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The Nature of David Suzuki

Ricepaper
11, no. 1 (2006)

Jenny Uechi

In the stark white-walled meeting room in the David Suzuki Foundation, my one hand checks the tape recorder while my other pinches my cheek, wondering if this could be real. We are about to interview David Suzuki, one of the most iconic figures in Canadian culture. Before reality sets in, however, a smiling, white-haired Japanese-Canadian man walks in, dressed in a crisp blue shirt, buttoned down to reveal a gold necklace. It's him: David Suzuki, just as we have seen him for years onscreen.

It's a rough task to separate Dr Suzuki, the individual, from the public face that we have come to know. Never mind that he was one of the few Asians voted into CBC's “Greatest Canadian” contest in 2004: the fact that he was the only living Canadian to break the top five is a measure of his impact on this country. His face is indelibly etched in the memory of generations of Canadians through his long-running CBC television show,
The Nature of Things
. His ubiquitous writings appear in weekly columns in
Shared Vision
and
Nikkei Voice
, not to mention the thirty-two books that he has authored to date (with another autobiography coming out this year). Yet at the core of his lofty public persona, the David Suzuki that we met was “just a human being,” a son, a father, and an individual. Whether he is like anyone else is something that we leave for you to judge.

To understand how Suzuki came to be the person he is today, it's important to know a thing or two about his father, Carr (Kaoru) Suzuki. Adventurous and charismatic, Carr Suzuki instilled in his son a passion for nature from an early age. “My father was a very unusual Asian,” Suzuki smiles. “He believed that money wasn't everything, and he loved nature.” As a child, young Carr was often scolded by his parents for “wasting time” planting trees instead of studying or working. Raised in hardship and with pressures for financial success, Carr taught his own children not to obsess over money and encouraged them to appreciate the natural beauty of their surroundings. Suzuki's voice becomes animated as he recalls one of his numerous camping and fishing trips in Vancouver with his father:

“I remember vividly, I must have been four, he was carrying me on his back, [and] we were hiking up the mountain. The dog started barking, so we stopped, and there was a cougar right there. He never went, ‘Let's run,' but said, ‘Oh, look at that, isn't that amazing!'”

Having learned to marvel at the world around him rather than fear it, Suzuki would use his father's approach when it was his turn to educate audiences about nature and science.

Suzuki may have been raised to love the natural environment, but his relationship with the human world is a different story. Don't get us wrong: Suzuki connects with people from a broad social spectrum and has the kind of universal appeal to Canadians that politicians would envy. As a working-class Japanese-Canadian, however, Suzuki has seen enough prejudice to break most people's faith in human nature. How did he manage to maintain his sense of empathy over the years? “What you call empathy is more an identification with other people,” says Suzuki. “I saw prejudice against us [Japanese] as being the same as prejudice against the Jews or
blacks.” Reflecting on the four years he spent in internment camps during World War II, Suzuki says that the specific attacks on him as a Japanese-Canadian made him feel closer to the universal struggles of people everywhere, be it the aboriginal peoples of Brazil or gays and lesbians in the US.

You could also say that it was precisely because of the racism that Suzuki learned to appreciate what small glimpses of humanity he experienced. Midway through the interview, Suzuki leans in slightly and says, “There's a story I have to tell you; it's very moving to me. When my father was first shipped away to a road camp to work on building the Trans-Canada highway, and my mother and my sisters and I were put in a camp in Slocan, my father had an accident—he injured his leg driving a horse. The doctor gave him a little form saying that Carr Suzuki [was] allowed to leave camp and go to town. But he didn't say what town. So, on the strength of that, my dad took off, and instead of going to the nearest town, he decided to come and see us. He had a cane, he was limping, and he tried not to let anyone see him. Being very quiet, he didn't want to attract attention, so he didn't eat. He got on the ferry, and by then he was really hungry. The smell of the food came, so he got on to where the restaurant was, and he was going to walk in—and then he saw the Chinese cook. Now, the Chinese and the Japanese hated each other at the time. The Chinese had every right to hate the Japanese because of what was going on in Manchuria. My dad thought, ‘Oh no, I can't go in.' The Chinese cook saw him, and he said, ‘Come in.' So my dad thought, ‘This is it, he's going to report me.' And the guy said, ‘Sit down.' And he said, ‘You're Japanese, aren't you,' and my dad said, ‘Yeah.' And the cook said, ‘Look, you and me—we're brothers.' And he fed him this big meal, all for nothing. That story just touched me, that even in a time like that, someone could reach out and help.”

Small, unexpected acts of kindness such as these had long-lasting effects on Suzuki, who, more than sixty years after the war, still remembers the Chinese-Canadian cook who took in an enemy and called him “brother.”

Even after establishing himself as one of Canada's premier geneticists and broadcasters, Suzuki maintains a bit of cynicism when people point to his success in reaching out to the public. Starting his broadcasting career in 1962 (“You weren't even a thought in your father's head at the time,” he adds jokingly, pointing to me), Suzuki aimed originally to use television as a medium to educate the public about science. “If I had a talent, it was to translate difficult scientific ideas into a language that the public could understand,” he says. Starting off with a weekly TV program,
Suzuki on Science
, Suzuki moved on to CBC's
The Nature of Things
in 1974, one of the longest-running and most successful Canadian shows in history, with audiences in over ninety countries. Through his sixty-minute television show, Suzuki had hoped to educate the public so that they would be better informed to make their decisions on issues such as global warming, GMOs, and environmental conservation.

“But it hasn't worked out that way,” he says abruptly. “The absolute opposite happened from what I expected. I thought I was just a messenger, giving (people) information, and they would go out and do things. I became the message.” The irony of his foray into broadcasting was that instead of empowering the public, the public had empowered him. Today, he says, if he were to call the Prime Minister's Office, he would likely receive a call back in half an hour because of the millions of Canadians who back him up. In an ideal world, those millions of Canadians would be calling on their leaders about the issues that Suzuki has informed them about. To this day, however, he receives countless emails from organizations asking for
his support on everything—save this rainforest, rally against that corporation, help promote this new invention. “People get very disappointed,” he admits when he tries to explain that he's only human and doesn't have the time or energy to speak for everyone. “Some may be disenchanted and disillusioned, but I try to offer help to groups that are struggling.”

While he acknowledges that it's an honour to have people's confidence, he adds that it's a “huge responsibility.” That responsibility, of course, extends far beyond Suzuki himself and is shouldered by everyone who is close to him, especially his five children, Tamiko, Laura, Troy, Sarika, and Severn. While having David Suzuki as a father definitely has its perks, the trade-off is to live each day under the giant shadow he casts. “I think it's been especially difficult for my son,” Suzuki says quietly. Because his daughters were exceptional students, Suzuki feels that being related to a famous scientist was a “double whammy” for Troy, whom Suzuki describes in his autobiography
Metamorphosis
as being “good looking, [an] outstanding athlete, bright.” The slightest remark about his grades was an enormous pressure for Troy, and that pressure turned to resentment as his father spent more time away from home to work. Suzuki recalls that after his son graduated from high school, he took off for three years, travelling the world over to find himself. It would take many more years until father and son had sorted out the tension between them. “He was very angry at me,” he says. “We've gotten to be very good friends now, but it took a long time.”

He feels that things were easier for his daughters, especially from his second family. Severn Cullis-Suzuki, his youngest daughter, generated a lot of publicity for her environmental activism from a young age: At nine, she started the Environmental Children's Organization, and at twelve, moved audiences to tears with her
speech at the Earth Summit in Rio de Janeiro. Amidst accusations that Severn is merely “copying” her father's work, Suzuki maintains that his daughter is no mere follower. “She's very proud of what I've done, but she says, ‘I'm a young person; my dad has got his views, and I've got different views'.” Without denying or being ashamed of her privilege, Severn uses her resources to launch initiatives like Skyfish Project, a youth activism group that serves as part of the UN Special Advisory Board. “[Severn] could have been a spoiled kid,” Suzuki says, depicting an imaginary scenario of his daughter as a globetrotting shopaholic, “but that's not the road she's chosen. She tries to use her opportunities to help the world.” While each of his children had to fight the pressure of having a famous father, they kept grounded, Suzuki feels, thanks to their mothers. “To be totally honest,” he grins, “I think that the most intellectual support in both families has been the mothers.”

Because both of Suzuki's wives—Joane Sunahara and Tara Cullis—were exceptional mothers, he ended up learning a lot of parenting lessons from them. When asked what kind of advice he would give to himself as a father thirty years ago, Suzuki replies without missing a beat, “Well, I feel that I've relied far too much on my wives. They were such good parents. That allowed me to be away a lot more than I should have been.” His words conjure up a sad anecdote that I had read in his autobiography: When Suzuki separated from his wife Joane, his children were so accustomed to his absence that it took a year for them to notice that he had actually moved out. Folding his hands on the table, he gives some advice on fatherhood, probably aimed as much at himself as our readers:

“I wish—especially for my son—I wish that I was there for him. You know, these days, people say, ‘It's quality time, not quantity time.' Total bullshit. When [children] fall and scratch their knee,
that's when they want someone to wipe it clean and kiss it well. If they score a goal in a little game, that's when you've got to be there and say, ‘Well done!' But you can't plan those things. You've got to be there. And I regret that I couldn't be there. I tried. I tried very, very hard. I wasn't there as much as I could have been.”

When I hesitantly offer that many fathers are too busy to spend time with their children, Suzuki firmly shakes his head.

“That's the thing,” he says. “My father, who was the great hero in my life, always had huge amounts of time for me.” He concludes that workplaces need to be redesigned to allow families to be together, rather than delegating the role of mothers and fathers to hired hands. Some years ago, he had tried to implement this change in his own office, allowing his secretary to bring her baby to the university. It had worked out fine, until students and professors complained that it was unprofessional. “Academics are such snobs,” he mutters, recalling their indignation at the baby's cries.

As our interview draws to a close, I ask Suzuki what he would like to do over the next several years. He laughs wearily, admitting that he had actually planned to retire nearly fifteen years ago, at age fifty-five. The flurry of new causes and projects, of course, hasn't left him with much choice but to keep going.

He admits that it could be a few years yet: After getting his David Suzuki Foundation on solid financial ground, he'll have to find a successor to host
The Nature of Things
. He notes that CBC may take the show off the air after he retires due to its strong association with him; however, he would like his daughter Severn to have a shot at becoming the next host.

“I have a few things that I want to do before I die,” he says thoughtfully. “At my age, every day is a gift. I could be hit by a car, who knows? I would like to learn to speak Spanish. And I would like
to study geology, to have a hobby, like painting or carving. But in order to do that, I've got to have time.” As though to snap himself out of a dream, Suzuki taps his fingers on the table. The sound disperses images of Suzuki painting landscapes in a cabin beside some half-finished wood carvings, bringing us back to his foundation, where countless emails, phone calls, letters, and deadlines await him. “But that won't happen for a while,” he says with a wry smile.

As I shook hands with Suzuki at the end of the interview, he was no longer just a figure on TV screens and in periodicals, immortalized by over forty years of exposure in the public eye. The David Suzuki that I met was human, vulnerable, prone to telling stories, and critical of himself and his work. Textbooks and encyclopedias will mark him as a groundbreaking geneticist and broadcaster, but to us, he's a loving son, grateful husband, and caring father like anybody else, whose eyes dance whenever he talks about his children.

       
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UTHOR
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OMMENTARY

What surprised me about the David Suzuki interview was how human he was and how openly he told his story about family and growing up. In particular, his memory of how his father shaped his career trajectory and curiosity about nature, as well as the need to explain science in a way that resonated with everybody, was very touching. —
Jenny Uechi, 2015