Actions speak louder than oaths to the Queen

As an ardent monarchist, one who curtsies before dogs named Prince and goes pink at the ears when licking the back of certain postage stamps, here’s my reaction to Lisa Helps’ decision not to swear an oath to the Queen: Good for her.

And good for the other Victoria city council members who, according to conscience, either did or did not make the same choice when sworn into office this week.

Honestly. No one should have to pretend to believe in something they don’t.

In fact, it’s offensive when they fake it.

There’s no requirement for B.C.’s councillors to swear allegiance to the Queen. They don’t even have the option of doing so in most municipalities — not Langford, not any of our many, many Saaniches, not even the Duchy of Oak Bay.

The reverse is true for federal and provincial politicians, for whom an oath to the monarch is mandatory.

The pledge isn’t literally to the Queen but to the Crown as the embodiment of the people. It’s meant to emphasize that politicians are supposed to serve the people, not the other way around.

That’s why members of Parliament may skip the “so help me God” part of their oath but not the Queen bit.

That’s why, when 10 new separatist members were sworn into the Quebec legislature two weeks ago, they had no choice but to clench their teeth and recite the pledge, which must have been hard to do while choking on the words (we won’t know for sure, since they made a point of doing it behind closed doors).

It might be hair-splitting, but Victoria councillors can argue the oath is simply about the monarchy, which they either believe in or not. That puts it in the same category as the Lord’s Prayer, which B.C. baby boomers will remember mouthing each morning, with varying degrees of conviction, until the practice faded away in the 1970s. It disappeared entirely in 1989 after a B.C. Civil Liberties Association lawsuit ended compulsory prayer in schools. (In 2015, the Supreme Court of Canada completed the pendulum swing, ruling that municipal councils may not begin public meetings with prayers, lest they offend non-believers.)

You can even extend the empty-words argument to national anthems. When U.S.-based hockey teams play the Victoria Royals, we wait out The Star-Spangled Banner like concert-goers enduring the opening act before getting to the headliner, O Canada. Why? Their anthem means no more to us than ours does to them. (At least when Americans sing “we stand on guard for thee” they can take it literally, since they believe we’re riding on the coattails of their $700-billion defence budget. By contrast, Canadians shouldn’t think too hard when warbling relief that “our” flag is still there, having survived the bombs bursting in air during the War of 1812.)

Why go along like this? Out of respect for others’ feelings? Habit? Or, for God’s sake (and here I apologize to any potentially offended atheists), a realization that there are real problems to solve?

Symbolism matters, but not as much as action. Never mind hauling off the Sir John A. statue, how about safe drinking water for Indigenous communities? Never mind the oath, unclog downtown traffic.

No resolution to the Mystery of The Ring yet, but plenty of response to the way I described the item.

Thursday’s column was about 91-year-old Joyce Clearihue’s desire to return a ring dropped in her Uplands yard by a trick-ortreater more than 40 years ago.

I wrote that the ring bore a Royal Canadian Air Force insignia, including an eagle in flight and a Latin motto — per ardua ad astra — that translated to “through struggle to the stars.”

I was immediately strafed by RCAF veterans. (Who knew there were so many in a Navy town?) It’s an albatross, not at eagle, they said. And the word should be “adversity,” not “struggle.”

Apparently, the albatross-vseagle debate has raged for decades (again, who knew?), reaching the point where the RCAF felt compelled to offer clarity in a news release: “To set the record straight (again): it is an eagle.”

As for the motto, it translates either way. The British lieutenant who first suggested it for the Royal Flying Corps used “struggle,” but the more poetic “adversity” became more common over time.

The RCAF has since reverted to its very first motto, sic itur ad astra, “such is the pathway to the stars.”