2000-09-29 - 13:43:02
The Broken-Hearted Giant

The Broken-Hearted Giant

I grew up hating Pierre Elliott Trudeau, Canada's 15th Prime Minister. You see, my family was staunchly Conservative; Trudeau's Liberal government was anathema to them and thus to me.

His retirement from politics in 1984 coincided with my entry into university and my gradual awakening of a more left-leaning political consciousness. I became involved in the peace and nuclear disarmament movement, a lifelong passion of Trudeau's; two years later, I came out as a gay man. My perspective on many of Trudeau's policies and beliefs changed.

So that his death last night, aged 80, has put me in a quiet, sad and reflective space. Pierre Trudeau was a political giant, an enigmatic, sexy and fiercely intellectual human being. He will be missed.

I remember his controversial legislation in the late 60s--when he was Justice Minister--to overturn the ban on gay sex. "The state has no place in the bedrooms of the nation," was his famous remark. Indeed.

I remember his pirouette behind the Queen.

I remember him telling some opposition politician to "fuck off" in the House of Commons; when confronted by the Speaker on this profanity, he insisted that he'd said "fuddle duddle".

I remember his dizzying array of celebrity girlfriends: Barbara Streisand, Liona Boyd, I forget who else.

I remember, fondly, his frequent clashes with Ronald Reagan over nuclear proliferation and commie-bashing.

I remember his short-lived marriage to Margaret Sinclair, the three sons they bore, her nervous breakdown, their separation kicked off by her orgiastic weekend with the Rolling Stones.

I remember his fiery eyes.

I remember his siring of a son--while Trudeau was in his early 70s--for an attractive young Liberal party friend who simply wanted his genes.

I remember his grief, two years ago, when his youngest son Michel was tragically killed in an avalanche. How moving it was to see he and Margaret, their two other (gorgeous!) sons, clinging together tearfully on their way out of the funeral.

Pierre Trudeau fought many battles, and won most of them; he lost the battle against that grief. By all accounts, he was inconsolable at the loss of his son, his health declining rapidly until his death yesterday.

Which brings me to my most visceral memory of the man. A few months after Michel's death, I dreamt about Pierre Elliott Trudeau. I was sitting in a hotel meeting room, and there he was beside me, muted with sadness. His silent grief was a wall around him; I couldn't think of anything to say, so I sat quietly, soaking in his black aura.

Today, I remember his controversial, debatable legacy to Canada and the world. The feisty, extraordinary strength of the politician and statesman.

But most of all, I remember that a brilliant, powerful man has died of a broken heart.

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