Alison Garwood Jones

The power of pause

May 19, 2012

Maria Shriver has a foothold in all the major social media platforms: Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, Pinterest, WordPress and, presumably, whatever promises to be the next best thing. Media and communications are her career. But how she uses them is worth noting.

There are enough voices on the internet going for cheap attention. Expensive attention, as Seth Godin likes to call it, is much, much harder to garner. But Shriver is one of the few who have figured it out. She believes it all comes down to the power of pausing—in life and in journalism.

“I’m asking you to learn how to pause because I believe the state of our communication is out of control,” Shriver told a group of graduates last week (including her daughter, Katherine) at the Annenberg school of Communications at the University of Southern California.

Speed should never replace good thinking, she said. But because our relationship to the internet is still young, it has. Right now, I think we’re tearing through digital media like a bag of Halloween candy we’ve dumped on the floor. The sugar rush makes us mean and cranky and dangerously loose with the truth.

With time, maybe we can approach social media more like a fine dining experience and in doing so use these tools with more intelligence and deliberation. We built these platforms and we can choose to change what goes on them.

Ladies and gentlemen, Maria Shriver:

 

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So where’s the correction?

May 16, 2012

After a stunning $2 billion loss in European trading by JPMorgan Chase last week, the FBI in the U.S. has opened a preliminary review of the debacle.

As punishment, Ina Drew, the Chief Investment Officer whose London office orchestrated the trades, was promptly kicked to the curb. That lowers the ratio of male to female traders on the London Stock Exchange from a high of 260 male traders to 4 female to 260 to 3.

CEO Jamie Dimen remains. He’s been doing the rounds on the Sunday chat shows saying his company was “sloppy” and “stupid.”  Meanwhile he’s been unapologetically leading the charge to prevent the caps on market speculation recommended by Obama.

And, so, for the third time in three years I’m reprinting a post I wrote on Wall Street culture shortly after the first U.S.-led economic crash.

Like I said before, if you think our elected leaders are in control of the economy and our futures. Think again. The stock jockeys are.

Being an average citizen sure feels powerless.

 

First published in March 2010

It’s been 18 months since the economy tanked, and the average investor who hung on during the worst stretch of stock market bucking and kicking has already regained most of what they lost. For many, then, it’s business as usual.

But if market corrections were inevitable, social ones are still pending, but possible, according to one of journalism’s best financial reporters.

I’m talking about Michael Lewis of Vanity Fair. He continues to doggedly turn over the rubble of 2008, assessing every detail with a coroner’s gimlet eye so he can come back and tell us exactly how traders back then were measuring risk and following abstruse formulas cooked up by their bosses to increase profits.

Still, after reading Lewis’ most recent VF features I couldn’t summarize his technical explanation of the machinations of subprime-mortgage bonds if my life depended on it (I’m referring to his articles,”Greed Never Left” and “Betting on the Blind Side,” both in the April 2010 issue). But that’s not because Lewis’s prose style isn’t clear or engaging. I have troubles remembering blow-by-blow descriptions of how people cheat (maybe because my instincts run counter to this). But I pounce on explanations that take a stab at why they do.

michael-lewis

Lewis, a former Wall Street broker turned chronicler, is part of a growing contingent of journalists (Nicholas Kristof of The New York Times is another) whose strict objectivity has taken a back seat to their impassioned analysis of human nature. “You have to be careful how you incentivize people,” Lewis told Steve Kroft last Sunday on 60 Minutes in a discussion about traders and money managers. “If you pay someone not to see the truth, they won’t see it.”

Both Lewis and Kristof are gathering their data and making their astute observations from the epicenter of the best behavioral test labs imaginable: extreme greed in Manhattan and extreme poverty in the developing world. Kristoff , for example, cites studies that have found when “women hold assets or gain incomes [in the developing world], family money is more likely to be spent on nutrition, medicine and housing, and consequently children are healthier.” But when men hold the money, and this is “the dirty little secret of global poverty,” he says, more often they spend it “on a combination of alcohol, prostitution, candy, sugary drinks and lavish feasts,” not on their families.

Filmmaker Oliver Stone, the son of an honest Wall Street broker, is another surprise addition to this group of creatives pushing to see human nature’s better side come to the fore. Despite what most people think, the notoriously difficult Stone never intended to make Gordon Gekko, Michael Douglas’s character in his 1987 blockbuster Wall Street, a hero, but that’s exactly what he became in the minds of so many guys working in finance, he tells Lewis in VF’s April issue. Douglas still gets Wall Street hot shots coming up to him and saying, “’Man, I want to tell you, you are the single biggest reason I got into the business. I watched Wall Street, and I wanted to be Gordon Gekko.’”

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Stone shakes his head at this. So does screenwriter Stanley Weiser. Both feel like their cautionary tale was hijacked by a misinterpretation that helped create the culture that led to 2008. Now Stone wants to use the sequel, Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, which hits theatres in September, to correct that initial misreading. By bringing back Douglas as Gordon Gekko and setting the sequel in 2008, Stone wants to show, in his words, ”the collapse of capitalism and the collapse of our society.”“Our way of life is going to change,” he tells Lewis. I couldn’t tell if that was his hope or a prediction.

Change only happens, though, when new points of view are folded into the mix. And while women aren’t new (!), hearing their voices in the halls of power is still unique. No one knew this better than America’s First Lady Abigail Adams. In 1776, just as legislators were gathering in Philadelphia to design a new independent American government, Adams, in her flowing cursive, famously instructed her husband, U.S. President John Adams, to “Remember the ladies.” Well, they forgot. But Abigail kept pushing anyway. “Don’t put such unlimited power in the hands of the husbands,” she continued. “Remember all men would be tyrants if they could.”

abigailschmannadams

The more Abigail wrote, the more philosophical she became. “[John], you tell me of degrees of perfection to which Humane Nature is capable of arriving, and I believe it, but at the same time, lament that our admiration should arise from the scarcity of the instances.” You’d think she was referring to a room full of slick-haired stock jockeys high-fiving each other over a run of questionable gains (they were in powdered wigs and buckled shoes — all the same without their clothes).

Due to unfinished business, the ghost of Abigail Adams is still with us, touching down all over the globe and pushing for change.  I’m convinced her spirit crashed the World Economic Forum in Davos Switzerland last winter. All of a sudden, and quite out of character, the participants (most of them, almost dead white men, except for the sprightly Rev. Desmond Tutu) began asking, “Would this economic crisis have happened if Lehman Brothers had been Lehman Sisters?”

Journalists like Michael Lewis, Nicholas Kristof and Charlie Rose (proud feminists, all), gloved that spectacular sound bite and refused to drop it, posing the question not once but again and again and again until what started as a clever quip turned into an outright challenge from the media aimed at a corrupt financial system.

The financial culture …is a pool of sharks, and women just despise [it],” Kristin Petursdottir told Lewis in his 2009 VF feature on the collapse of Iceland’s economy. In 2005 Petursdottir was Iceland’s lone woman in a senior banking position (she was deputy CEO for Kaupthing in London). But she has since quit and now runs a financial services business staffed entirely by women. “People thought I was crazy [to quit],” she says, but Petursdottir was determined to bring “more feminine values to the world of finance.” Science agrees, saying our financial wellbeing depends on it.

To my male readers, I say at this juncture, stay with me on this. We all want a better world. And if that doesn’t grab you because you secretly like the way things are, then I’m guessing you lost money in the crisis, so listen up!

The latest data from Vanguard, the American mutual fund company, reports that during the financial crisis of 2008/09, more men than women sold their shares at stock market lows. “There’s been a lot of academic research suggesting that men think they know what they’re doing, even when they really don’t,” said John Ameriks, head of Vanguard Investment Counseling and Research, in a New York Times article published last Sunday. The article by Jeff Sommer, called “How Men’s Overconfidence Hurts Them as Investors,” also said, “Gender differences appear to extend to other financial behavior. For example, women who are C.E.O.’s and company directors tend to pay lower premiums in corporate takeovers, saving their shareholders a bundle.”

It makes me wonder what would happen if we reversed the male/female ratio on the floor of the stock exchanges? In 2008, for example, the London Stock Exchange consisted of 260 male traders and 4 females. After a period of, say, five years, what patterns would emerge in the economy if this were reversed?

What’s more, a growing number of researchers in the last two years have been combining neuroscience and economics (neuroeconomics) to understand the roles testosterone and cortisone play in financial risk taking. In the spring of 2008, a research team at the University of Cambridge studied the spit of a group of London traders over 8 days and confirmed what most of us have always suspected: that testosterone rises in an economic bubble and these raised levels lead to irrational choices.

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The researchers said that the relationship between market events and the male endocrine system was like a relay race. “When traders experienced acutely raised testosterone [levels] … they made higher profits, perhaps because testosterone has been found, in both animal and human studies, to increase search persistence, appetite for risk and fearlessness in the face of novelty.”

YE US Open Golf

Like the “winner effect” in professional athletes, testosterone rises in the winning athlete (Tiger), but falls in the losing one. “This androgenic priming of the winner,” say researchers, “can increase confidence and risk-taking and improve chances of winning yet again, leading to a positive feedback loop.”

But, the Cambridge team also found that “if testosterone continued to rise or became chronically elevated, it could begin to have the opposite effect on profit and loss, exaggerating the market’s upward movement.” Similarly, in volatile times, a rise in cortisol levels in these guys — often by as much as 500 % by day’s end — exaggerated a downward swing (resulting in massive sell-offs). “These steroid feedback loops may help explain why [male traders] caught up in bubbles and crashes often find it difficult to make rational choices.”

The question remains, what can female investors, golf wives and rational male investors do to diffuse the extreme male behavior of a select group that, clearly, is capable of  running us all into the ground?

Do you put each trader in a single enclosed office space away from his buddies? I say that because researchers at theUniversity of California published a study in March 2008 that found that men in group situations, like trading floors, are more likely to engage in risky decision making because they get caught up in issues of relative social status and dominance.

Or, do you pay female traders big bucks (big bucks because most hate working in hyper-competitive environments) to infiltrate this boys club and diffuse the cloud of testosterone hanging over the floor? A study from 2000 published in The Journal of Economic Theory found there was “a strong consensus that diverse groups perform better at problem solving,” than homogeneous ones. And, anecdotally, we all know that the presence of women is often the only way to diffuse extreme male behaviour.

Then again,  putting more women on the trading floor would probably just spike testosterone levels even higher.

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So here’s my solution: Spray estrogen in the air at regular intervals on the trading floor, play classical music, and enlist the mothers. Have the moms make daily desk-side visits with their boys so they can stroke their hair and feed them homemade lunches. “Now, Dear, stop drinking that Red Bull and eat this casserole. And why are you  sniffing so much? Do you have a cold?”

We have to do something to calm them down and protect our assets.

 

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Lest we forget …

May 14, 2012

It’s been said that the French don’t have a sense of humour (at least, not one the rest of us can discern). Then there are the Republicans (the U.S kind). They’re easy to laugh at, but not with. Samantha Bee was right when she pointed out that most Canadians regard Fox News as “a colossal practical joke.”

Going back in the archives, however, there is evidence of a deep vein of sophisticated, kooky and self-deprecating humour coming from the Isle of Manhattan in the 1930s — 25 West 43rd Street to be exact.

This was a time when the 1% was just as reviled, women were the same mysterious creatures they are today (plus a force to be reckoned with), and a liberal bias in the press was the norm. That’s not always a good thing, but at least the jokes are better.

Source: Whitney Darrow, Jr., You’re Sitting on My Eyelashes: An Album of Cartoons (my latest find at The Monkey’s Paw)


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It’s hard to be interesting

May 10, 2012

… but every now and again something sticks. Thanks guys.

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Daddy’s little girl

May 2, 2012

Paulina Mary Jean Gretzky

Someone grab the shepherd’s crook and pull this girl off stage.

©AGJ on PicMonkey.com

It’s too late to take back the message

It’s already out

And archived in perpetuity

I can’t even crop you,

You’ve taken over my web page too

If video killed the radio star,

The internet kidnapped daddy’s little girl

Sorry Wayne & Janet

You can’t get her back

That heart-to-heart about social media tanked

She’s back on Twitter

Hanging off the yo-yo boys,

Skating to where the puck is headed, not to where it’s been

And adding filmy veils on Instagram

This must be how Patty Hearst‘s parents felt

Dearest Paulina:

You choose this and you can never go back to that

Not when you’re female

Feminism can’t fix everything

It sounds so archaic, this idea that girls who do it are doomed

But something does die

Even in 2012

A sense of hope and potential

Of fresh starts

Of humanity prevailing

Poor judgement and its consequences used to be sent to the next town over,

Then reinvented in sweater sets somewhere else

Now poor judgement parties in that town’s central square

With cameras catching it from every angle

Wait, is that Charlie Sheen on the Jumbotron?

He knows you, y’ know

And he’s coming over to say Hi

The world gets in SUCH a frenzy over PYTs, doesn’t it?

Twas ever thus

It takes vigilance for a young woman to decide, then convince the rest of the world she’s real

Particularly when a Barbie physique comes naturally

It’s easier to cave into stereotypes when everyone wants it that way

It’s millions of them verses one of you

They look

You notice

It’s intoxicating

‘Who needs college or an unpaid internship or a serving job when I’m all this?’ you’re probably thinking

So you get to work at your first big job out of puberty

Posing

You sit up and arch

Lie back and pout

Aviators slipping down the slope of your nose

Or a pair of Buddy Holly’s when the look calls for something more academic

A few seconds pass and someone with your worst interests in mind hands you a pop song you can lipsync

You do your best to be your worst

Add a little dance number

Something metaphorical of you circling the drain in heels

They teach metaphors in college English classes, you know

Same with clichés

And dénouement,

That inevitable downslide after your peak is reached and we’ve all climaxed

Get your Wooos! in now while you still can

*For more on this “hot” topic, see this story in Maclean’s, “Outraged moms, trashy daughters,” by Anne Kingston. And for one of my earlier rants on the topic, go here.

 

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#FreedomIsBlogging

April 30, 2012

When it comes to blogging, my mental trajectory over the last couple of years has looked something like this:

Looking back, I’d love to say I was an early adopter. The truth is, I arrived late to the social media party and hardly mingled when I got there, choosing, instead, to mope alone in a corner nursing my cup of dread on the rocks. I couldn’t stop thinking about how my existence as I knew it was over. Like, forever.

As with most journalists who had tasted some success the old way, I was suspicious and resentful when all of these seemingly stupid new platforms started taking time, attention and funding away from real reading material  — i.e. newspapers, magazines and books.

How was I going to be an OpEd columnist now when newspapers were hemorraging so much of their influence and advertising dollars?

Finally, I said to myself (in this order):

1. Snap out of it

2. Adapt or die

3. And flee into the future as fast as you can

From then on I entered a brand new headspace, one in which I spent countless hours trying to figure out the difference between wasting time and revolutionizing the way I wrote and did business.

Slowly, that old feeling that blogging was something I did under duress (and for free) was replaced by a new sense of excitement and possibility. My penny-dropping moment came when a friend said, “Blog what you want to be known for.” The same goes for tweeting. So I started writing what I wished editors would assign me, but weren’t. In short, I took control of my ambition.

Sure enough, editors started reading my blog. So did filmmakers and designers and corporate types who thought I handled social media well, and why wasn’t I teaching workshops on it to the uninitiated? All of them offered me writing work or paid speaking engagements, which is to say, my blog is now playing a significant role in covering my food and rent. And I’m doing it all on my own terms, without sacrificing my integrity or sabotaging my talent or adopting a photogenic cat. Sorry, I’m a dog person.

So when Hugh MacLeod published his latest book this week, a funny and insightful collection of essays called Freedom is Blogging In Your Underwear I read it as a true believer.

“Having a blog, a voice, having my own media, utterly changed my life,” says MacLeod.

Mine too. “Having my own media” … hmmm, take note of this concept, fellow journalists and novelists.

“That’s what the Internet is REALLY about,” continues MacLeod. “Finding your freedom. Finding your wings. Using a computer instead of a guitar.”

Blogging is the new rock and roll.

You, me, we’re all on one end of the wire, MacLeod concludes. “But worry less about the wire,” he warns. “Worry less about the shiny objects in the middle [Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, blah, blah, blah], and, instead, think about MAKING your own stuff, and the rest of the Internet will look after itself.”

And you.

and

#FreedomIsBlogging


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Pink snow

April 26, 2012

“Last week the cherry blossoms were falling all over the city, and children chased them in the same way they chase snowflakes. The most spectacular drifts of this pink snow were to be seen along Park Avenue, where cherry trees line the center island, and speeding cars cause the petals to swirl and dance.” — Bill Cunningham, “On The Street,” The New York Times (Sunday, April 22, 2012)

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Hot off the press

April 19, 2012

My latest article …

The healthy house

Photography by Shai Gil

Four years ago, when Toronto’s Superkül transformed a derelict blacksmith’s shop on a narrow city laneway into a sustainable single-family home, the firm’s preservationist aesthetic went viral with design critics and tree huggers alike. With their latest residential project, in rural Ontario, principals Andre D’Elia and Meg Graham faced a whole other set of limitations: their client lives with acute sensitivities to dust, pollen, electromagnetic radiation and a long list of construction materials, rendering any chance of building in a conventional manner virtually impossible. The result is +House, a two-bedroom dwelling nestled between a hill and a pond that has set a new precedent in Canadian environmental design.

Call it signature Superkül: this cedar- and teak-clad house in Dufferin County, two hours northwest of Toronto, is compact, low lying and well lit, with full-height windows that open up the residence’s entire 82‑metre length. As with many of the firm’s other projects, a green roof perforated with skylights pulls in additional light and air.

But before principal Andre D’Elia fired up CAD, he and project architect Geoffrey Moote spent hours determining what constitutes a healthy house. With the client’s input – “She knows what she can and can’t tolerate” – they quickly eliminated drywall compound (dust), paint (gas emissions), and the idea of a basement (mould). They also made a note to install ductwork with hospital-grade filters. To their surprise, they learned that building materials with higher recycled content aren’t necessarily suitable for everyone. “That’s when the juncture between sustainability and health didn’t always jibe,” says D’Elia.

Attaining a LEED rating wasn’t a major concern initially, not when the team was faced with other issues, including sourcing allergen-free materials, implementing healthy installation methods, and finding contractors willing to work on untried ideas. Not until they began to determine what sort of footprint they could make in the hill, without adversely affecting the trees or the pond, did they consult LEED’s checklist of sustainability points. “The project was always more idiosyncratic than just hitting the LEED basics,” notes Graham. “We spent a lot of time couriering the client boxes of building samples so she could pick them up, smell them, and then wait to see if she had a reaction. The results were very specific to the individual.”

For full article, see the May 2012 issue of Azure Magazine

 

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Why some never disappear

April 17, 2012

I am not a grammar geek. I didn’t like Strunk & White’s Elements of Style. Admitting that, I’m told, is a travesty — like not drinking 8 glasses of water a day. I do, however, love everything else E.B. White wrote and said. He feels like a trusted mentor.

“A writer should concern himself with whatever absorbs his fancy, stirs his heart, and unlimbers his typewriter. I feel no obligation to deal with politics. I do feel a responsibility to society because of going into print: a writer has the duty to be good, not lousy; true, not false; lively, not dull; accurate, not full of error. He should tend to lift people up, not lower them down. Writers do not merely reflect and interpret life, they inform and shape life.”

“I have always felt charged with the safekeeping of all unexpected items of worldly or unworldly enchantment, as though I might be held personally responsible if even a small one were to be lost. But it is not easy to communicate anything of this nature.’”

“A writer must reflect and interpret his society, his world; he must also provide inspiration and guidance and challenge. Much writing today strikes me as deprecating, destructive, and angry. There are good reasons for anger, and I have nothing against anger. But I think some writers have lost their sense of proportion, their sense of humor, and their sense of appreciation. I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they happen to strike me.”

Hat tip to Maria Popova’s article in The Atlantic.

Typewriter illustration by Alanna Cavanagh

 

 

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Spotlight: Growing Pains

April 16, 2012



Alice grows too tall for the room, from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," 1891 by Lewis Carroll. Illustration by Sir John Tenniel.

SPOTLIGHT is Society Pages’ newest column focusing on questionable occurrences. Read other columns here.

A dozen years ago, when the thought of becoming an academic art historian had lost its luster, I found myself throwing all of my investigative energy into a more personal story. This was back when I was trying to break into journalism, with no degrees or contacts, and pitching stories like, “I grew an inch in a week and, God Almighty, it hurt.” (Aside: it took me another 4 years of pitching and flailing to call myself a journo).

Still, it’s true. I grew an inch in a week and I’ve always insisted that the pain I felt in my spidery arms and legs coincided down to the minute with the moment my limbs were taking off in all four directions. For about a century, though, the idea that kids could feel themselves growing made the white coats smile and shake their heads. As a result, growing pains took pride of place next to the dreaded ice cream headache as these perplexing, slightly silly tales worthy of Newbery Medals, but serious scientific attention? No.

Yeah, whatever. All I know is that after a few years of crazy growth spurts, I crested at 6’1″ by grade 10 and the rush to recruit me to play on the basketball and volleyball teams was on. That happened before it was determined if I had any talent. And I remember thinking, for the first time, how invested everyone seemed to be in the idea that height=power. It’s in our DNA. It’s why tall people are hired faster than shorter ones, and paid more too — except if you’re a writer. Then you sit for most of your life (making you as tall as a child), and take peanuts for pay because you’re powerless to do otherwise. It’s like juvenile detention … the bastards.

I should probably cool it and just tell my story.

As it turned out, volleyball was a natural fit for me since I was good at racquet sports and I loved finishing points off at the net. But basketball was a disaster. For whatever reason, my head and body never came together on the court. Instead, I inspired a wave a snickers in the bleachers for my signature technique. “Windmill arms,” someone shorter and sportier called it. “What …” I stared back with a glare so stern it could have turned our school mascot (a Trojan warrior) to stone. But not the peanut gallery. They just grinned back.

Twenty five years later, I still find myself reading Wikipedia entries trying to understand what centre forwards are supposed to do. Apparently high school trauma never fades.

Here’s how it went down: back in the summer of ’82, when Whitney Houston was a junior model for Seventeen magazine and Princess Di was a walkabout rockstar, I was not so patiently waiting for the transistor radio pressed to my ear to play Men at Work or the J. Geils Band again. I was also completely dreading bed time because it meant another possible invasion of the body stretcher. Friends suggested I was achy a lot because I was playing too much tennis, and my muscles were overworked …

 

… but, no, that wasn’t it.

For four nights running the ache in my limbs came in waves around 3 am. I remember folding my legs up under my chin and trying to rock away the pain, then stretching them out and rubbing the length of my shins and thighs until I imagined I saw sparks. My mewing woke the entire house, turning my brothers over in their beds and sending my parents from room to room gathering up the necessary rescue gear: two heating pads plus an extra heavy blanket to weigh them down, and a Dixie Cup filled with cool water for taking the aspirin nestled in my mother’s extended palm. Mum and dad always tag-teamed on these nights, taking one leg each. “I’m growing,” I said with the kind of fury women, mid-delivery, save for their husbands (OK, so I exaggerate, but it was intense). Mum and Dad kneaded my muscles and didn’t question the cause. Neither did I.

Every time this happened — I grew over two feet between my tenth and fifteenth birthdays — my dad and I would meet before breakfast the next day for a “height-in,” similar to a jockey’s weigh-in. I’m sure it appealed to the side of him that was into sports stats and breaking records. We used to watch ABC’s Wide World of Sports together, a show that threw in words like “agony” and “human drama” into its classic opening montage, the one with the thunderous kettle drums and Jim McKay’s frantic voiceover accompanying clips of Indy crashes, World Cup wipeouts and Russian weight lifters shaking under barbells bigger than truck tires. At the height-in, Dad would slide a Bic pen over the crest of my skull and carve a blue notch on the wood inside of the cupboard door housing my mum’s winter coats. “Up an inch,” he’d say before carefully writing the month and year beside the notch. Now as my brothers and I start the sad task of cleaning out our childhood home, I wouldn’t mind claiming that door.

Whitney running through the pages of Seventeen.

If we can feel the push of a new tooth, the pinch of ovulation, and the itch and stab of multiplying cancer cells, why not the accumulation of healthy bone cells as they barrel forth ahead of attached muscles and tendons? This is what I was thinking as I looked for clues in the medical journals stacked up around me.  Surfing online pulled up nothing of consequence on growing pains back in 2000, so I relied on actual visits to the University of Toronto’s Gerstein Science Library to find answers.

And here’s what I confirmed: children really do grow at night. The pituitary gland shoots human growth hormone (HGH) into the bloodstream in rhythmic pulses during the deepest stages of sleep, between about midnight and 4:00 am, which is when kids wake up with complaints of sharp intermittent cramps in their legs and occasionally arms, groin, back and shoulders. I learned that it takes the body between twenty minutes to half an hour to metabolize human growth hormone, the same amount of time that a “growing pains” episode lasts.

That’s when I began studying this twenty minute time period even closer. I wanted to find out what our bodies are doing while they’re using and absorbing human growth hormone, and if anything about this process might register with our senses — making some of us go, “Ouch!” The oft-repeated line by paediatricians that growing was “a silent and imperceptible process” felt wrong, quite frankly. Body wisdom told me otherwise. I abandoned the idea that growing pains stemmed from realtime stretching muscles and overtaxed tendons — too cartoonish, too Incredible Hulk. My research seemed to point to another, less obvious, culprit. When a diabetic friend of mine told me one day that her legs ached when her blood sugar was high — “like when I had growing pains” — DING, DING, DING,  I wondered if high blood sugar levels might be to blame for my nighttime pulsating ache?

My focus turned to the side effects of high blood sugar. I learned that when HGH is released into the bloodstream it temporarily raises blood sugar levels, first by instructing the liver to make more sugar, then by convincing the muscles to get their energy from free fatty acids instead of sugar. With nothing to do and nowhere to go this rejected sugar makes it was back into the bloodstream at which point the pancreas senses an imbalance and tries to correct the high sugar levels by throwing insulin at the problem. But the muscle tissues couldn’t care less; for this short period of time — twenty minutes or so — while they are feasting on free fatty acids, they stubbornly ignore the incoming insulin which only makes the pancreas release more of the stuff. Again, I wanted to know how the body reacts to this struggle, producing an uncomfortable side effect? Does high blood sugar feel the same in all of us, whether we’re diabetic or not? I even started wondering is growing pains was like a case of temporary diabetes?

With the help of my Complete Home Medical Encyclopedia I ran my finger down the list of possible symptoms for hyperglycaemia (high blood sugar), past extreme thirst, frequent urination, weight loss and impaired vision until I landed on “leg cramps.” Bingo! Then I got my diabetic friends involved in a completely unscientific survey (I surveyed three people). “Have you ever had leg cramps?” I asked without telling them why I wanted to know. “When do you get them and how feel?” I learned from my friends that achy legs is one of their first symptoms when their blood sugar begins to climb. One subject, a friend at work who had Type 1 insulin-dependent diabetes, began reporting to me every time she had achy legs. “Test your levels! What are you at?” I asked. She consistently read between 10 and 12 mmol/L on her hand-held glucometer. Normal blood sugar readings are between 3 and 6 mmol/L. Being a doctor, I had no idea if her accompanying leg aches were related to her high blood sugar levels or poor circulation, another side effect of diabetes. This friend was new to diabetes — having been diagnosed three years earlier — but she hadn’t been told yet by her doctor that her circulation was suffering, so I stuck to the high blood sugar diagnosis.

Now I was thinking, I need more proof. All I had to do is convince doctors to equip parents with glucometers. That way, when their non-diabetic children woke up in the middle of the night because their legs hurt they could take on on-the-spot blood sugar reading. If enough kids consistently registered above normal blood sugar readings (i.e. above 6), I may have just solved the mystery of growing pains.

Mary Cassatt, Mother and Child

But parents aren’t just curious to know what causes the pain, they want to know how to relieve it, or, better yet, prevent it. In 1988 Drs. Maureen Baxter and Corinne Dulberg, in co-operation with the University of Ottawa and the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario, published what is now a frequently cited study in the Journal of Pediatric Orthopaedics. It claimed that kids with “growing pains” who performed regular muscle stretches at bedtime “showed more rapid resolution of their symptoms over an 18 month period” than kids who did nothing. But the doctors had no explanation as to why, at least at the time. That finding brought me full circle: maybe, I thought, that’s because exercise is one of the most effective ways of lowering high blood sugar. Just ask a diabetic. Apart from dietary changes, exercise is one of the first things their doctors tell them to add to their routine.

Afterword: I sat on my findings for over a decade, became a journalist, travelled the world, moved from one apartment to the next, then dusted off the banker’s box labelled “growing pains” a few weeks ago during a visit to my storage locker. When I went back to Google, now an infinitely bigger search engine than it was in 2000, I discovered that my hunch and my “leg work” were spot on. Since that time, growing pains has been taken up by researchers some of whom, like me, pinpointed complications from high blood sugar as a probable cause. Others, still aren’t sure. I was slightly ticked I didn’t beat them to the punch, but also amazed what focused research and a personal stake in the outcome can lead to. This was no Lorenzo’s Oil, but a fascinating journey for me nonetheless.

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