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FACE OF A MONSTER Anthony O’BRIEN. You might want to skip this story about an abusive priest from my past, it’s a downer…some lighter fare if you scroll down..
Story 1 Evil intent
God, I hate writing this story. Maybe that’s why it took me over half a century to do so. As a writer of facts, not fiction, I’m disappointed in myself. Disappointed for keeping quiet about something in my past that should have been out there long ago.
His name was Anthony O’Brien. Some called him Father O’Brien. Father? What a joke. He was a father to no one. O’Brien was a priest in our Catholic church when I was a kid. He arrived in my hometown when I was eight years old and he left when I was ten, in 1963…a lifetime ago. In the 1980’s an unidentified man, from my parish, St Joseph’s in Sydney, Nova Scotia, accused O’Brien of sexual abuse from incidents that occurred when he was a boy my age in 63, but nothing came from it.
1963 was a difficult year for me as a ten year old. O’Brien had been stalking me since I was eight. Our family home was his refuge almost every week when he showed up for Sunday dinner. Sunday became a hated day of the week for me. A very shy kid, O’brien paid attention to me from the get go. He was insidious, sneaky in his intent. He would call me ‘his girl’, and give me money, away from my parents watchful eyes. I remember that he wrote a poem and left it in an envelope for me, in it he said that I was ‘his mostest’ and of course the envelope included cash. I would take the notes and the money he gave me, run through the woods behind our house to the brook and throw it all away. His actions seemed innocent to my parents, but not to me.
“Fr. O’Brien really likes you, Sha”, Mom would say.
“I hate him” was my reply. Mom and Dad were amused by that, knowing that I didn’t like attention anyway. I remember every Sunday evening sitting on the curb down the street from our house, watching his car in our driveway, and willing, praying even, that it would drive off and it would be safe for me to come home. But no such luck. O’Brien was never going to leave before he saw his girl. Soon, my mother would be calling me in for dinner and once inside, my tormentor, who had invaded my safe space, my home, would have me on his lap in no time, making a big fuss over me.
By 1963 when I was 10, O’Brien upped the ante, I remember him coming to my grade 5 classroom, and telling my teacher, Mother St. Jude, that he needed to take me. She took a long look at me, I’m sure that she saw the terror in my eyes, and she told him, in no uncertain terms, that she was not allowing me to leave with him. They had a bit of an argument at the door, a priest definitely trumped a nun, but she was tough and he left without me. I knew that I was safe, at least while in her classroom. But he would come to the school yard at recess and try to get me into his car. My schoolmates, mostly the altar boys, would warn me, “Sharon, O’Brien’s looking for you”. Our house was close by so I would run through the school yard, into my own backyard and hide until I saw his car leave.
In the Kiwanis speech festival that year, I confidently trod onto the stage and turned to the audience to present my speech. There in the back row was O’brien, leering at me. I could barely speak and ran off the stage without delivering my words. My sympathetic mother was in the audience and told me not to worry, there was always next year. She assumed that it was stage fright. “Fr. O’brien offered to drive us home”, she said.
I had to get in the middle of the front seat next to O’brien, my mother on the other side. When he started the car, I jumped across my mother’s lap before she closed the door and out I went, running all the way home. Mom arrived home shortly after that, I watched as she got out of O’brien’s car and he drove off.
“Sha, why did you do that?”, Mom asked me, concerned.
“Because I hate Fr. O’brien”, I told her. I heard Mom and Dad talking later that night. It wasn’t like me, they said.
FInally, a frustrated O’brien got his chance. A party at our house. I was in bed, in my pajamas reading my latest Nancy Drew mystery book. The door was slightly ajar, I didn’t like closing it tightly. I would hear guests coming up to the washroom at the top of the stairs, enter the washroom, and go back down again. But one heavy set of footprints came up the stairs and walked past the washroom to the bedrooms. I turned towards the door and there was O’brien eyeing me, he came in and sat on the bed. Quickly, he was lying on top of me, full weight, his tongue deep down my throat. He was a tall and big man, I was a tiny child, I was suffocating. I tried to move my head. I couldn’t move at all.. or even breathe because of his heavy weight on my chest. I knew that I was dying. The next thing I remember I was in the living room, beside my mother. “Father O’brien, Sharon’s afraid of you”, Mom was saying and I turned to see him coming down the stairs. I waited until he was in conversation with others, before running back up the stairs. I spent the night hiding under the bed, since there were no locks on any of the doors in our house.
I didn’t see O’Brien after that, he had been sent to another parish in another city. I had my idyllic life back, but the trauma remained. By the time I was a teen, whenever I waltzed with a boy at a dance, I’d get physically ill. My best friend Val and I could not understand why slow dancing was making me sick. It was the same if a guy tried to kiss me. By the time I was in grade 12, I had an ulcer. In university I had my first lover, a serious boyfriend who was a medical student and he was getting vomited on a lot. “Why do you vomit on me when we’re making love?”, he asked, “do you hate me that much?”. “No, I love you”, I told him. He started researching the possible causes in the medical school library, and also confided to a couple of his professors about what would happen when he got close to me, but no one could come up with an answer.
Home from grad school in Montreal a few years later, at the cottage in Cape Breton, my sister said, “Guess who was here yesterday? Fr. O’brien”. I felt dizzy and nauseous, I hadn’t seen O’Brien for ten years. “He asked about you and someone told him that you were coming home today”, she said.
“Oh god, no”, I replied, “I’m going back to Montreal”. That was the evening that it all came out. I told my story, but only after a relative talked about how Obrien had tied his friend to a tree when they were 13, and told the other boy they should have a go at him. I told a watered down version about how Obrien had come into my bedroom when I was ten and tried to “kiss” me.
“Don’t you remember what happened?”, my father asked.
“No, I don’t”, I told him, “it’s a black out”. Dad went on to tell me that he had seen O’Brien come upstairs and when he didn’t come back down, Dad came up to investigate. “I got him out of there”, he told me.
“Why didn’t you discuss it with me later”? I asked.
“Did you notice that he wasn’t in the parish or back to our house after that?” Yes I did notice. Dad obviously hadn’t seen what really happened, O’brien must have heard him coming and jumped up. I still kept silent, it was too embarrassing to tell everything.
The next day, after Dad left for work. Mom, my little sister and I, were at the cottage, when a car came down the path. “It’s father”, said Lorraine. “That’s not Dad’s car”.
“Father O’Brien”, she said. With that, the room started to spin. I got up, dizzy, but made it to the bedroom. I heard O’brien say, “where’s my girl?”, as he stomped into the house. I opened the window and vomited outside. My mother told him that I was sleeping, and that he should go for a swim and see me later. She managed to keep him out of my room, while I lay on the bed, in the fetal position. When he left for the beach and I came out, she said to me, “do what you have to do when he comes back, I support you.”
I was drying the dishes, my back to the door, when he lumbered back in. “There’s my girl”, O’brien bellowed. I spun around and I’m sure I looked like Linda Blair from the Exorcist. One thing for certain, I wasn’t 8 or 10 years old anymore, I was now 21. And I was mad as hell. His eyes widened and he was quickly on the move. I chased him outside. He raced to the car, in his wet bathing suit, with me in dogged pursuit. He jumped in the car, as I swore at him. He started the ignition and I threw the plate that was still in my hand at his windshield. It broke into a million pieces. He kept driving. And after 11 years, I finally stopped vomiting. O’brien never dared darken our door again.
Around 2002, I was a columnist with the National Post and home in Cape Breton with my children during the summer, as usual. In my parents living room, I watched a news item on tv where the local bishop was being interviewed about a sexual abuse case against a priest. The victim was a ten year old boy. The bishop was saying that the incident was, “the boy’s fault, that he ‘came on’ to the priest”. I was furious and felt that this was the time to tell my story. But when I discussed it with a few friends, their responses went from “priests only abuse boys” to “he’s a good looking man” to “people will blame you”. And I backed down. You know, some ‘friends just need to be cancelled.
Eventually, going through another trauma in my life, I tried therapy. The Fr. O’brien situation was brought up and finally dealt with, the psychologist telling me that the vomiting was because of the abuse by the priest. “Why don’t I remember?”
“Because you were too traumatized”, she said.
“But I wasn’t raped, others have gone through much worse”.
“It doesn’t matter”, she told me, “with his actions, the overpowering attack, the power and control, even the loss of memory, the resulting damage was as devastating to you as though it was a full rape.”
Sylvia’s Site was a blog about accused Catholic priests. Once on there, several years ago, I typed in the name Anthony O’brien. A woman wrote that her cousin had been abused by him. I got a phone number from her and spoke with Donald Cashin, the victim, even visiting him at his home in Nova Scotia. Donald is a family man with a wife and son, but his past still colours his life. He tells me that he was violently raped by Anthony O’Brien, at knifepoint around 1968. I was shocked at the depth of the violence. Donald said that the night of the repeated rapes, he managed to escape, even with O’brien threatening to kill him. He ran home, bleeding profusely, and told his mother, who said, ‘dont tell Dad’.
“My father was a hunter, he had a gun and Mom was afraid he’d go up and shoot O’Brien, and end up in prison”, says Cashin, “Back then in the 60’s, the priest wouldn’t be blamed”. He added, “and Mom told me that she couldn’t raise her seven kids without Dad’s help”.
Cashin had told me a few years ago that he was suing the church. So I called him yesterday in preparation for this story.
“What happened?” I wanted to know.
“Nothing”, he said, “I had to back down because the church council did a discovery and they told me that if I took them to court and I lost, that I would have to pay their fees. They scared me”. He says that their lawyer told him that ‘30 people and counting’ have accused O’brien’. He went on to say, “they asked me if I was gay, I told them, ‘no, and for god’s sake I was just 12 years old when it happened’. No sympathy at all”, he adds. Even odder, he tells me, is that his former lawyer is now working as the church’s lawyer. “He told me not to pursue anything”, he says.
Cashin is still torn up this many years later. “I can’t move on”, he said, “how can the church get away with this, and O’brien dying an innocent man?” Cashin gave me the name of a psychologist who he had been seeing for years on this issue. I called the doctor, who is furious. He asked me to not identify him because he’s afraid of repercussions. He told me that he has stopped going to church over the way it mishandled Donald’s case. Donald asks, “why is there so much of this on the east coast? Maybe because these communities are religious, my mother used to think of priests as god”, he adds. What really upsets Cashin is that the church refuses to acknowledge the havoc that O’brien has caused. “They say they don’t believe me..”, he says.
“I believe you”, I tell him, ‘and so do the 30 or possibly many more victims of O’brien from across the country. You are not alone”.
The church says that it’s researching whether ‘would be’ priests’ might be gay before entering the fold. Cashin laughs at that. “My now deceased brother became a priest, first week, he was raped by another priest, his superior. He left the church and they paid him to keep quiet”, Cashin says.
According to Sylvia’s Site, ‘Anthony O’Brien was a Priest in the Diocese of Antigonish, Nova Scotia. Went to Southdown in 1975 (seems to be on heels of complaint of diocese re sexual abuse of 11-year-old boy in Sydney Nova Scotia in 1963). After release from Southdown, transferred to Diocese of Hamilton, Ontario. The chancellor of Diocese of Hamilton, Father Gerard Bergie, is quoted as saying he thought O’Brien was in Southdown for treatment of alcoholism and was unaware of any sex abuse allegation.’
Sylvia MacEachern shut down Sylvia’s Site in 2022. A practising Catholic, she said to the Ottawa Citizen that she will no longer update or allow people to post, as she has been deeply pained to see “diocese after diocese” forced to sell off churches to settle victims’ damage claims”.
I was sorry to hear that, as Sylvia’s Site seemed a safe place for victims to discuss what they had been through. And it’s where I found Donald Cashin. If the church hadn’t let the abuse go on forever, then maybe they wouldn’t have had to close so many of their doors and sell off. It’s not the victim’s fault, that’s for sure. The church is no different than any other business, they break the law enough, they lose their business. Even if they had to sell off every single one of their churches, and have the devout start up in people’s basements, that would be much more honourable than turning their backs on so many victims. I find it hard to feel sorry for an institution that turned a blind eye for decades and is still doing so…
And in regards to O’brien? There are many of us who knew him personally…and we, the victims, all know the truth – that he was a life ruiner for many – one sick, demented, twisted pedophile. And, he’s as guilty as sin….
Sharon Dunn, Toronto Writer
email me at sharondunncom@gmail.com
Story 2 TRUMP VS CLINTON FEB 1/25
I first met Donald Trump many years ago. It was at the Preakness Stakes horse race for three year olds. I was with my late husband, John Sikura, who owned thoroughbred farms in Toronto and Kentucky. As always when we were at a big horse event, John asked me who I would like to meet. He knew everyone, movie stars, tv stars, anyone you’ve ever heard of who happened to frequent the race track. “The only person I want to meet is Donald Trump”, I told him. ‘Donald Trump?’, he asked. Trump was merely a developer at that time, not even close to entering politics. But I was intrigued by him and interested in real estate development myself. John said, “I can’t help you with that, I don’t know him”. So I took a little walk on my own, and along the way saw Mr. Trump with his entourage. Same expression on his face as he has now, no smile, looking straight ahead, doesn’t look from left to right, forging forward. I got in rhythm with his walk outside of his protective circle, and moved in the same direction as him. I held out by hand, but I didn’t even look towards him. Next thing I knew, a hand grabbed mine and I was pulled into his circle as we kept walking, hand in hand. “Mr. Trump I want to drive my husband crazy, would you mind walking past him?”, I asked
“Sure”, he said, “where is he?”
I pointed out my husband and we started in that direction. When John saw us he just shook his head, laughing. Trump upped the ante, raising my hand to his lips, sealing it with a kiss. It was really funny. I thought he was a great sport and so did my husband. I went back to John and Trump went on his way.
Later, we were in the saddling area since we had a horse in the big race that day. That’s the thing with being a breeder. If your horse doesn’t sell before the sale, you take it to the track because you’ve already paid the expensive fees so that it is eligible to race, still hoping it sells beforehand. John would say that you’re apt to get a lot more if you sell before the race than after.
As we waited with our entry, Donald Trump approached to greet the horses and their owners. I was excited because I had already met him. But when he came up to us, Trump ignored me completely, and addressing my husband, conversed with him. I was embarrassed, blushing. I felt silly until Trump said to my husband, “by the way, you have such a beautiful wife”, which was an exaggeration, easily forgiven, and very much appreciated. “Oh, Mr. Trump”, I said, “do you mind?”, as I motioned towards a photographer who was working the event and who I had standing by in case we could get such a photo.
Donald Trump had a great way about him. He was a lot of fun, charismatic, and most importantly when he left, he had both me and my husband feeling wonderful.
By comparison, I also met Bill Clinton and sat next to him during a big event. He was at our table. There were eight at our table and he talked through dinner. None of us knew what he was talking about, philosophy and politics but at such a high-level intellect we didn’t understand. He got up to speak to the group and he was fantastic. I thought at the time that every girl there would go home with him, and then it also dawned on me that probably every guy there would’ve gone home with him as well. Back at the table, I was with a boyfriend who was the reason we happened to end up there. He decided that it was time to leave and as we got up to go, Clinton, who was on my other side, turned to me, took both of my hands in his, and stared deeply into my eyes. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”, he asked. He seemed distraught at my impending departure. Up to this point he had not really acknowledged me at all, but this was very powerful. “Uh, I’m not sure”, I said. “No you can’t leave yet”, he insisted. He seemed desperate. I turned to my boyfriend and whispered, “do you think we could stay a little while longer?” The look he gave me was daggers and soon we were on the way home. He was mad as hell, but I was, well…wistful, quite moved by Clinton.
So the difference was that after a meeting with Donald Trump, my husband and I both left happy. But after some time with Bill Clinton, I surely left happy but my man, well, not so much. So Trump wins the day on that one because Clinton seemed to forget that men make up half of the population, then again he was past his election years.
This is not about Trump’s politics. it’s just an impression I was left with years ago when I first met him. Was he normal then? Who knows? I am as terrified as so many others over what he might do next...
STORY 3 RUBBER DUCKIE IT SEEMED A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME JAN 30/25
Ok, maybe the rubber duckie shot was a bad idea. But it started out innocently enough around 1982. The Toronto Star had contacted our PR department at CBC Toronto wanting to do a cover story of me for the tv guide. This was great, it was a coup to get such a request. Photographer Dick Loek from the Star would be taking the photos. Loek called me and said that he wanted, “a number of shots, one for the cover, one of me in the studio, and one of me doing a sport I love”. I’m not very sporty, I told him. “Do you play tennis?”, he asked. “No”, I answered. “What sport do you do?”. “Nothing really”, I told him, “unless you want to include the gym, I went there once ten years ago, but I have no intention of ever going back, it’s a god forsaken place”. “There must be something”, Dick laughed. “I hang out in the Jacuzzi a lot”, I told him, “that’s kind of sporty”. “Okay, let’s do it”, he said. I agreed. He promised it would be ‘tasteful’. “I trust you”, I told him. The day of the shot, I wore a bathing suit, and along with the camera, the star photog showed up with a pink towel and a rubber ducky. I had brought the bubbles to obscure things. I went with the flow when he wanted me to wrap the towel around my head, and hold the rubber duckie for the shot. After all, as he pointed out, it was only going to be one small shot, in the corner of the page.
Nyet! When the story came out, titled “Soaking Up Success”, other than the cover shot, the bathtub pic was the only photo used, and it was huge. I’d been had, used, tricked, bamboozled. And to say there was kickback, would be an understatement. So much so, that even the Starweek Editor felt sorry for me and wrote a follow up story defending my decision to pose in such a way, trying to help defer the flack I was getting. But, alas, I had to admit that when you go to a photoshoot and willingly jump in a hot tub in a bathing suit for the story, you really have no one to blame for the fallout but yourself. A whole slew of my coworkers tried to have me fired. They claimed it was a sexy shot. I was insulted. “If I was going to do sexy, I would have done sexy”, I told them. In this shot, I look more like Big Bird from Sesame Street than a femme fatale.
I admit that maybe it hadn’t been my best decision, but fired? Our wonderful executive producer at the time, Henry Kowalski sent me a memo, stating, “while I probably wouldn’t have recommended it, had you asked my opinion, I want to take this opportunity to compliment your work on the newscast”. He ended by asking for an autographed copy, and I obliged. The great Knowlton Nash also supported me, as he always did. “They’re jealous”, he told me, “ignore them, you’re doing great”. The story died down. Vindication came shortly thereafter, when famous 70’s feminists Germaine Greer and Gloria Steinem both appeared on the pages of People magazine in, of all places, a bubble bath photo spread! And their shots were a lot sexier than mine. Also featured in a tub in the same edition of People was the hardly frivolous Lech Walesa, you remember him, revolutionary Solidarnosk? He’s now known as the former president of Poland. So in the end, although it wasn’t perhaps my finest hour, I was keeping very good company in the tub…and I did it first, at least I thought I did when I dove in..
Germaine Greer and Gloria Steinem 1983, People Magazine below
Lech Walesa, revolutionary Solidarnosc 1981 and former president of Poland below, page called Star Tracks
Moi Circa 1983, Starweek, Toronto created a helluva firestorm
Apparently Steinem and Greer also got some flack when their photos were published. What strikes me most in these photos is not that they are in the tub, but wondering if that is really Greer’s foot in her own mouth? If so, wow, that’s impressive. Other than that, we all look equally silly. Walesa actually did it again years later, there is a photo online of an older Lech in a bubble bath. Would I do it again? Hell yeah! Only this time, I’d hire my own photographer and keep creative control, so I could choose what gets published.` Which is why I became a writer in the first place. I was misquoted in so many articles that I decided to write about myself, instead of having someone else try to figure me out.
………………………………
STORY 4 Everyone knows how much I love my birthplace Cape Breton Island. I have land on the Bras D’or Lakes there, inherited from my mother. It’s on a bank overlooking the sea where I almost soar with the eagles, the most gorgeous place I’ve ever been. My very modest bungalow, is well, very very modest, albeit with the world’s best view. Because I’m right on the famous lake, now a biosphere, and also on a running brook, getting the rights for indoor plumbing are complex and could be a hassle. Not that the officials are unreasonable, it’s more my family, think the Hatfields and McCoys. But my dispute only involves one family, my own. Why there’s enough animosity to slay a dragon, I suspect. My brother in the cottage next to mine has indoor plumbing, but I see him sneaking off to the outhouse a lot, so I guess it’s not working and he’s trying to keep that from me. But if I make any move for indoor plumbing, all hell will likely break loose and I’ll be reported to authorities from the prime minister on down. So I decided to just build a state of the art outhouse to take care of the problem. But it didn’t take care of the problem. I wanted comfort. So I bought a six bedroom house in Sydney to solve my issues. That’s a 40 minute drive each way. When I leave for town and drive up the path, my kind cousin Peter, will generally stop me and say “Are you going to the bathroom, you can go here”. He does have plumbing because he’s not on the waterway. So generous and kind, but I’m not ruining everyone’s breakfast by running in and announcing ‘I need to go’. So I continue on to Sydney. You have to admit an 80 minute drive is a long way to go just for plumbing. So I decided to try the restaurant in Ben Eoin, which is only 15 minutes from my cottage. But always, after skulking into the washroom there, I feel guilty and order a meal in their delicious restaurant immediately afterwards. And by the time I’m almost back at my place, well, you know, and I feel like driving the other way to St. Peters to slip into another great restaurant, and do it all over again. I could always try visiting Philip Glass, the American composer and pianist who winters in New York, but who, like me, enjoys his summers in Cape Breton, in the Inverness area.. Widely regarded as one of the most influential composers of the late 20th century. Glass’s work has been associated with minimalism. So maybe he doesn’t have plumbing..humm.. But I can only hope… “Mr. Glass, my name is Sharon Dunn, I’d love to write a story about you, but before we get started, do you mind if I use your facilities?”
I’m sure you’re wondering, ‘what about my state of the art outhouse? Why isn’t it doing the trick? Maybe because the ‘state of the art’ part is three ply toilet paper. Let’s face it, an outhouse is an outhouse is an outhouse. Since I don’t use it now, I’m thinking of turning it into a sleep cabin for guests. That’ll keep them away.
LOL
Story 5 HARRY BELAFONTE AND ME
With the new documentary, ‘Following Harry’, Belafonte is on my mind…and I am transported back to 1977..
Harry Belafonte was coming to town. I was a television news anchor at CBC Halifax, the first female in that position, and I wanted an interview badly. I called his media people and was told, ‘no interviews, just show up at the news conference’. I found out that Belafonte was performing in Toronto, before his Halifax gig, so I called the better hotels in that city asking for him. One hotel operator finally said, “who’s calling?”
“His daughter, Shari”, I told her. I knew that Belafonte had a daughter named Shari.
“One moment please”, she said, ‘I’ll put you through to his room”.
“Shari?”, an excited voice said. Bingo.
“Sharon”, I replied.
“They said it was my daughter, Shari”, Belafonte said, obviously disappointed.
“Oh, they must’ve made a mistake, but they were close”, I told him.
“Oh, ok, he said, “Goodbye”.
“Wait, wait a minute”, I said, “now that I have you on the phone… I need a favor, a little interview for CBC television, when you’re in Halifax…”
“No”, he said, “come to the news conference with the rest of the media, I’m not doing any individual interviews”.
“Oh, come on”, I persisted.
He was very polite but very firm and despite my protestations, he refused my request for an interview. “I’ll see you at the news conference”, he said. Apparently he had not given any ‘one on one’ interviews throughout the hectic tour and was trying to stick to that plan. Belafonte was at the end of a gruelling visit to nine Canadian cities, during which he performed, without payment, to raise money for local symphony orchestras. His appearance in Halifax would be his final concert.
The day of the news conference, I went to the The Nova Scotian Hotel where it was being held, and peeked into the crammed conference room, quickly deciding that I wasn’t having any part of it. I’m shy in front of a group and knew that I very likely wouldn’t be brave enough to ask a question in front of the crowd of seasoned journalists. I know that must seem strange for a news anchor, but a live tv studio back then involved only about four people: two cameramen, a production assistant, and someone to roll the teleprompter. That I could handle, not a packed room. So I went to the hotel bar instead, ordered a soda, and watched the action from there. When the news conference was over, I waited until the media had filed out of the hotel, and then called the front desk from the bar, and asked for Belafonte’s room. I gave his daughter’s name again. Belafonte picked up.
“Is this Shari?”, he asked, suspiciously.
“Maybe”, I responded.
“Who is this?”, he demanded to know, “is this Sharon?”
“Maybe”, I laughed again, “at least you remembered my name.”
“Why weren’t you at the news conference?”, he chastised.
“I told you I wasn’t going, I was too scared”.
“What? Where are you?”, he asked.
“Downstairs in the bar”.
“You’re here”? he said, surprised.
“Of course, I’m here”, I laughed, “Harry Belafonte’s in town, haven’t you heard?”
“I’m on my way down”, he told me, adding, “how will I recognize you?”
“Goofy, big teeth, bad hair…”, I said.
He hung up, and a few minutes later, the man himself was standing in front of me.
“Sharon?”, he said.
“No trouble finding me?”, I asked.
“None at all”, he deadpanned. We laughed. When I told him the truth, that I was too shy to come to the news conference, he got it, and admitted that, even though he was a seasoned performer, he, too, had those moments.
That afternoon, I suggested that, if he agreed to a one on one interview, I would take him out to dinner, for fish obviously, as Nova Scotia is famous for seafood. This was long before the internet, so I knew that it would be a great way to do a pre-interview, to learn more about him… and besides, who wouldn’t want to have dinner with Harry Belafonte? He agreed to the interview, but added, “you don’t have to take me to dinner”.
“I want to, please,” I begged. He eventually agreed and I excused myself to make a call to my producer at CBC, “Listen’, I told him, “I’ve got us an exclusive with Harry Belafonte for tomorrow, but it’s conditional on me taking him to dinner tonight, so you’ll have to come up with some big money for this, it’s not going to be cheap”. I got the go ahead. I didn’t mention that it was me, not Belafonte, who was insisting on the dining condition.
That night, I picked him up at his hotel and we went to one of the best restaurants in town. Me and the perfect gentleman. The patrons applauded when he walked in. I was so proud to be in his company, not only was he famous, he was such a dignified and elegant man.
“Order whatever you want”, I told Belafonte when we were seated, “lobster, steak, champagne, I’m paying for it”. He laughed. I don’t remember what he ordered, but he said he wanted to eat light because of the concert the next day. I do remember what I ordered – lobster, steak and a bottle of champagne.
During the meal, it wasn’t easy getting Belafonte to talk about himself. He wanted to know about Nova Scotia, and asked me about my plans for my career. He told me that he was impressed how I had pushed him for the interview. “You’re the only one who wouldn’t take no for an answer”, he said, “you’ll do good”.
“I thought I was annoying you”, I told him.
“You were”, he laughed, “but it worked”.
He asked me about the struggles of trying to get into news as a woman and he told me that I was breaking barriers. “You have to be tough to do this, right?”
“Oh yeah”, I told him.
“Keep taking risks”, he advised.
When he tried to pay the bill at the end of the evening, which I figured he would, the waiter told him that it had already been paid. I had taken care of it on a visit to the ladies room. “Let me reimburse you”, he said, “because based on that car you picked me up in, you can’t afford this.” I was driving my beat up ‘71 Chevy Vega, which was worth about fifty bucks, if anything.
“Don’t worry about me”, I assured Belafonte, “CBC’s paying, and they’ve got plenty of money. “Where’s that other bottle of champagne”, I yelled to the waiter.
“What are you doing?”, Belafonte asked, aghast, “aren’t we leaving now?”
“Heck no, we’re just getting started”, I told him, “waiter, please, send drinks to the other tables”. I explained to Harry that the taxpayers pay for the CBC, so, “I’m just giving them some of their money back”. He shook his head, but was amused, and we were off to a good start.
The next day, we were ready to tape the interview for the evening news, onsite at the Rebecca Cohn Auditorium, where Belafonte would be performing that evening. He was upset with the auditorium director, something to do with the stage. I had been chewing her out as well, she had an attitude. Apparently, she had mentioned to the crew that, ‘Harry Belafonte and Sharon Dunn are both being unreasonable.”
“This is great”, I said to the cameraman, “she’s putting me in the same league as Belafonte”. I was honoured.
“She’s kind of a bully”, I told Belafonte when he sat down. “No, it’s not her,” he insisted, “it’s me, I’m not feeling well”. Belafonte was worried about his health and that’s why he was miserable. I was even forced to stop the interview several times because he kept coughing and trying to clear his throat.
“I hope it wasn’t the fish”, I said.
“No, no, this has been coming on for a few days’, he told me.
“Your voice was bad yesterday, too”, I pointed out (apparently he always had a croaky speaking voice, but I didn’t know that then). “I don’t think you can sing with that voice tonight”, I announced.
“I just have a cold”, he told me.
Belafonte obviously wasn’t going to disappoint the crowd. So wouldn’t it be great if I could solve his problem, come up with a solution? He would be eternally grateful, I was sure of it.
I had an idea. As always, I was carrying a vial of a certain cough medicine in my purse, a well known east coast tradition, invented in Toronto, that had gotten me through many newscasts when I had horrible colds.
“I’ve got a last resort”, I told Belafonte, “something that just might cure you”, I opened my purse and pulled out the small vial. He took it out of my hand.
“What is this?”, he demanded to know,
“It’s an ancient east coast remedy”, I told him, laughing.
“There’s no labels on it”, he complained.
“I rebottled it”, I told him, “so it would fit into my purse”.
“Can I trust you?’’, he asked.
“Of course you can trust me”, I told him, “remember last night?
We even closed the place down…”
“Maybe that’s why I’m sick..”, he muttered.
“What? I didn’t force you to go out, did I?” He gave me a deadpan stare.
“Ok, so maybe I did..”, I admitted, “but you told me that I was smart to take chances….so…”
I took the bottle from his hand and started to shake it. I unscrewed the top, filled a tablespoon I kept in my purse and raised it to Belafonte’s lips. “The show must go on”, I said.
“Let me smell it first”, he wisely suggested, leaning forward.
“No way, that’s cheating”, I told him, pulling the spoon back, knowing full well that if he took a whiff, he would never put this stuff in his mouth..
“Okay, open the hatch”, I said, offering the heaping tablespoon again.. He opened up bravely and swallowed all of the disgusting substance.
Immediately, Belafonte’s face contorted, and with a terrible gasp, he leapt from his chair. “She’s trying to kill me”, he managed to croak to the crew, as he grabbed his neck while choking and gasping.
“I’m not trying to kill you”, I laughed, “I’m trying to cure you”. The crew was laughing too because we were all from Nova Scotia, and had all been raised on the sadistic syrup. We weren’t worried because we knew that anyone taking it for the first time, would have an ‘oh god’ moment. As their tv promotion still goes, “It tastes terrible…”. When you make an admission like that in your ads, there’s a reason for it.
Eventually Belafonte stopped coughing, but he wasn’t happy, eying me suspiciously for the remainder of the taped interview. He had said he left a concert ticket at the box office for me, but I could tell that he already regretted doing that.
“You seem really upset”, I said to him after the interview.
“Well, I thought I was safe with you and the crew”, he growled.
“You are safe with us”, I responded, laughing again. “I thought you had a sense of humour?”
“Not when someone’s trying to kill me”, he retorted.
“Oh my god, I’m not trying to kill you”, I repeated, adding, without conviction, “your voice is sounding..um, a lot better already..”
He gave me a withering look.
“Miss Dunn”, he said, curtly, “my speaking voice has always sounded like this”. Miss Dunn? There’s such a finality with the name Dunn.
“Sorry..” I said, contrite.
After the chilly interview, he asked for the vial of medicine, and as he walked away with it, I said to the crew, “he’s definitely going to have that analysed.” This was not good, Harry Belafonte, maybe the most beloved star on the planet, was mad at me. Not to mention how my producer was going to take it, and he hadn’t even seen last night’s restaurant bill yet. Why did I always have to push the envelope? Why did I force the medicine on him?
A few hours later, I lurked around the lobby at the Rebecca Cohn Concert Hall, checking things out. The place was packed, so it looked as if Belafonte would show up and the show would go on. Finally, I gathered enough courage to approach the box office. “Sharon Dunn, uh, CBC”, I announced, hesitatingly, to the ticket agent, “I think there might be a ticket here for me, from, um, Harry Belafonte?” She didn’t hand me a ticket, instead she summoned security. Was I being removed from the venue? How embarrassing! Belafonte must have told them to throw me out if I showed up? Shamed, I followed the guard through the lobby, he seemed to be heading towards the exit, but then he veered and turned left, going inside the packed concert hall. Down the aisle I followed him as the lights dimmed, it was just before curtain time. An usher took over and escorted me to the front row, centre, shining a light on my seat. Good lord, it was going to be difficult to hide here. Had Belafonte planned for me to be in the front row? Or was he going to be just as surprised as I was to see me here? I was so close, I was almost on the stage. If he comes out, and starts to croak and cough”, I worried, I’m done for, I’m right here in front of him, possibly the cause of it all. What if the medicine made his voice even worse? I slumped down in my seat. What if he’s unable to hit the high notes, coughing and gagging and glaring at me from the stage? What if he points to me and says to the audience, “it’s that crazy woman’s fault?” I couldn’t take that kind of pressure. I clocked the exits, just in case I had to escape in a hurry.
Soon Belafonte came onstage, with a bang, his voice in full bloom. He sang like a bird, to a very appreciative audience. I started to relax a little. So far, so good. I saw that the ever present croaky speaking voice had nothing to do with his gorgeous crooning tones. During the show, he even seemed to be smiling directly at me, and did he really sing something that sounded like, ‘having fun when you’re out with Dunn?’, or was I getting sick?”
When the show was over, an usher came to me and said that Mr. Belafonte wanted to see me backstage. He was elated that the show had gone so well, confirmed that he had thrown in the Dunn line, and that he was smiling at me from the stage. He thanked me profusely for my intervention, even asking where he could get a bottle of the nasty, but effective medicine before leaving the Maritimes. I made a deal with him. “I’ll buy you some, if you call my mother in Cape Breton. My mom, Marguerite, loved Belafonte, Perry Como and Engelbert Humperdinck, in that order.
Before I delivered the bottle the next day, my mother called. “I just got off the phone with Harry Belafonte!”, she swooned, “he’s so sweet!”. Mom was thrilled, and Mr. B. got a very large bottle of the mysterious medicine to bring back to New York with him. The risk had paid off. Harry Belafonte now trusted me, saying that he understood, after smelling the elixir, why I had to trick him into taking it in the first place.
In Belafonte’s eyes, I quickly went from attempted murderer to heroine…
Friends for life? I like to think so. The wonderful Mr. B would call me periodically to ask for another bottle of the tonic, since it wasn’t sold in the U.S. then. I would never take payment. ‘Do you want me to call your mother?”, he would ask. And that was the trade off. I could picture Mom playing bridge with her friends in Sydney, and saying nonchalantly, “Oh, Harry Belafonte called me again..”
In later years he even gave me and my husband tickets to attend his concerts. Ok, so I called and asked for tickets but he always took my calls, meeting with us afterwards. Was all of this because of an ill tasting medicine?
The cough syrup in question was invented over 100 years ago in downtown Toronto by a New Brunswick native. I’m told that the taste is caused by ammonium carbonate, which opens the airwaves very quickly. I’m not giving a testimonial here (you’ll notice that I havn’t even mentioned the name of the medicine, although I have given you a BIG clue), but I can confirm that it worked for me and for Harry Belafonte….at least we think it did..
When I first met Harry Belafonte, I was twenty three years old. And I had no idea of the depth of the man. I knew several of his songs at the time, Banana Boat, Jamaica Farewell, and Island In The Sun. And I knew that he was a big deal. I was fortunate to get to know the man behind the image. It has been said that he has a carefully scripted persona. I didn’t see that, I saw a wonderfully vulnerable and very sensitive man. He was so worried that he might not be able to sing in a benefit concert, where he wasn’t even getting paid, that he was literally sick about it. I could see then, that he wanted to push himself, to do more, and he would go on to do so much more.
Belafonte was the force behind the song, “We are The World”, recorded in 1985 to aid famine in Africa. He wasn’t one of the featured soloists on the record when the song was being taped, he was actually standing in the back, in the chorus, next to Dan Ackroyd of all people. WTH? Ackroyd is more notable for being a Ghostbuster than a musician. Belafonte would have been fine with that, he was a star, not a grandstander. But I found his position in the back row rather strange. I can only assume that Belafonte volunteered so that Ackroyd, Waylon Jennings and the others back there would feel validated. And producer Quincy Jones could work his magic (without Waylon, by the way, who ended up walking out).
Also in that wonderful Netflix documentary called, ‘The Greatest Night In Pop’, released in 2024, I noticed that Belafonte, at around 55 minutes, in the back row, is coughing, hacking, and clearing his throat, just like he did during my interview with him eight years earlier. I can only assume that he had forgotten to take his medicine that night…wait now… 1985… I had married, moved to the farm, had a child, changed my phone number…had I let him down? Had he tried to reach me and couldn’t? I would have made a terrible drug lord…
Millions upon millions of dollars was raised from the sale of the We Are The World record, which featured the biggest musical names of the time, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Stevie Wonder, Dylan, Springsteen and so many more. In the doc, producer Jones says, “Remember the guy who started the whole thing, Harry Belafonte”. And Smokey Robinson follows up with, “Harry Belafonte was the most inspirational person for all of us who were there.” I believe that Harry Belafonte had one goal – and that was to feed starving children. I don’t think he cared less about the publicity, or that he was in the back row. As Belafonte himself has said, “I was an activist who became an artist, not an artist who became an activist.” He has proven that beyond a shadow..
Belafonte is well known for breaking down many racial barriers that were thrust in front of himself and others. He refused to perform in some southern US states for years because of discrimination, and before that, he and his friend actor Sydney Poitier were actually chased by the KKK while trying to fight racism in the south. Years later, when denied the opportunity to buy a condo in a building in New York because it was “a white building”, he bought the entire building with partners, offering units to both his black and white friends. Very close to Martin Luther King, Belafonte even helped King pay his living expenses for many years. King’s youngest daughter Bernice tweeted recently, “When I was a child, #HarryBelafonte showed up for my family in very compassionate ways. In fact, he paid for the babysitter for me and my siblings.”
I could write so much about his kindnesses and accomplishments, but that would take an entire book in itself.
Harry Belafonte was caring and humble, even as a superstar. It didn’t matter what colour you were, or if you drove a $50 car. He continually tried to help me, and gave me great advice over the years that has impacted my life.
Harry Belafonte died in May 2023 at the age of 96. What a legacy he’s left behind! He is already one of those exceptional human beings who grows even larger in death. Of all of the interesting and influential people I’ve interviewed in my career, Belafonte is number one, impossible to beat…a driven and beautiful soul.
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Story 6 WOMEN AND CARS
I am a woman who as been passionately attached to her cars. My first car was a 1971 red Chevy Vega. Dad got it off the lot for only $400, since the Vega, right from the get go, was not a very popular model. Here’s a description from Hagerty Media: “the Vega was not really a bad car, it was a breakthrough domestic small car that was sadly cost-cut, poorly executed, under-developed and hurriedly launched to a sorry result, well beyond Chevrolet’s and GM’s ability to save it”. Put another way, the Vega was a dog, it had as bad a reputation as the Edsel for unreliability. But still, I loved that car. I would come out from my first job in TV, to the parking lot, and there would often be a red rose thrown across the hood, from my very romantic boyfriend Ted. The rose looked so good on that little red sports car. If the rose wasn’t on the hood, it would be splayed across the windshield or inside on the dash. Vega lasted for several years, a lot longer than Ted actually. Our last trip (me and Vega’s) was a four and a half hour drive home to see my parents, which I often did, but this night the car conked out as we were coming down Oxford St. in Sydney. We coasted to Cottage Rd, I turned right and then left into our driveway. The Vega never started again, but it got me home safely. Even in its final moments, it had taken care of me. The Vega was my first… we learned together, so I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for it. It had an undeserved bad reputation, just like the wild looking boyfriend who you’re not allowed to date when you’re a teenager, even though he’s so good to you….if the Vega ever comes back, I will be the first, and probably the only one, in line to buy it…
My second car was an ungodly lime green coloured Volkswagen Beetle. Semi automatic, shift but no clutch, it was fun to drive and it always started, even on the most bitterly cold days. When much better cars weren’t able to turn over, the Beetle hummed, never with heat, mind you, as I don’t think the heater ever worked. And the Blaupunkt radio never functioned either, but the sound would have been really great, if it had, I was told, so that made me feel better. I bought that car for around $500 and painted it a bright yellow. I sold it to an Air Canada stewardess, as we called them back then, who paid me a lofty $850 for it. I got a call from her a few months later, telling me that she was stopped by the police in Toronto, and when she showed them her ownership, it said Vega. Oops. The police weren’t worried though, she was a really cute flight attendant, so they helped get her a new ownership slip.
Things changed after I got married and my husband John brought me home a gift. It was a brown car. With our relationship as passionate as it was, I asked, “Why would you get me a brown car?”
“Did you notice what kind of car it is?”, he asked.
“Of course”, I told him, “it’s brown”.
“It’s a Mercedes Benz”, he said. It was a 1984, 500 SEC coupe to be exact. List price was $57,100 US, in today’s dollars, about $174,000 US.
“But why brown?”, I persisted. John rolled his eyes. A few days later, he was off to the Keeneland horse sale in Kentucky, and I decided to give him a surprise when he got back.
I picked him up at the airport a couple of days later (this was when you could pull up at the curb to wait for a passenger), and when he came out, he looked around and said, “Where’s the Benz?”
“What do you mean, ‘where’s the Benz’?”, I asked, “it’s right here in front of you”, I gesticulated towards the now gold colored car. “I had it painted when you were away to surprise you”, I added. He stopped in his tracks.
“Are you surprised?”, I asked.
“Help me to the car”, he said weakly, “I don’t feel well”. He wasn’t kidding, he was trembling and a little ashen.
“Don’t you like the color?”, I asked, disappointed, “I call it Goldfinger”. John raised his hand, “just let me rest”, he said, closing his eyes. John was quiet as I drove home, but by the end of the trip, he had almost regained his composure, and, trying to accept the new reality, he asked optimistically, “at least they used Mercedes Benz paint, right?”
“Mercedes has their own paint? I asked. Who knew?
I stayed with Benz, but never bought new and that brings me to my all time favoured car. The steady, and some might say boring, C230. I picked it up on Christmas Eve 2009 after closing on my home, a deal that included all of the furniture and my then current old Benz. My new car, the 2007 Silver C230 cost me $23 thousand and had only twenty thousand miles on it.
This car and I had a lot in common. We were both kind of cheap and run of the mill, but we were definitely better than our reputations, and we were very reliable. We looked pretty good, as long as you didn’t get too close. And although we both got a bit beaten down and weathered over the years, we still ran just fine. My sons would make fun of Silver, as i called him,”first you had tape on the fender grill, and now the grill is gone”, Luke accused. “A friend of mine pulled it off, it looks better without the tape”, I insisted. Getting it fixed didn’t even dawn on me. “Get rid of that old thing”, Jay would say.
“How dare you”, I countered, adding, “Is that what you’ll be saying about me one day? ‘Get rid of that old thing?’”
I stayed completely loyal to that car, as it did to me. Oh, I would occasionally eye other cars, but never, ever would I consider making a trade. I didn’t care if another car was faster, sexier, or sleeker, no one was taking me from ol’ Silver. I have never been so loyal in my life. Maybe I should have chosen men the same way I chose that car – steady and boring, with a good pedigree… but alas, I never did. Silver made me understand how people can stay in long term marriages. He was so true, so reliable, so damn good to me, I could never stray.
In 2022, disaster struck when a deer ran onto the road and leaped onto the hood of Silver. I was fine, the deer was fine, at least I think it was, it ran back into the woods, but the Benz, although it limped home, was a goner, it was totalled.
“It saved your life”, the cops told me, saying that without the sturdy Benz hood, the deer likely would have landed on my lap, flailing about, and that could have been a really bad scene. Ol’ Silver and I were together for almost fourteen years. It was the longest and best relationship of my life, hands down. Teary eyed, I flew back to Toronto after its death and headed to my mechanic Bobby, who also fixes and sells Benz’s. “I have one I think you’ll like”, he said. I shook my head, no one could replace Silver. But lo and behold, there in his garage was what seemed to be my old car back from the dead. I couldn’t believe it!
“Just like your Ol’ Silver ”, Bobby said proudly.
I got in the driver’s seat and turned the key, it hummed nicely. Then the engine light lit up.
I turned to Bobby, amazed. “Bobby, is the engine light going to stay on?”
I asked.
He smiled and nodded. “Just like your old car”.
I sighed, and with misty eyes, told him, “I’ll take it!!”
By the way, you might notice that I’m not the best parker in the world.
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