Ottawa disease

The committee meeting I sat through today was completely pointless, as we lightly probed the spending habits of two government agencies that 99% of the population has never heard of. Even the attack dogs on the opposition side of the table, led by economist pit bull John McCallum, looked bored. The witnesses were monochromatic. Nobody, I thought to myself, was in that room by choice. I watched as 120 irretrievable minutes of my life drifted by.

But then I also realized how utterly wrong I was to harbour feelings like that, even for a moment. My gawd – did I have it already? The Ottawa disease?

Of course the meeting was a waste of time. I think it was supposed to be – part of a clever tactic to lull the Liberals and NDP MPs into a comatose state, so we could slip in a zinger like the budget implementation bill, and they wouldn’t even feel it. How smart is that?

Actually, here I was sitting in a spectacular stone-clad room with a 30-foot ceiling in the middle of the Parliament Building, just off the Hall of Honour. After knocking on doors for eight months, freezing my ass off, living on half-salary and giving up not only several of my businesses but also my TV gig, I was doing exactly what I wanted to do: Being an MP.

So there are boring moments. So what? This is still the goal, and I am still completely fulfilled to be a member of Parliament. However, it does not mean I have all this figured out yet. Not by a long shot. When I walked down a hallway after QP today a young man leaned out of the long line of people lined up to take a tour. He stretched his hand, called out my name and said, “I read your blog every day.” (Hi, pal. Thanks.)

Tonight I dropped in on a reception at an Ottawa hotel for Ontario Tory leader John Tory. Truth be told, I hate political receptions – the way people you’re talking to have darting eyes looking for somebody who’s more important. But tonight a guy named Raj was one of many who came up and genuinely made me feel good. “Look up to you, man,” he said (looking down at me). “You’re speaking for a lot more people than you know.”

That was a big help.

Because the Ottawa disease is usually fatal. It starts with a gnawing sense of inferiority watching others accept titles and positions, then develops into self-doubt as independent thought is shunned in favour of the team, right or wrong, then swings into its final phase of blindness as you are unable to see your own accomplishment and value. Bingo. You’re dead. Sitting in a gorgeous committee room in a stone castle, on a powerful committee, feeling useless. How wrong is that?

Some moments, I admit, I don’t know my way. I did not know my way today when a colleague, feeling superior in his title, talked down to me about my desire to have our committee look at a crucial change affecting home ownership that the government wants to push through. He accused me of being interested in it because I know an industry executive it will negatively affect.

It was a charge that hurt me a lot, actually. Because if there is one thing I can do in this place, where giant egos walk the halls, it is try to look out of the people who sent me here. If the feds are about to do something, without notice or debate that affects people buying houses, and I discover it, then how can I shut up about it?

So, I reminded him I know all the industry executives, including the ones how will profit. It’s the homeowners I care about. Yeah, I know the government has an agenda. I support it. But I don’t work for the government, and it’s not the prime minister and the cabinet I meet in Cristello’s market in Campbellville on Saturday morning. Instead, I meet my neighbours. And like Raj, and the guy in the tour line today, I want them to respect me because I respect them.

Not sure how all of this in Ottawa is going to turn out. Badly, probably.

But I found the cure.