Recently, on an unrelated book search, I came across a UTP book creatively titled Moose Pastures and Mergers by Christopher Armstrong. I was immediately interested in finding out exactly what a scholarly contribution on moose pastures would entail. However, a quick glance at the subtitle, The Ontario Securities Commission and the Regulation of Share Markets in Canada, 1940-1980, informed me that the topic of the book wasn't quite what the title initially suggested. Far from turning me off the subject (finance and economics have never been my chosen interests), I became even more interested in learning how such disparate topics as moose pastures and financial regulation were related.

As it turns out, 'moose pastures' is a term that was given to the barren land of the Precambrian Shield that was fraudulently pitched to the public as a sound investment for mineral prospecting. This type of deception, resulting from false and misleading claims, had become so problematic by the 1950s that the Ontario Securities Commission was under increased pressure to protect would-be investors. However, as Armstrong illustrates, despite the best intentions, the OSC ended up being hindered by the same folkloric beliefs as the prospectors: the notion that the most significant discoveries were made by independent prospectors, and that buying penny shares in such ventures offered the ordinary investor the best opportunity for huge returns. As a result, the OSC always fell short of offering share holders the depth of protection they so clearly needed.

As Armstrong transitions to the second half of the book, which deals with the wave of corporate mergers in the 60s and 70s, the overall theme of how best to regulate the market becomes increasingly evident. During this period law makers were faced with the unenviable task of finding a happy medium between the expansionist desires of brokers and companies on the one hand, and the protective needs of public on the other. The former felt that the only acceptable form of regulation was self-regulation, whereas the latter sought tougher rules to protect them from the aftermath of incidents such as the Windfall Mines affair of 1964, in which numerous stocks were sold at inflated prices only to discover that the proposed land had no significant quantities of any minerals. As Armstrong continually demonstrates, with both moose pasture shares and mergers, the OSC was forced to balance the capitalistic demands of big business and investors' desire for financial security.

Although these events happened roughly 50 years ago, the decisions made by the OSC and various other government and regulatory bodies have had a profound effect on the investment practices of today; doubts about the virtues of self-regulation grew through the 1970s and to this day investor protection remains an important principle of securities regulation. With almost uncanny foresight, Armstrong also commented on some of the financial complexities that are all too familiar to us now: "the complexities of 'hedges' and 'index funds' are such that compelling full disclosure about a mining claim or a takeover bid may seem almost simple by comparison." Perhaps in light of the recent financial meltdown and current backlash against new financial regulations, the cases presented in Moose Pastures and Mergers are of even greater relevance now than when the book was originally published.

Three Cups for Peace

Everyone has heard the claim that religion is the root of all war. While I don't wholly agree, I do think there is no doubting that religion is very often one of the major factors in war. The problem with that conclusion is that it is an oversimplification of very complex problems. The extremist religious convictions that call for violent solutions to ideological problems do not just emerge fully formed from sacred scriptures. Regardless of what an ancient text dictates, few people will blindly risk their lives without the presence of other conditions such as poverty and indoctrination. In the case of northern Pakistan, poverty prevents villages from building schools, which allows the Saudi-backed madrassas to easily swoop in and educate young men in a culture of extremism and jihad.

In the West we are currently engaged in two wars with the aim of stopping militant Islam and bringing democracy to the Muslim world. Yet, progress, if any, has been slow and debatable, and much evidence lends credence to the argument that combat in Afghanistan and Iraq has only strengthened terrorist organizations. So, what then is the solution? We have used our might, and the results have not been strong enough to keep public opinion in favour of armed combat. Perhaps, instead of trying to force our ideology on an impoverished uneducated population, with centuries of history behind them to warrant a lack of trust, we should look instead at fixing the root causes of anti-Western hostilities.

Having recently read the amazing book Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin, I couldn't believe in this approach more. Greg's work as the founder and director of the Central Asian Institute over the past decade and a half has resulted in the creation of 78 schools throughout the remote regions of northern Pakistan and Afghanistan. As a result, children have access to education, which can allow them not only to improve their lives financially, but to learn the basic critical thinking skills necessary to reject extremism. Most importantly, from a world-relations perspective, Greg's work has given a face of peace and acceptance a region that tends to only encounter westerners from the other end of a pointed gun. In my humble opinion, this has done far more to bring peace and prosperity to the region than war ever could.

The title of the book is based on a Balti proverb: "The first time you share tea with a Balti, you are a stranger. The second time you take tea, you are an honored guest. The third time you share a cup of tea, you become family." I would like to rework that proverb to express the role learning can have on promoting peace: "The first time you read, you are a beginner. The second time you read, you are educated. The third time you read, you are enlightened."