I'm an 'anomolly'

That's what Wendy just labellled me on MSN Instant Messenger. I asked her if that was her way of calling me an effeminate anomaly, my typically gentle way of pointing out her awful spelling. She said yes, because she's probably too drunk by this time of the evening to think of a comeback.

Some people who don't understand what's important in life protest that I am overly fixated on spelling and grammar. Spelling is strongly correlated with intelligence, so I can understand how this subject causes impatience and agitation. I was chastized last weekend for pointing out to a waiter that a menu contained two completely unacceptable apostrophes, placed before the final letters of 'entrees' and 'pastas'. My very reasonable suggestion that we go somewhere else was refused. I mean, if they can't get the punctuation right, what hope was there for the food?

Language fascinates me. I am in awe of truly good writing. It is almost a spiritual experience, the same kind of transcendence I derive from top quality singing, usually by women. My reverence for a shapely phrase no doubt explains my horror at its opposite. I can feel a mini-stroke coming on whenever I hear a double negative or a malapropism, like last weekend when an acquaintance used the word 'destitute' repeatedly when he meant 'desperate'. It's the same reaction I have to really bad singing, which is why I avoid karaoke at almost any cost.

I have studied several other languages, some more seriously than others, and I have spent more hours than I care to admit comparing words and their etymologies. I actually own a small book that charts hundreds of words in several Frisian dialects and provides their English, Dutch and German counterparts. I feel this psychologically bizarre loneliness on behalf of English that our tongue has no truly close relatives. When I hear a word in a foreign language, I can't help thinking about its roots and the evolution of its English translation. So when I hear a word misused and/or abused, it's like someone is insulting the entire Indo-European linguistic family.

There are those who say that they choose their words very carefully when they write to me. I believe they're trying to tell me that I should ease up because it makes them anxious or even paranoid. But why would I change my ways when I'm clearly having a positive effect on their communication skills? I'm an altruist, after all, and it pains me not to help others.

Wendy's asked me to wrap this up while she opens up another winebox. See? I always do my best to make everyone happy.

Avadim Ha'inu, Ata B'nei Horin

Pesach (Passover) begins tonight.

Every year at the Pesach seder table, participants read and sing from the Haggadah, a step-by-step guide to the food- and wine-heavy religious service that launches the holiday. The text is full of tales, songs and prayers, and everyone plays a part in the evening program. The holiday commemorates the Israelites' dash to freedom after hundreds of years of slavery in Egypt, as recounted in the biblical book of Exodus.

The significance of the holiday extends beyond these unique historical circumstances, however. Each seder participant is reminded to approach the holiday as if they themselves had been freed from slavery, to experience the joy of freedom and to help others attain it. Each generation redefines freedom through the prism of its own experiences, but the basic message remains the same.

You and I define freedom differently, in all likelihood. And each of us struggles against oppression in our own way, whether it comes from within or without. When I think of my own quest for freedom, the primary themes are gay rights, the fight against racism, and more recently, animal rights.

It won't surprise most of you who know me that my fight for freedom has often been in-your-face, whether it was confronting an Aryan Nations stealth candidate for Calgary city council at a public debate, going 'undercover' to a racist gathering to record the proceedings and gather literature as evidence, or writing incendiary letters to newspapers about an MP's bigotfest of a town hall meeting, where I spoke up, along with others, against what the hosts were doing.

Just as difficult are the internal battles for freedom, like when I confront my own internalized homophobia and my not inconsiderable racist feelings, not to mention more painful struggles arising from personal hurt, both inflicted and received.

Even if you don't celebrate the holiday, give a thought to freedom today - what it means to you, where you've come from, and where you'd like to go. And maybe even write back and tell me what all of this means to you.

Oh, and the title? They're the opening words from one of the songs in the Haggadah: "Once we were slaves, but now we are free."