It was late in March of 2025 when I received an e-mail from the assistant publisher of the Chicken Soup for the Soul anthology series, inviting me to a Zoom meeting being held for the U.S. publishing empire’s “Canadian contributors.” Having “contributed” several stories over the years, I discovered that I was on a list. For those located overseas or on another planet, Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies are compilations of feel-good stories written not only by serious writers looking to build a portfolio, but mostly by civilians thrilled to see their names in print. Chicken soup has been called Jewish penicillin, so the stated intention of these themed collections is one of healing and “changing the world one story at a time.” The themed anthologies have been lauded as panaceas for stress-filled lives.
Upon acceptance, one receives a small cheque—in U.S. bucks—and ten copies of the anthology in which one’s material appears. In 2017, when I had two stories accepted in the special anniversary anthology called The Spirit of Canada, I was sent twenty copies. I couldn’t give away twenty copies. I couldn’t give away ten copies. In lieu of all these copies, I would’ve preferred a larger cheque.
According to this e-mail, the purpose of the proposed meeting, to be hosted by the publisher, was to apologize for the behavior of their government. “Virtually every American feels the same way.” They do? I wondered. Then who were the phantom 77,000 voters who brought a gangster to power and unleashed madness? Behind the plea I suspected self-interest. I was skeptical, yet receptive. An inquiring mind wants to know, so I accepted the invitation to the meeting.
The publisher and editor-in-chief is a magna cum laude graduate of Harvard. She worked as a Wall Street analyst, a hedge fund manager and a corporate executive before taking on the presidency of Chicken Soup.
When I zoomed in, precisely on the scheduled hour, the meeting was already in progress. Chicken Soup’s president was in the process of apologizing for somewhere erroneously writing PQ (Province of Quebec) as PB. When my name appeared in a box on the screen, knowing I am in Montreal, she apologized to me personally.
At first, I kept my camera off. Then I decided to show my face. I had nothing to hide. Besides the publisher and the assistant publisher, there were a handful of Canadian attendees. Most had their cameras on. One didn’t. More had been invited, but many declined; some angrily, telling Chicken Soup in no uncertain terms that they wanted their names removed from its mailing list.
After the Harvard graduate apologized for misspelling PQ, she shared with her audience her love of Canada, which took the form of vacations she and her family have enjoyed up here, the most recent being taken by her daughter, who is a doctor in New Hampshire, and who loves the cold. Her daughter the doctor visited with (one assumes) the doctor’s husband. “They came up for a romantic night in Montreal.” Only one night? I thought of Benjamin Franklin. In historic Old Montreal, tucked away on a cobblestoned alley, there is an ancient building upon whose door rests a plaque announcing, “Benjamin Franklin Slept Here.” Benjamin Franklin slept here for three nights. This was back in 1812, which was the last time the Americans attempted to liberate us. Upon studying the locals and surveying the scene, the Founding Father surmised, “We don’t have to conquer the Canadians. We can buy them.”
Having established her bona fides, the publisher then confessed that Chicken Soup was in trouble, or potentially in trouble. “Readers think of Chicken Soup as an American publication, but our production is tied up with Canada. Most of our printing is done in Canada.” Of course it would be. The rate of exchange between the U.S. buck and the Canadian loony makes it an attractive option. “We may have to cancel our children’s picture book series.” The publisher then had a lightbulb moment. “We may have to cancel our Canadian series!” I also had a lightbulb moment. Was she issuing a threat?
The publisher then asked for “suggestions” on how to keep a Canadian audience. One woman piped up. “You could publish more stories about Canada!” Self-interest works both ways.
“I thought of that.” admitted the publisher. “But then I thought readers might think I was being manipulative.” Oh say it isn’t so! Why would anyone think that?
I decided to weigh in. I raised my hand. I started to speak.
“Through no fault of their own, my compatriots are facing ruin, and they accept it. They accept that we are in a state of war.” I tried to break it gently. “Under the circumstances, do you believe that the fate of one publishing company is considered relevant?”
“But only half of us voted for him!” protested the American. She didn’t protest in the streets, but on Zoom, she protested.
Not only did half your countrymen cast their vote for a convicted felon, an obvious sociopath and a brazen rapist, but they did it TWICE. What kind of people exhibit such appalling lack of judgement? How can they be trusted? I thought, but did not say.
“And anyway,” the publisher continued to protest, “If Canada imposes tariffs on books, we’ll have to retaliate!” Was that a slip of the tongue, or a Freudian slip? Was she aware it was Russia which invaded the Ukraine, and not the other way around? Was she conscious?
“I am the daughter of Holocaust survivors.” I revealed. “I am alert and sensitive to fascist threats and assaults on freedom.”
In response, the publisher revealed that she is Jewish and launched into a long, Trump-like ramble on how she removed her information from a certain website because she feared anti-Semitic attacks. If this revelation was meant to establish common ground, it wasn’t working.
“If nothing else,” I conceded, “your president was transparent. Before the election he clearly stated, ‘From Day One, I will be a dictator.’”
“Yes, our president did many things he said he was going to do. But he never said he was going to do this!” “This” referred to the imposition of tariffs. To the publisher it seemed acceptable to dismantle a republic as long as her business wasn’t adversely affected.
“You asked for suggestions.” I sighed. “I suggest impeachment.”
“Oh that was tried twice and it didn’t work!” The publisher scoffed. “Impeachment isn’t going to happen!”
On my monitor, I stared at the square which held the image of the assistant publisher, who sat stone-faced. I knew she wasn’t Jewish. I learnt that years ago, when one of my stories was published in a Chicken Soup anthology whose theme was holiday celebrations. My story told the tale of childhood Passovers. Every year the angel Elijah, the patron saint of children, visited the home in which our family Seders were held. The angel Elijah is a sort of Jewish Santa, except that he is invisible. Each year I was instructed not only to open the door for the angel so he could partake of the wine prepared for him, but also to accompany him back to the door when he was ready to leave. One year, I balked at this errand. In his fifth language, my whimsical, wonderfully imaginative Daddy didn’t hesitate to invoke idioms, mix metaphors, and play with words. “It’s not polite to let a guest leave alone.” Impishly, my Yiddishe Poppa added, “With an angel, you have to be a gentleman.”
Daddy’s punchline almost cost me the publication. A call came from California.
“Are you a man, or a woman?!” The assistant publisher challenged. This was in the days before people signed themselves “She/her” or “He/him.”
Placed on the defense, I could do nothing except insist I was female. From the sound of my voice, I was either telling the truth, or I was a boy whose—ahh-- voice had yet to drop.
Not only was my gender placed in question, but my credibility was placed in question, including whether or not my story was fact or a work of fiction. Chicken Soup’s mandate is to publish true stories.
In my head, I could hear my father’s response. I could see him shaking his Yiddishe kop and musing, “Oysh.
A goyishe kop!” Literally, a goyische
kop translates as “a Gentile head.” Google translates it as “an idiot” but
I prefer
to interpret the expression as someone
who is literal-minded. Someone lacking
in imagination.
Finally giving me the benefit of the doubt, the assistant publisher accepted that I was a woman and that my story was true though, if memory serves, she cut the questionable line in order not to confuse readers. Unlike me and its head honcho, Chicken Soup’s readers were assumed to be and have goyishe kops.
Upon hearing that one of his best lines was being cut, Daddy would’ve roared with sardonic laughter. Then he would’ve ground the assistant publisher into matzah meal. He might’ve told her, You dunt like mein ponchline? So you can poot matzah balls in your ‘Chicken Soup!’
‘Nuf said. Back to our story.
Because no feasible suggestions were forthcoming, the American publisher made one of her own. She ventured to suggest that her Canadian contributors contact journalists and exhort them to write “human interest stories” in order to help save the publishing monolith. The president of Chicken Soup, the former Wall Street analyst, hedge fund manager and corporate executive appealed to and attempted to recruit “Canadian contributors” into serving as public relations volunteers. And she succeeded. The handful of Canadian attendees rallied ‘round the flag, almost crying, “I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Thank you for your bravery and compassion!”
Bravery? Perhaps there was a touch in bravery in summoning a Canadian audience, if only through Zoom. Still, the Ukrainians are braver.
Compassion? I heard no compassion. What I heard was panic, fear, self-interest, and an inordinate amount of self-pity. I didn’t expect to hear it so soon. I assumed it would be only after American society fully self-destructed that its survivors, like the Germans in 1945, would point a finger at the diabolical Pied Piper who led them to ruin and wail, “We were betrayed!”
I felt frustrated and frozen out by the soft-hearted Canadian attendees, who seemed suddenly to have been stricken with Stockholm Syndrome. If they could've reached through their screens and hugged the American publisher, they would have. The compassionate Canadian attendees failed to see that the emperor had no clothes. In the past, I might’ve reacted the same way. In the past, whenever American society has gone off the rails, it has done so out of ignorance, arrogance or naivetéBut this time is different. This time we are not only witnessing but also being subjected to evil.
Realizing that I was spitting into the wind, I “left” the meeting and lay on my sofa, communing with my long-dead dad. Dad is always in my heart, and he has been on my mind a lot, these days. Not all my ancestors were murdered by the Germans. Dad’s eldest brother, an uncle I would never know, was slaughtered by the Russians on the killing grounds of Katyn. He wasn’t shot for being a Jew. He was one of 22,000 Polish officers rounded up and nightly dispatched with bullets to the back of their heads because they were perceived as potential threats to an authoritarian regime.
My dad was luckier. He survived Stalin’s Soviet Union and ultimately crossed the ocean, becoming a stranger in a strange land. As the proverbial fish out of water, Dad didn’t take peace and freedom for granted. He would’ve been horrified at the prospect of his children and grandchildren coming under threat by the puppets and descendants of a variant regime.
I thought of the words of Dad’s contemporary, John F. Kennedy, whom he deeply admired. We shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty.
Finally, I understand what these words mean.
