Pop 89: Is There Movement?
By Madonna Hamel
It’s always irked me in literature and writing classes when a prof would insist that every story must have conflict. We were expected to spot the conflict before we even got into the craft of the writing. Maybe I liked the way a character spoke, or a scene unfolded, or a tone was set, yet I was told that what was holding me for over a hundred pages was tension, conflict, an us vs. them scenario. We had to identify the primary conflict: man vs. man, man vs. nature, or man vs. himself? (It was all “man” in those days.)
No wonder the world is in so much trouble; we are tuned to spot the differences, not the similarities. I get it—nothing happens til something happens. Or, as Einstein once said: Nothing happens til something moves. There’s also the AA slogan: Nothing changes til something changes. And my favourite variation: Nothing changes until it becomes real.
And yes—in this world of matter and physical reality, conflict is unavoidable. So, perhaps what irks me is the need, in so many contemporary stories, for conflict to be something HUGE and threatening. For overblown struggles ending up in desecrations of character, person, and place. Sometimes conflict is simply: movement. Every story must have movement. Just by virtue of living on planet Earth, movement is inevitable.
Even the friction of the body against atmosphere as it moves through a room creates conflict. And while that might sound like a boring plotline—consider the tension in the goal of that person crossing the room. What if they are crippled and suddenly, against all odds and belief systems, become suddenly able to walk? What if that person was a woman with whom the main character was hopelessly smitten—and she was headed in his direction? And what if she hadn’t eaten all day and was now at her friend’s party and there was a cheese tray at the other end of the room, and she just wanted to get there before the toast ended, before everyone else made a beeline for the cheese?
Conflict, says my friend Helen, who gives workshops in handling conflict, is unavoidable. It’s life. So how do we name it and spot it in our everyday experiences? Stay tuned for that because she’s going to give me a private tutoring session. But, as conflict pertains to telling stories to others, I want to be sure not to make the focus, trajectory, and goal of my stories on retelling and prolonging tensions between people. Because that’s just gossip. And, as Pope Francis once said: gossip is a form of terrorism.
However, I don’t call catching up on the news of the neighbourhood gossip. And there’s no better place for that than a community lunch over at Palais Royale—the town hall—after a village event, be it wedding, funeral, or, in this case, a Remembrance Day ceremony.
Last Tuesday I barely made it to the post office in time to join the procession to the cenotaph. Every year I join wreath-bearers with a wreath of my own for my uncles who served in the air force. Maurice and Philippe Laprise were my mom’s brothers; they lived on a farm north of town. The family home still exists, but it’s collapsed into itself.
I had been to emergency the night before to make sure the lightning strikes in my right eye weren’t a sign of retinal detachment. I had yet to make sandwiches for the Remembrance Day luncheon. (For some reason, women are asked to make a loaf of sandwiches or a pan of squares, but the men get away with a jar of pickles.)
I got up early to prepare the sandwiches when I realized I didn't have any mayo. I ran across town to borrow some and rushed back, made the sandwiches, and changed into something respectful for the ceremony, always remembering to wear the poppy red beret and scarf knit by my Val Marie friend Pat. That’s when I realized I’d been gifted many homemade vestments from local friends. I held up Jacquie’s shimmering grey scarf, made as a thank-you for the time I sat by Ervin Sr.’s bedside at the hospital til his daughters arrived. And there are Judith’s heavy-duty mittens, guaranteed to prevent freezing on the coldest of days—which is often the case on November 11. Not to mention the house slippers knit in my favourite colours by Betty. Each gift has a story, but the only conflict is deciding which to wear.
This year our procession was led by Constable Wayne Swaby. “Rhymes with baby,” he said, as I jotted down his name. Hanging around the coffee urn, we talked about his twenty-odd years of service. He told me Val Marie’s is by far his favourite ceremony. “First of all, you hold it outside. Nobody does that any more. And it’s really important to have the march down the centre of main street. And the flags on flagpoles. And this year, you had the bagpipes.” “I cried,” I said. “I tried not to,” he admitted.
Talking about bagpipes can create conflict, even if it’s internal. We have to struggle to hold it together in a crowd. Or, in my case, let the tears fall. “Your full regalia really makes a difference. Adds gravitas,” I said. “Yeah, well. We gotta keep up the tradition,” he replied. “You know, there are some people who don’t want us to do this ceremony any more. Guess you’d call them left wingers?” More internal conflict. Do I want to get into it? I thought. No. We are here to remember those who fought and fell in hellish, bloody conflicts. We don’t need to overshadow their sacrifices with our petty, partisan sniping.
Perhaps a good story does need conflict. But sometimes to conflict is just movement, enough movement to be touched, moved by the lives and stories of others. To be moved is movement enough.