CHAPTER 12
The digital alarm clock screamed into Tori’s ear. She desperately wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but the beeps stabbed her in the ear, demanding that the clock be shut off. Her arm groped for the alarm clock on the nightstand, and when she found the off button, it was if her ears let out a sigh of relief. As she drifted off, she felt a sense of urgency. She had to wake up. Her appointment was today. She could not afford to fall back asleep and miss the bus to Toronto. She forced herself to sit up. Her eyes started to well up. She was still heavy-headed and weak. She wanted it all to end so badly, but there was still so much effort and nausea to withstand. Her whole body was allergic to effort.
She grabbed the sweatpants and sweatshirt off the chair next to the computer desk and slipped them on in super slow motion. She didn’t bother to change her socks and she couldn’t remember what day she had first put them on. She stuck her hair in an elastic that she grabbed off the night stand. Much as she wanted to brush her teeth, her oral hygiene would have to wait. She planned to pick up some gum at the convenience store next to the bus depot.
She couldn’t bring herself to untie her sneakers and just shoved her feet in them. She grabbed her packsack and her jacket and locked the door behind her. The bus depot was up the street and down the highway, only about a quarter of a mile. But it felt like a day’s worth of effort.
She was conscience of movement: every step down the stairs; the push through the door, the walk down the path to the sidewalk. Dragging herself to the bus depot, she sniffed all the way. The stress stirred up her nausea. She thought if she could just make it to the convenience store, she could pick up some liquid Gravol and take a few swigs.
When she turned the corner of her street, she could see the gas station. Now came the most difficult part: crossing the highway. She waited until there were no cars in sight, then picked up the pace. She had to stop and rest when she made it across the road. It had drained her and the weariness was squeezing the tears out of her eyes.
The covenience store was in plain sight. She told herself to buck up so that the attendant would not ask too many questions. When she was about twenty feet from the store, the stress started to lighten. All she had to do now was pick up some gum, some Gravel and pay for her ticket and she would be able to sit on her butt for the next little while.
After her purchase, she sat on the park bench outside the convenience store and looked for the bus. She opened up the Gravol and drank it from the bottle. She knew she looked like some haggard drug addict, but she didn’t care. The nausea subsided and she felt closer to normal. Now she was just tired.
She tried not to think too hard. Especially about the purpose of her trip. No amount of thinking, feeling or crying could change it. It simply had to get done. It was no use trying to invest more energy to trying to challenge it. The bottom line is that she had to get un- pregnant. If only because she no longer possessed the stamina to get through the day.
The bus pulled up and opened its door with a loud thud. She found an empty seat by the window in the fourth row. She rolled up her jacket in a ball and put it against the window so she could lean against it and doze off. She only regained consciousness when the bus braked some time later and the door re-opened with that loud familiar thud. Her brain was somewhat awake, but her eyes wanted to remain glued shut. A dab of saliva slid down her chin and roused her into full consciousness. She instinctively wiped her mouth and realized to her disgust that she had been slobbering on her jacket in her sleep. While she waited for everyone else to leave, she popped two sticks of gum in her mouth.
A tough decision confronted her: to walk or to take a taxi. The bus would probably make her sick and she didn’t know the subway system very well. She decided to start walking and let her fatigue make up her mind for her.
The walk was arduous but not as burdensome as her trip to the bus depot in New Concord. The nap in the bus and the fresh air revived her somewhat. Nonetheless, she yawned all the way as she plodded along.
She turned the corner to Black Street where the abortion clinic was located. She could see several blocks down, across the street from the clinic the handful of protesters with their signs hanging from their necks, with their Tim Horton’s coffee in one hand and a rosary in the other. Ah crap, not them again, Tori said to herself.
Then she heard a female voice in back of her: “Hey, I remember you.”
It was the sidewalk counsellor from last time who had given her the pamphlet with the images of embryos. Tori began to pick up the pace, and would have run if she could have. The sight of a young woman walking fasted alerted the clinic escorts that there was trouble brewing, and they darted towards Tori.
“Can we talk? “ asked the sidewalk counsellor.
“I gotta get this done.”
“I just want to help. You’re making a big mistake. Please, can we just talk?”
Talk, the last thing I want to do, Tori thought. As she tried to keep up the brisk pace, she became more nauseous. She resented having to harden herself to her entreaties all the while getting sicker.
“Hey! You leave that lady alone! “ said a stern male voice. Tori turned her head, it was a cop coming to enforce the bubble zone law. The sidewalk counsellor sensed her time was up.
“ Money, housing, whatever it is, we can help you with it. Please, take the pamphlet. “ Tori felt the pamphlet brush against her shoulder, then it suddenly disappeared. Tori heard the sidewalk counsellor’s loud grunt as the officer caught her by the arm and rammed her against a brick wall of one of the storefronts. She whined as he cuffed her and informed her that she was under arrest for violating the bubble zone law.
The clinc escorts caught up with Tori, but she walked right by them. She headed straight for the garbage can in front of the clinic and vomited into it. One of them handed her a Kleenex to wipe her mouth.
She was happy to sit down in the waiting room. The escorts took her health card and checked her in. Her appointment wasn’t for a little while. Tori was more than happy to just sit and vegetate. But Tammy came into the room to tell her she was ready to see her. Tori shuffled her way into the counselling room and slumped into her the chair. Tammy sat across from the table, surrounded by files.
“How are you feeling? “ Tammy asked.
She was so happy someone had asked. Her eyes welled up. “So damned fed up.”
“So you’re sure of your decision this time?”
Yes, I am sick of being pregnant. It’s been a horrible week, I’m done, and I want out.”
“Well that’s what we’re here for, to make you better. “ Tammy pulled out a form from one of her files and started filling it in.
“I don’t know how other women do it because I’ve never been so sick and so tired in all of my life. I want this all over. “ She put her head on the table and sniffed.
“Every woman is different. Some get extremely sick, and some don’t get sick at all, “ said Tammy.
“I don’t know if I want kids anymore. This has been the suckiest week of my life and I never want to go through with this again.”
“Under different circumstances, you might have fared better.”
“If I’d been able to sleep twenty-four/seven” muttered Tori.
If. That was a dangerous word. Tori stopped herself. She could not afford to let herself indulge in alternate scenarios, however innocent they might be. There was to be no confusion about her next move.
Tammy slid the consent form towards her and handed her the pen. “This consent form says that once you’ve begun the procedure, you cannot stop, otherwise there may be complications that we cannot be liable for. “
She grabbed the pen and hastily signed the sheet. There. No turning back.
“First we need to do a medical history and an ultrasound and if there are no issues, we can give you the injection. This will stop the pregnancy from growing, and in a few days you will take some pills that will expel it. “
“When will I stop feeling like crap?”
“You may experience some cramping and heavy bleeding, and possibly some chills and nausea. But most issues will resolve themselves in two weeks.”
Tori looked crestfallen.
Tammy took her to the examination room where she was left to the care of a seasoned nurse practitioner with greying curly hair and the tell-tale stethoscope. Her name was Nadine. She took out her computer tablet and asked Tori about her medical history. In the meanwhile, an ultrasound technician wheeled her machine into the room and started setting up next to the examination table. When Nadine determined that there were no contraindications for medical abortion, she told Tori to lie down on the table and push down her sweatpants bellow the belly. The technician then squeeze some gel onto her abdomen and then sat down and applied the transducer underneath her belly button. Nadine left the room and came back with a tray and set it on the armrest of the large armchair that was used for administering injections.
Within a few moments, the technician had declared the pregnancy to be early enough to undergo a medical abortion. She handed Tori a towel to wipe the gel off her stomach. She was led to the large armchair where she was told she would be injected with the chemical that would stop the pregnancy from growing. Nadine showed her the three tablets she had to take in three days in order to expel the tissue. She wiped her bicep with some alcohol and then stuck her syringe in the vial with the Methotrexate, lifted it up and drew out the contents.
“Take a deep breath, “ she said.
Tori turned her head and braced herself for the prick.
She thought she would have felt better once she had had the abortion. But she only felt mildly relieved and a vague sense of sadness. But she was glad she was too sick to think as she could not afford the luxury of second-guessing her decision.
She waited a half hour in the waiting room to make sure there were no adverse side effects. Then after informing the receptionist, she left.
She noticed the ever-present protesters on the other side of the street. One of them, a young woman, was carrying an infant in a baby carrier on her back. The baby had a thick tuft of blond curly hair that begged to be looked at her. Her face reminded her Tori of a Pampers’ box.
Tori choked back the tears. Crying might have felt good, but she did not want to. She did not want to let any emotion affect what needed to be done. Not even to curse the protesters.
Thursday, 15 December, 2011
Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
The rally for free speech was supposed to begin on the courthouse steps at noon.
The feminists began arriving at 11:00 am. They gathered on the front lawn of the Hepburn building. They brought homemade signs of fuschia and magenta made of markers and Bristol board. They read:
MY BODY MY CHOICE
HATE SPEECH IS NOT FREE SPEECH
WOMEN’S RIGHTS ARE NOT UP FOR DEBATE
KEEP THE GOVERNMENT OUT OF MY UTERUS
A WOMAN’S UTERUS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS
ANTI-CHOICE IS ANTI-WOMAN
As they waited, they chatted. The giggles cut through the tension. One woman decided to hold up her sign on the sidewalk:
HONK IF YOU’RE PRO-CHOICE
She would get the occasional beep-beep. It helped pass the time.
Stacy Cameron arrived at about 11:30, wheeling her bike and a trailer to the courthouse steps, her protest permit safely tucked away in her backpack. Her cellphone handily in her pocket in case anyone tried to move in on her site.
The bike trailer was the one her mother used to pull her in when she was a toddler. Today, it carried her mini generator, her boom box, her microphone, a crate that would double as a stage and a binder containing her speech and other speaking notes.
She took out her equipment and plugged her boom box into the generator. She then plugged in the microphone and turned the volume up loud. The sound of the her voice through the speakers made her jump. But she was confident she could be heard all the way to the sidewalk.
As she set up her equipment, the feminist contigent, now numbering about thirty or so, huddled together to chatter and giggle about the amateurish layout. They pointed to the tiny Powerpak, the dated boom box, the crate that looked like it had been pulled from a dumpster, the mike that looked like it was purchased for $1.97 at Giant Tiger.
Stacy ignored them the way she ignored the alpha males at the back of her English class who thought it was cool to make jokes at her expense to shore up their entertainment value-- and therefore their popularity. Their chatter made her nervous, but in no way did it undermine her defiance. She would stand up for free speech.
When she was happy with her sound system, she turned on some punk music. She turned around and saw only Leo and Archie. It’s still early, there’s still time for people to arrive.
She then noticed that someone in the feminist crowd was filming protest with a phone camera. It stuck out of the crowd like a periscope.
Harry Harman arrived soon after. He wondered if he had come to the wrong place. Where is everyone? He wondered. While he didn’t expect a big crowd, he thought more than a handful might be interested.
Stacy pretended to go over her notes in her binder, but she was actually nervous about the turn out. She put her sheets in the right order and kept them loose, so she could flip through them more easily.
At precisely noon, Joe Colpitts arrived. Stacy breathed a sigh of relief.
At 12:05, she decided she had to begin. She went on as if the crowd numbered hundreds. “Thank you, thank you for being here today, “ she said into her mike. “Today we are here to stand up for the right of free speech, the right not to be harassed by some human rights commission for having an opinion different than that of the government.”
Joe Colpitts led the smattering of applause. “You said it!”
“I am here today because the manager of our town library is being persecuted by some feminist studies prof who thinks she can dictate to the rest of us what we can read! She thinks she can dictate to Harry what books he can or cannot display in the town library paid for with our tax dollars.”
She opened up her binder and three sheets flew in the wind, eliciting laughter from the counter protesters. But she continued to speak as if nothing had happened. She spoke of the need for free speech in order for people to be able to discern for themselves what was true or not true, because truth could never be forced from a higher authority, and every individual had the right to think for himself, and that if he could not express his thoughts, this would be a violation of his rights. She also spoke of the threat of an over-reaching government, attempting to micromanage the people to do its bidding, instead of doing the bidding of its citizens.
To the feminists, her speech seemed like a bunch of sophisms: things that sounded true to the ear, but could not be applied in real life. Because people’s free speech was often the instrument of oppressing others, and limits were necessary for the proper functioning of society, and governments were just as likely to help people as harm them.
Meanwhile, Harry tuned out of Stacy’s speech. Her strident opposition to Social Harmony made him uncomfortable, especially now that she was stating it in front of a crowd, consisting mostly of opponents. He was there simply to be nice to a young girl who was trying to take his side. He felt a bit awkward being more sympathetic to the counter protesters than to the main rally itself.
After about ten minutes, Stacy introduced the rally’s main speaker, Joe Colpitts. A loud boo came from the counter protesters. He took the mike and made sure everyone on the sidewalk and even across the street could hear him. He boomed about how the Human Rights Complaint against Harry Harman was a disgrace, and that all people should be free to display any book they want, or read about any idea they want.
“Not with my tax dollars!” cried one counter protester.
As Colpitts continued his speech, Stacy could see that they started to chant. Joe’s voice was so loud that it mostly drowned it out, but Stacy could vaguely make out the words:
When it comes to hate there will be no debate!
Joe spoke as if he were speaking to the passers-by on the sidewalk, and perhaps to the rest of the town.
The pedestrians wondered what the fuss was all about, as political demonstrations were rare in New Concord. One lady of about 85 stopped to look at the spectacle and sniffed in wonder at what was going on. Another gangly senior stared with his mouth agape, trying to make sense of the scene. And when he sized up the situation, he hobbled back home on his cane. A couple of twenty-something men strolled by with a basketball on their way to the local high school. Their heads turned towards the protests, and one of them jutted out his chin and squinted, as of to ask what was going on. They did not bother stop, but managed to discern the gist of the situation. Another woman with a baby carriage did stop and watched for a minute or so, and then moved on. A few more old-timers from the Mall stood by for five or ten minutes, but couldn’t stand for much longer.
The pedestrians seemed puzzled at what this was supposed to accomplish. The small band of free speechers were clearly marginal figures, and their small numbers spoke to the futility of their cause. Given that reality, it seemed ridiculous for a bunch of young women to have troubled themselves to raise such a ruckus. Their presence gave them more credibility than they deserved.
Most of the pedestrians were unimpressed. The free speechers were too few in number to be taken seriously. And too politically lethal. Considering the overwhelming odds of their fight, it was too much of a bother to get caught up in that struggle. Especially considering the trouble you could reap.
But the feminists were no better for pressing the issue. Their side had won. They were done. This was all political grandstanding. There was no point in feeling victimized. The system worked and handed them the victory.
After 20 minutes, Joe handed the mike over to Stacy. They could barely hear the applause by their fellow supporters as the feminists booed loudly.
Then it dawned on Stacy: she forgot to plan for more speakers. She felt a spike of nervousness, but never let on, and began to ad lib a speech as if it had all been part of the schedule. The feminists were chanting, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying as she was too busy thinking of what to say next.
Then in the middle of her rant, her voice no longer projected to the street. The boom box stopped working. Stacy excused herself to check the machine. All the connections were correct. She then checked the generator. A red light indicated that it was out of power.
When the feminists realized her sound system was dead, they let out a burst of laughter and clapped, and started to chant triumphalistically. For the most part, none of them believed in the supernatural, but they took it as some sort of cosmic sign that they were in the right, and that the speechers should shut up.
Without a hint of embarrassment, Stacy announced that given the technical difficulties, it would be a good time to wrap up the event. She thanked everyone for coming, and the end drew a smattering of applause. Harry was so relieved it was over.
She began to pack up her equipment and put it in the bike trailer without betraying any sense that her rally was a complete failure. When it was all properly stored, she mounted her bike, her head held up high, like she was a serious, professional activist.
The feminists watched her pedal away, barely containing their laughter. A few sent her away with jeers and sarcastic remarks. She pretended not to hear.
As Harry walked away from the courthouse, he overheard one of the counter protesters say with glee “this is definitely going up on Youtube.”
He squinted in disgust as he went home. This was probably all a bad idea, giving more ammunition to the opposition. Perhaps he should not have come. Perhaps he should have stayed home and waited this out and let the lawyers fight it out. What was the purpose of trying to sway public opinion, especially since he wasn’t even in agreement with what Stacy said in the first place? People’s minds were made up, and they just accepted the state of affairs, and why wouldn’t they? Social Harmony was a noble goal, and everyone wanted to feel like they were doing the right thing in trying to practice tolerance and progressive values.
He meandered through the town, in a pensive mood, thinking of his predicament. He passed Churchill Park, which was a green space with trees and bushes and a few benches. In a corner, he saw a bike, a trailer and some feet sticking out of the bushes. As he walked further, he could see Stacy, sitting on the ground, hugging her knees.
He felt very sorry for her, and thought he should talk to her, although he did not feel like it. He never felt he was any good at consoling others, especially when they were reduced to tears. But he would have felt bad, leaving her alone to fend for herself after that defeat. He decided to approach her to at least show that the cared.
He crossed the street and walked to the bush she was hiding behind. She only noticed his presence when she looked down at the ground and saw his feet. She then looked up. “What do you want?” she asked defensively.
“Are you okay?” he said, trying to sound sensitive.
“No.”
“Is it the rally?”
“Of course it’s the rally. Colpitts had me on his show, and no one showed up. I even had to twist your arm to come. “ She sniffed. “This town sucks even more than I thought.”
He wanted to tell her that she couldn’t expect people to take a rally organized by a sixteen-year-old very seriously. But he thought she wasn’t ready for that cold hard reality.
“What’s the point of living in a place where no one understands or loves freedom? They just love power, “ she sulked.
“That’s not true, “ said Harry.
“You of all people should understand that, “ she said angrily. “You have taken a perfectly defendable stance in the name of freedom and they’re trying to crush you. “
Crush, Harry repeated to himself in his head. He wouldn’t call it that. “I think it’s just a difference of opinion.”
“Can you fucking get over being so nice and stand up for yourself? They’re using the coercive power of the state to silence you. That’s not a difference of opinion, that’s trying to silence you in the most totalitarian way possible and you’re too blind to see it because you totally believe in that Social Harmony bullshit. You think that if you’re so sweet and nice to people in power they’ll spare you because you ultimately want what they want. It doesn’t work that way, Harry. They’ll crush you even harder because they can. They will make an example of you to all who would dare challenge their power.”
Harry tuned out of her rant. Her words were coherent but he couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. It was like she was talking about someone else, some other government or country, or some other matter. It wasn’t about him or his situation at all. All her warnings about the power of the state and the freedom he was losing was like some other-worldly ideas, kind of the way Christians of old spoke of the threat of eternal hellfire and the state of one’s soul. This was not reality as he understood it. It was only a bunch of theoretical concepts.
He was free as far as he was concerned. He had a nice, comfortable, well-paying job with the government and a comfortable lifestyle. Before this human rights complaint, he felt he could say what he wanted and do what he wanted-- within reason-- without being prosecuted for it. This one human rights complaint was the exception to the rule, because millions of Canadians lived comfortable lives just like his, without any real worries except perhaps the typical and inevitable dramas one might expect from domestic life. People did not live under the thumb of the government. What was this girl raving about?
After a while, he tired of her trying to explain what all this meant. “I don’t understand why you’re doing all this, “ he said, trying to direct the conversation elsewhere.
“No, clearly you don’t” she replied.
“Aren’t you interested in boys or something? “
She looked at him annoyed. “I don’t have time for boys.”
“That’s too bad. Love is such a wonderful thing.”
“You never took time out for it. “
“ I was too busy and I never found the right person.”
“Well same here.”
“Yes, but now is the time to look for someone, when you’re still young.”
She was irritated at the direction of the conversation. “Look, boys are not worth the time right now because you get needy and dependent and then they break up on you. You get tied down. You’re not autonomous any more.”
“But it’s a wonderful thing to be in love.”
“I don’t want to spend my personal freedom on a relationship that will eventually break up.”
“It’s better to have loved and lost.”
“That is such romantic bullshit, “ Stacy said disgusted. “My freedom is worth something, and if I’m going to sacrifice it to be tied down to some man, it’d better be a sure bet. The boys in this town are not sure bets. I don’t know if there are any sure bets in this town. They don’t seem to understand anything except what’s in between their legs.”
Harry felt insulted on behalf of his gender. “That’s a sexist thing to say.”
“Reality is sexist, “ she said matter-of-factly.
Harry was disturbed at the cynicism. This is what fuelled the extremist politics. It was so sad that such a bright young girl was so jaded at such a tender age when there was a whole wide world of wonder out there. She was missing out on so much all because she cared so much about this supposed threat against freedom.
The rally for free speech was supposed to begin on the courthouse steps at noon.
The feminists began arriving at 11:00 am. They gathered on the front lawn of the Hepburn building. They brought homemade signs of fuschia and magenta made of markers and Bristol board. They read:
MY BODY MY CHOICE
HATE SPEECH IS NOT FREE SPEECH
WOMEN’S RIGHTS ARE NOT UP FOR DEBATE
KEEP THE GOVERNMENT OUT OF MY UTERUS
A WOMAN’S UTERUS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS
ANTI-CHOICE IS ANTI-WOMAN
As they waited, they chatted. The giggles cut through the tension. One woman decided to hold up her sign on the sidewalk:
HONK IF YOU’RE PRO-CHOICE
She would get the occasional beep-beep. It helped pass the time.
Stacy Cameron arrived at about 11:30, wheeling her bike and a trailer to the courthouse steps, her protest permit safely tucked away in her backpack. Her cellphone handily in her pocket in case anyone tried to move in on her site.
The bike trailer was the one her mother used to pull her in when she was a toddler. Today, it carried her mini generator, her boom box, her microphone, a crate that would double as a stage and a binder containing her speech and other speaking notes.
She took out her equipment and plugged her boom box into the generator. She then plugged in the microphone and turned the volume up loud. The sound of the her voice through the speakers made her jump. But she was confident she could be heard all the way to the sidewalk.
As she set up her equipment, the feminist contigent, now numbering about thirty or so, huddled together to chatter and giggle about the amateurish layout. They pointed to the tiny Powerpak, the dated boom box, the crate that looked like it had been pulled from a dumpster, the mike that looked like it was purchased for $1.97 at Giant Tiger.
Stacy ignored them the way she ignored the alpha males at the back of her English class who thought it was cool to make jokes at her expense to shore up their entertainment value-- and therefore their popularity. Their chatter made her nervous, but in no way did it undermine her defiance. She would stand up for free speech.
When she was happy with her sound system, she turned on some punk music. She turned around and saw only Leo and Archie. It’s still early, there’s still time for people to arrive.
She then noticed that someone in the feminist crowd was filming protest with a phone camera. It stuck out of the crowd like a periscope.
Harry Harman arrived soon after. He wondered if he had come to the wrong place. Where is everyone? He wondered. While he didn’t expect a big crowd, he thought more than a handful might be interested.
Stacy pretended to go over her notes in her binder, but she was actually nervous about the turn out. She put her sheets in the right order and kept them loose, so she could flip through them more easily.
At precisely noon, Joe Colpitts arrived. Stacy breathed a sigh of relief.
At 12:05, she decided she had to begin. She went on as if the crowd numbered hundreds. “Thank you, thank you for being here today, “ she said into her mike. “Today we are here to stand up for the right of free speech, the right not to be harassed by some human rights commission for having an opinion different than that of the government.”
Joe Colpitts led the smattering of applause. “You said it!”
“I am here today because the manager of our town library is being persecuted by some feminist studies prof who thinks she can dictate to the rest of us what we can read! She thinks she can dictate to Harry what books he can or cannot display in the town library paid for with our tax dollars.”
She opened up her binder and three sheets flew in the wind, eliciting laughter from the counter protesters. But she continued to speak as if nothing had happened. She spoke of the need for free speech in order for people to be able to discern for themselves what was true or not true, because truth could never be forced from a higher authority, and every individual had the right to think for himself, and that if he could not express his thoughts, this would be a violation of his rights. She also spoke of the threat of an over-reaching government, attempting to micromanage the people to do its bidding, instead of doing the bidding of its citizens.
To the feminists, her speech seemed like a bunch of sophisms: things that sounded true to the ear, but could not be applied in real life. Because people’s free speech was often the instrument of oppressing others, and limits were necessary for the proper functioning of society, and governments were just as likely to help people as harm them.
Meanwhile, Harry tuned out of Stacy’s speech. Her strident opposition to Social Harmony made him uncomfortable, especially now that she was stating it in front of a crowd, consisting mostly of opponents. He was there simply to be nice to a young girl who was trying to take his side. He felt a bit awkward being more sympathetic to the counter protesters than to the main rally itself.
After about ten minutes, Stacy introduced the rally’s main speaker, Joe Colpitts. A loud boo came from the counter protesters. He took the mike and made sure everyone on the sidewalk and even across the street could hear him. He boomed about how the Human Rights Complaint against Harry Harman was a disgrace, and that all people should be free to display any book they want, or read about any idea they want.
“Not with my tax dollars!” cried one counter protester.
As Colpitts continued his speech, Stacy could see that they started to chant. Joe’s voice was so loud that it mostly drowned it out, but Stacy could vaguely make out the words:
When it comes to hate there will be no debate!
Joe spoke as if he were speaking to the passers-by on the sidewalk, and perhaps to the rest of the town.
The pedestrians wondered what the fuss was all about, as political demonstrations were rare in New Concord. One lady of about 85 stopped to look at the spectacle and sniffed in wonder at what was going on. Another gangly senior stared with his mouth agape, trying to make sense of the scene. And when he sized up the situation, he hobbled back home on his cane. A couple of twenty-something men strolled by with a basketball on their way to the local high school. Their heads turned towards the protests, and one of them jutted out his chin and squinted, as of to ask what was going on. They did not bother stop, but managed to discern the gist of the situation. Another woman with a baby carriage did stop and watched for a minute or so, and then moved on. A few more old-timers from the Mall stood by for five or ten minutes, but couldn’t stand for much longer.
The pedestrians seemed puzzled at what this was supposed to accomplish. The small band of free speechers were clearly marginal figures, and their small numbers spoke to the futility of their cause. Given that reality, it seemed ridiculous for a bunch of young women to have troubled themselves to raise such a ruckus. Their presence gave them more credibility than they deserved.
Most of the pedestrians were unimpressed. The free speechers were too few in number to be taken seriously. And too politically lethal. Considering the overwhelming odds of their fight, it was too much of a bother to get caught up in that struggle. Especially considering the trouble you could reap.
But the feminists were no better for pressing the issue. Their side had won. They were done. This was all political grandstanding. There was no point in feeling victimized. The system worked and handed them the victory.
After 20 minutes, Joe handed the mike over to Stacy. They could barely hear the applause by their fellow supporters as the feminists booed loudly.
Then it dawned on Stacy: she forgot to plan for more speakers. She felt a spike of nervousness, but never let on, and began to ad lib a speech as if it had all been part of the schedule. The feminists were chanting, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying as she was too busy thinking of what to say next.
Then in the middle of her rant, her voice no longer projected to the street. The boom box stopped working. Stacy excused herself to check the machine. All the connections were correct. She then checked the generator. A red light indicated that it was out of power.
When the feminists realized her sound system was dead, they let out a burst of laughter and clapped, and started to chant triumphalistically. For the most part, none of them believed in the supernatural, but they took it as some sort of cosmic sign that they were in the right, and that the speechers should shut up.
Without a hint of embarrassment, Stacy announced that given the technical difficulties, it would be a good time to wrap up the event. She thanked everyone for coming, and the end drew a smattering of applause. Harry was so relieved it was over.
She began to pack up her equipment and put it in the bike trailer without betraying any sense that her rally was a complete failure. When it was all properly stored, she mounted her bike, her head held up high, like she was a serious, professional activist.
The feminists watched her pedal away, barely containing their laughter. A few sent her away with jeers and sarcastic remarks. She pretended not to hear.
As Harry walked away from the courthouse, he overheard one of the counter protesters say with glee “this is definitely going up on Youtube.”
He squinted in disgust as he went home. This was probably all a bad idea, giving more ammunition to the opposition. Perhaps he should not have come. Perhaps he should have stayed home and waited this out and let the lawyers fight it out. What was the purpose of trying to sway public opinion, especially since he wasn’t even in agreement with what Stacy said in the first place? People’s minds were made up, and they just accepted the state of affairs, and why wouldn’t they? Social Harmony was a noble goal, and everyone wanted to feel like they were doing the right thing in trying to practice tolerance and progressive values.
He meandered through the town, in a pensive mood, thinking of his predicament. He passed Churchill Park, which was a green space with trees and bushes and a few benches. In a corner, he saw a bike, a trailer and some feet sticking out of the bushes. As he walked further, he could see Stacy, sitting on the ground, hugging her knees.
He felt very sorry for her, and thought he should talk to her, although he did not feel like it. He never felt he was any good at consoling others, especially when they were reduced to tears. But he would have felt bad, leaving her alone to fend for herself after that defeat. He decided to approach her to at least show that the cared.
He crossed the street and walked to the bush she was hiding behind. She only noticed his presence when she looked down at the ground and saw his feet. She then looked up. “What do you want?” she asked defensively.
“Are you okay?” he said, trying to sound sensitive.
“No.”
“Is it the rally?”
“Of course it’s the rally. Colpitts had me on his show, and no one showed up. I even had to twist your arm to come. “ She sniffed. “This town sucks even more than I thought.”
He wanted to tell her that she couldn’t expect people to take a rally organized by a sixteen-year-old very seriously. But he thought she wasn’t ready for that cold hard reality.
“What’s the point of living in a place where no one understands or loves freedom? They just love power, “ she sulked.
“That’s not true, “ said Harry.
“You of all people should understand that, “ she said angrily. “You have taken a perfectly defendable stance in the name of freedom and they’re trying to crush you. “
Crush, Harry repeated to himself in his head. He wouldn’t call it that. “I think it’s just a difference of opinion.”
“Can you fucking get over being so nice and stand up for yourself? They’re using the coercive power of the state to silence you. That’s not a difference of opinion, that’s trying to silence you in the most totalitarian way possible and you’re too blind to see it because you totally believe in that Social Harmony bullshit. You think that if you’re so sweet and nice to people in power they’ll spare you because you ultimately want what they want. It doesn’t work that way, Harry. They’ll crush you even harder because they can. They will make an example of you to all who would dare challenge their power.”
Harry tuned out of her rant. Her words were coherent but he couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. It was like she was talking about someone else, some other government or country, or some other matter. It wasn’t about him or his situation at all. All her warnings about the power of the state and the freedom he was losing was like some other-worldly ideas, kind of the way Christians of old spoke of the threat of eternal hellfire and the state of one’s soul. This was not reality as he understood it. It was only a bunch of theoretical concepts.
He was free as far as he was concerned. He had a nice, comfortable, well-paying job with the government and a comfortable lifestyle. Before this human rights complaint, he felt he could say what he wanted and do what he wanted-- within reason-- without being prosecuted for it. This one human rights complaint was the exception to the rule, because millions of Canadians lived comfortable lives just like his, without any real worries except perhaps the typical and inevitable dramas one might expect from domestic life. People did not live under the thumb of the government. What was this girl raving about?
After a while, he tired of her trying to explain what all this meant. “I don’t understand why you’re doing all this, “ he said, trying to direct the conversation elsewhere.
“No, clearly you don’t” she replied.
“Aren’t you interested in boys or something? “
She looked at him annoyed. “I don’t have time for boys.”
“That’s too bad. Love is such a wonderful thing.”
“You never took time out for it. “
“ I was too busy and I never found the right person.”
“Well same here.”
“Yes, but now is the time to look for someone, when you’re still young.”
She was irritated at the direction of the conversation. “Look, boys are not worth the time right now because you get needy and dependent and then they break up on you. You get tied down. You’re not autonomous any more.”
“But it’s a wonderful thing to be in love.”
“I don’t want to spend my personal freedom on a relationship that will eventually break up.”
“It’s better to have loved and lost.”
“That is such romantic bullshit, “ Stacy said disgusted. “My freedom is worth something, and if I’m going to sacrifice it to be tied down to some man, it’d better be a sure bet. The boys in this town are not sure bets. I don’t know if there are any sure bets in this town. They don’t seem to understand anything except what’s in between their legs.”
Harry felt insulted on behalf of his gender. “That’s a sexist thing to say.”
“Reality is sexist, “ she said matter-of-factly.
Harry was disturbed at the cynicism. This is what fuelled the extremist politics. It was so sad that such a bright young girl was so jaded at such a tender age when there was a whole wide world of wonder out there. She was missing out on so much all because she cared so much about this supposed threat against freedom.
Tuesday, 13 December, 2011
Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 10
Tori did not get out of her pyjamas that day. She laid listlessly in bed, watching the dust travel a shaft of light that pierced out of her closed curtains. She had been feeling fine up until that point.
Then the nausea hit her.
She had spent the day trying to fight the vomiting. It pushed its way up her throat, she pushed it down. She didn’t know how long she could hold up, but she was fed up with vomiting and did not want to take one single step to the bathroom. She had already made the trip several times that day, and a few times she didn’t quite hit the target. She had to expend what little energy she had cleaning up the mess on the floor and rinsing the half-digested chunks from her hair.
After several minutes of back-and-forth with her vomit, she had to run to the bathroom, although it was more of a stumble. She made it to the toilet and let out a long wretch.
Then she lied down on the floor. She did not have the strength to crawl into bed.
The tears began to well up in her eyes. What she wanted more than anything was for someone to help her-- to wash her hair, take her to bed, call her boss, and maybe run to the drugstore to pick up some Gravol.
Her pregnancy had completely reduced her to utter powerlessness. She could not protest, could not fight back, could not take things into her own hands.
She could only lie there.
And the only relief she had was that of tears breaking the emotional tension. She would have slept except the linoleum floor made her ache.
She heard a faint knock at the door. “Tori! Tori? It’s Jack, can I come in?”
She heard the bolt on the door being unlocked. He entered the dark apartment. “Tori?” Tori did not have the strength to respond. He walked towards the bathroom and say her lying with her hair dishevelled on the bathroom floor.
“What’re you doing there? “ he asked her.
“I feel sick, “ she said weakly.
“Why aren’t you in bed? “ he asked. She groaned. He picked her off the floor and flopped her on the bed. “What’s the matter? Did you get the abortion?”
“No,” she mewed.
“No?” Jack cried. He paced around the room. “What do you mean no?”
“Jack…I feel like crap right now.”
“Well if you had had the abortion, you wouldn’t feel like crap, “ he scolded her. He paced around the room. “ What the hell were you thinking? You can’t seriously be considering having a baby, it’s just ridiculous? Barbara will kill me and you barely have the money to pay for your own needs, let alone a baby’s! Do you know how much babies cost? You need a crib, and a stroller, and formula and diapers, and baby clothes that they outgrow in like three weeks and toys and medicine if they get sick…it’s just not cheap having a baby…”
As Jack ranted, Tori mustered the energy to protest. “I was just unsure, okay? It’s just not that simple. There are other things to think about. “
“What is there to think about? If you don’t have an abortion, we’re through! We can’t go on. Barbara will kill me. “
“I had to be sure of my feelings.”
“How can you say that? You are in no position to have a baby. This is insane.”
The adrenaline built up inside her and she wanted to fight back but her brain was too fuzzy to think of what to say. Finally the stress was too much to bear and she rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. She managed to kneel and put her face over the toilet on time. Her mouth let out a long gutteral noise and expelled a thin stream of brown bile.
Jack winced at the sound. When her stomach could not contract any longer, she slumped onto the floor.
He peered into the bathroom. “Can’t you get up?”
She groaned.
He picked her up once again and plunked her down on the bed. He began to pace around some more. He looked at her. She couldn’t move a muscle. Clearly she was in no condition for him to press the issue.
“I have to get back to Barbara, “ Jack said.
“Don’t go,” Tori mumbled.
“What?”
“Don’t go. I’m sick.”
“I’m sorry. I have to leave. I have to get back. “
The tears started to well up.
“Please don’t make this hard on me, Tori, “ he begged. “I’m sorry. Just-- make sure you get the abortion, okay? It’s gotta get done. I’ll see you later.”
She sobbed.
He opened the door and left.
She barely had the energy to cry to herself, but it was the only comfort left to her. The steam from her face was the only warmth she felt. It was the only thing alleviating the overwhelming sense of being fed up. It was bad enough that Jack was pushing her to have an abortion. Now she was hounded by unrelenting nausea. She could not see herself living like this for six weeks.
Not one more day, she thought to herself. Not one more day of vomiting. Not one more day of barfing back the day’s sustenance. Not one more day of wiping puke off the floor and rinsing half-digested chunks from her hair, with no one to lean on.
Consideration for her feelings and personal convictions were now a luxury. The course of action seemed clear. If she did not get that abortion, she would lose Jack and be miserable for many weeks yet. Perhaps many months.
…
Jack sat in his car for a minute before he turned on the ignition. He felt bad for leaving Tori that way. But he needed to get away. Back to the safe predictability of home. While he still enjoyed it.
He turned on the ignition and started driving, his mind drifting in thought. There was still time, don’t panic, he thought. The dynamic of the situation required it. Did she seriously think that she could parent under the circumstances? Even if Barbara were not picture, it was still a long shot. To any impartial observer-- especially to anyone who had raised children-- the prospect was patently ludicrous. Of course, she could not see it, given her lack of life experience, Jack thought. That’s why she needed someone to tell her.
He pulled into the driveway, then entered the house through the side door. Barbara stood in front of the stove, wearing a purple flowery dress over her bulky self. She was tasting the spaghetti sauce she was making for supper.
“You’re early, “ she said with delight.
“I guess traffic was lighter than usual, “ he said. He hung up his jacket and headed to the fridge for a drink. He pulled out a can of Coke and sat down at the kitchen table.
For a few hours, he could forget about Tori. Barbara made the family a wonderful spaghetti dinner, and the boys competed with each other to tell their dad what had happened at school that day, especially in gym. They loved to brag about their exploits in soccer and how good they were. Then there were dishes to load in the dishwasher, and homework to supervise. And finally he made sure they got washed and put their jammies on.
The domestic normality relieved him of some of the stress of his predicament with Tori.
Then it came time for bed.
He lay against Barbara’s Mama Grizzly body. It felt comfortable and secure in the face of his life’s present drama. He cuddled her, although he could must no sexual desire. It was a guilt cuddle. He felt somewhat unworthy to be there, given how she had stood by him all this time.
He analyzed what went wrong. And the answer seemed obvious. They hadn’t taken enough precautions. Sure, Tori was on the Pill, but the real problem was him. He should have had a vasectomy. When Barbara had had a tubal ligation, he thought he was all done with birth control. He thought to himself: Tori is young; she may want children someday; she shouldn’t shoulder the burden by herself, especially since the consequences were more dramatic for him. If only he had had a vasectomy before starting this relationship, there would have been no problem. But, this is not an eventuality one foresees when one uses birth control. Preventing birth is its job, after all, and it’s expected to fulfill that role. But now he knew how imperfect it was. It was time to get a vasectomy, and he would never get another woman pregnant again.
Monday, 12 December, 2011
Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
Harry put on his best dark suit that morning. Then he checked his book club message board because he figured he would not have a chance to look at it for the rest of the day.
Today was the mediation hearing on the Jaheem Howell case.
There was only one new message since last night. Liberty Bell had messaged him, wishing him luck on the Jaheem Howell case.
It was nice to have someone on his side. Even if it was only a sixteen-year-old. It was nice to think that not everyone suspected him of racism.
He walked downtown the courthouse, a building he had always resented. It was built during an age of architectural disaster in a style that he dubbed “early 1970’s cheap” which to him was reminiscent of the functional, but soulless, office blocks of communist East Germany. The courthouse looked like a big slab of concrete with few windows. It was thirty feet inline from the sidewalk. The path to the outside stairs was of interlocking pink bricks, the only touch of colour in the whole complex. The dozen stairs to the main entrance were flanked by two cheap iron hand rails.
Harry resented the fact that the town elders had lacked the civic pride to give the courthouse a desperately needed makeover, if only to add some trimming to give it some character. He feared that any visitor who already harboured the prejudice that small towns were dull and drab would have their preconceptions confirmed at the sight of the courthouse.
He took the elevator to the third floor and entered Mediation Room 3-A. The tables were shaped in a U- shape. Eli Applebaum was already seated at his table on the left. Jaheem’s lawyer was on the right. Seymour Klatt was an employee of the Human Rights Tribunal. The hearing was presided by Justice Stuart Remington, who had graduated from Carleton University with a PhD in Human Rights Studies.
The purpose of the hearing was to go over the facts of the case an attempt a resolution based on mutual agreement. The meeting was scheduled to start at nine a.m.
At nine a.m., Justice Remington looked at the clock. Jaheem Howell had not arrived yet. “Let’s give Mr. Howell a few more minutes to arrive.”
So they waited five more minutes.
Still no Jaheem Howell.
Klatt took out his cell phone and went into the hallway and dialled his client’s number. He returned shortly after.
“No answer? “ said Remington.
Klatt shook his head. “His cell phone is out of service. “
He next contact the furniture warehouse where his client worked. “Yes, hello, may I please speak to Jaheem Howell, please?…I see, thank you very much. “ He clicked his phone and turned to the judge. “He quit a few days ago.”
Applebaum smirked to himself.
“I’ll try his mother’s place, “ said Klatt. He pressed the speed dial button then put the phone to his hear. “Hello, Mrs. Howell, this is Seymour Klatt… I’m Jaheem’s attorney…oh no, he’s not in trouble with the law, I’m trying to track down your son, he has a Human Rights Mediation Hearing today…Do you know if he’ll be coming back any time soon? …No I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you very much.” He pressed the off button. “According to his mother, Mr. Howell has not been seen in two days and it is believed that he returned to Jamaica but his mother had no intention of returning to Canada any time soon. “
“Do we know why he returned to Jamaica?” asked Justice Remington.
“No explanation was given. It seems his decision was somewhat spontaneous.”
Justice Remington put his hands together and said soberly “in light of these turn of events, I feel compelled to dismiss the case as our main witness does not appear to be available to pursue the process. The hearing is now adjourned.”
Yes! Harry exclaimed in his mind.
Eli beamed. “Congratulations, “ he said to his client.¸
“So, can I expect a refund on my retainer from my union? “ asked Harry.
“`Fraid not, my friend, “ said Eli.
“But I won, “ Harry protested.
“You didn’t win, the case was dismissed. According to your union’s collective bargaining agreement, you only get reimbursed if you are actually found to be innocent, “ Eli explained.
“But I am innocent. The case was dismissed.”
“Nothing was proven during this hearing. The union does not want to risk paying for the legal fees of potential human rights abusers, “ said Eli.
Harry groaned to himself.
“Let’s hope it’s this painless when we are up against Gisela, “ said Eli.
He left the courthouse and headed for the library. He wanted to hide out in his office and unwind, and try to process what had just happened that day.
He looked up Poliblogs. No one had said anything about it. He had hoped the word had leaked out. But there had been no reporter in the room and the Human Rights Commission website was only updated about once a week. It galled him that he was practically condemned as a racist, and now no one had been there to see his case dismissed. The way in which Jaheem had skipped the country would have given some indication of his personal character, though he somewhat dreaded the fact that this would confirm in the minds of certain people the worst stereotypes about Jamaicans. He wondered if he should issue a press release on his own behalf. But then he wondered if anyone would pay attention. Except maybe for the speechies. Whose reaction he dreaded.
Although Harry felt exonerated by the system, the ease with which he was accused and virtually condemned both by the system and the court of public opinion seemed to be an obvious flaw in the process designed to promote Social Harmony. After all, he was not a racist and had done nothing wrong. But someone had the audacity to bring a false accusation against him, an accusation that seemed plausible, given the standard of the burden of proof. It was the complainant’s word against his, and since the complainant was a member of a minority that was traditionally discriminated against, his word would have more weight, seeing as it was more plausible that discrimination had taken place, than not.
In that context, the false accusation was even more outrageous to Harry. How could anyone, especially someone who was meant to be protected by such a system, harbour the degree of lying malice necessary especially when the targets were decent, hardworking people?
Harry mused to himself: how could the government further Social Harmony in these cases, or at least limit the damage?
False and frivolous accusations were counterproductive in promoting Social Harmony. The potential for breeding resentment among people of various races was obvious. But he didn’t want to pursue that thought too far. Black people had obviously been the victims of such profound and systemic violence that any injustice suffered by Whites seemed to pale by comparison. The Human Rights system was designed to especially help the underprivileged classes, of whom Blacks had made up a disproportionate number. It seemed petty to want to change the system based on the one indignity suffered by a white privileged male.
And yet the sting of the injustice was difficult to bear. In the public mind he stood accused of being a racist-- a racist! -- of all things. He resented that his moral character had been maligned by suspicions of harbouring such dark instincts. He knew he was a good man, and he wanted everyone else in New Concord to know it. He wondered: how does one overcome such a rash and implacable judgement?
Later that afternoon, Mrs. Keeble knocked on Harry’s door. He was still hiding out in his office, checking to see if the blogs had any articles pertaining to his case, but none were forthcoming. She had come to tell Harry that she was taking her break and that everyone else was too busy to man the circulation desk. She asked if he could take over.
He emerged from this office with some trepidation. He could see a trio of little old ladies at a nearby table having a quiet chat. As he came out of his office, their heads turned in his direction, and their voices suddenly became more hushed.
The first person in line was Stacy Cameron, who came with a stack of at least a dozen books. Harry picked up the first book and passed it over the scanner.
“So what happened at your hearing with Jaheem Howell? “ she asked. Her voice shot across the room.
He was happy she’d asked. “He didn’t show up, “ he said plainly.
“Didn’t show up? “ She repeated louder.
Harry noticed that the eyes of the little old ladies slanting in his redirection.
“His lawyer tried to contact him at several places and finally his mother said he’d skipped the country, “ Harry explained as he continued to scan the books.
“What a shit! “
Harry cringed.
“He put you through all that crap for nothing?” She gasped in disgust. “So, are you coming to my rally on Saturday?”
“Shhhhh, Stacy, this is a library. Please keep it down.”
“Oh sorry…Well?”
Harry paused awkwardly.
Her shoulders dropped. “I’m doing this for you. The least you can do is show up.”
His eyes shifted. “I’ll see what I can do. “
“Don’t wimp out. We have to show them that your rights mean something. “ She picked up the books and put them in her backpack. “Don’t miss this chance to make a statement, “ she said to him. Then she left in her typical no non-sense gait.
He felt like a schmuck. Here she was, one of the few people in town rooting for him, and one of the few to actually try to and do something about his case. And yet her misguided beliefs made him cringe. Should I go just to be a good sport? He wondered. Maybe I should. Just to show my appreciation. I can’t afford to lose too many allies.
Harry put on his best dark suit that morning. Then he checked his book club message board because he figured he would not have a chance to look at it for the rest of the day.
Today was the mediation hearing on the Jaheem Howell case.
There was only one new message since last night. Liberty Bell had messaged him, wishing him luck on the Jaheem Howell case.
It was nice to have someone on his side. Even if it was only a sixteen-year-old. It was nice to think that not everyone suspected him of racism.
He walked downtown the courthouse, a building he had always resented. It was built during an age of architectural disaster in a style that he dubbed “early 1970’s cheap” which to him was reminiscent of the functional, but soulless, office blocks of communist East Germany. The courthouse looked like a big slab of concrete with few windows. It was thirty feet inline from the sidewalk. The path to the outside stairs was of interlocking pink bricks, the only touch of colour in the whole complex. The dozen stairs to the main entrance were flanked by two cheap iron hand rails.
Harry resented the fact that the town elders had lacked the civic pride to give the courthouse a desperately needed makeover, if only to add some trimming to give it some character. He feared that any visitor who already harboured the prejudice that small towns were dull and drab would have their preconceptions confirmed at the sight of the courthouse.
He took the elevator to the third floor and entered Mediation Room 3-A. The tables were shaped in a U- shape. Eli Applebaum was already seated at his table on the left. Jaheem’s lawyer was on the right. Seymour Klatt was an employee of the Human Rights Tribunal. The hearing was presided by Justice Stuart Remington, who had graduated from Carleton University with a PhD in Human Rights Studies.
The purpose of the hearing was to go over the facts of the case an attempt a resolution based on mutual agreement. The meeting was scheduled to start at nine a.m.
At nine a.m., Justice Remington looked at the clock. Jaheem Howell had not arrived yet. “Let’s give Mr. Howell a few more minutes to arrive.”
So they waited five more minutes.
Still no Jaheem Howell.
Klatt took out his cell phone and went into the hallway and dialled his client’s number. He returned shortly after.
“No answer? “ said Remington.
Klatt shook his head. “His cell phone is out of service. “
He next contact the furniture warehouse where his client worked. “Yes, hello, may I please speak to Jaheem Howell, please?…I see, thank you very much. “ He clicked his phone and turned to the judge. “He quit a few days ago.”
Applebaum smirked to himself.
“I’ll try his mother’s place, “ said Klatt. He pressed the speed dial button then put the phone to his hear. “Hello, Mrs. Howell, this is Seymour Klatt… I’m Jaheem’s attorney…oh no, he’s not in trouble with the law, I’m trying to track down your son, he has a Human Rights Mediation Hearing today…Do you know if he’ll be coming back any time soon? …No I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you very much.” He pressed the off button. “According to his mother, Mr. Howell has not been seen in two days and it is believed that he returned to Jamaica but his mother had no intention of returning to Canada any time soon. “
“Do we know why he returned to Jamaica?” asked Justice Remington.
“No explanation was given. It seems his decision was somewhat spontaneous.”
Justice Remington put his hands together and said soberly “in light of these turn of events, I feel compelled to dismiss the case as our main witness does not appear to be available to pursue the process. The hearing is now adjourned.”
Yes! Harry exclaimed in his mind.
Eli beamed. “Congratulations, “ he said to his client.¸
“So, can I expect a refund on my retainer from my union? “ asked Harry.
“`Fraid not, my friend, “ said Eli.
“But I won, “ Harry protested.
“You didn’t win, the case was dismissed. According to your union’s collective bargaining agreement, you only get reimbursed if you are actually found to be innocent, “ Eli explained.
“But I am innocent. The case was dismissed.”
“Nothing was proven during this hearing. The union does not want to risk paying for the legal fees of potential human rights abusers, “ said Eli.
Harry groaned to himself.
“Let’s hope it’s this painless when we are up against Gisela, “ said Eli.
He left the courthouse and headed for the library. He wanted to hide out in his office and unwind, and try to process what had just happened that day.
He looked up Poliblogs. No one had said anything about it. He had hoped the word had leaked out. But there had been no reporter in the room and the Human Rights Commission website was only updated about once a week. It galled him that he was practically condemned as a racist, and now no one had been there to see his case dismissed. The way in which Jaheem had skipped the country would have given some indication of his personal character, though he somewhat dreaded the fact that this would confirm in the minds of certain people the worst stereotypes about Jamaicans. He wondered if he should issue a press release on his own behalf. But then he wondered if anyone would pay attention. Except maybe for the speechies. Whose reaction he dreaded.
Although Harry felt exonerated by the system, the ease with which he was accused and virtually condemned both by the system and the court of public opinion seemed to be an obvious flaw in the process designed to promote Social Harmony. After all, he was not a racist and had done nothing wrong. But someone had the audacity to bring a false accusation against him, an accusation that seemed plausible, given the standard of the burden of proof. It was the complainant’s word against his, and since the complainant was a member of a minority that was traditionally discriminated against, his word would have more weight, seeing as it was more plausible that discrimination had taken place, than not.
In that context, the false accusation was even more outrageous to Harry. How could anyone, especially someone who was meant to be protected by such a system, harbour the degree of lying malice necessary especially when the targets were decent, hardworking people?
Harry mused to himself: how could the government further Social Harmony in these cases, or at least limit the damage?
False and frivolous accusations were counterproductive in promoting Social Harmony. The potential for breeding resentment among people of various races was obvious. But he didn’t want to pursue that thought too far. Black people had obviously been the victims of such profound and systemic violence that any injustice suffered by Whites seemed to pale by comparison. The Human Rights system was designed to especially help the underprivileged classes, of whom Blacks had made up a disproportionate number. It seemed petty to want to change the system based on the one indignity suffered by a white privileged male.
And yet the sting of the injustice was difficult to bear. In the public mind he stood accused of being a racist-- a racist! -- of all things. He resented that his moral character had been maligned by suspicions of harbouring such dark instincts. He knew he was a good man, and he wanted everyone else in New Concord to know it. He wondered: how does one overcome such a rash and implacable judgement?
Later that afternoon, Mrs. Keeble knocked on Harry’s door. He was still hiding out in his office, checking to see if the blogs had any articles pertaining to his case, but none were forthcoming. She had come to tell Harry that she was taking her break and that everyone else was too busy to man the circulation desk. She asked if he could take over.
He emerged from this office with some trepidation. He could see a trio of little old ladies at a nearby table having a quiet chat. As he came out of his office, their heads turned in his direction, and their voices suddenly became more hushed.
The first person in line was Stacy Cameron, who came with a stack of at least a dozen books. Harry picked up the first book and passed it over the scanner.
“So what happened at your hearing with Jaheem Howell? “ she asked. Her voice shot across the room.
He was happy she’d asked. “He didn’t show up, “ he said plainly.
“Didn’t show up? “ She repeated louder.
Harry noticed that the eyes of the little old ladies slanting in his redirection.
“His lawyer tried to contact him at several places and finally his mother said he’d skipped the country, “ Harry explained as he continued to scan the books.
“What a shit! “
Harry cringed.
“He put you through all that crap for nothing?” She gasped in disgust. “So, are you coming to my rally on Saturday?”
“Shhhhh, Stacy, this is a library. Please keep it down.”
“Oh sorry…Well?”
Harry paused awkwardly.
Her shoulders dropped. “I’m doing this for you. The least you can do is show up.”
His eyes shifted. “I’ll see what I can do. “
“Don’t wimp out. We have to show them that your rights mean something. “ She picked up the books and put them in her backpack. “Don’t miss this chance to make a statement, “ she said to him. Then she left in her typical no non-sense gait.
He felt like a schmuck. Here she was, one of the few people in town rooting for him, and one of the few to actually try to and do something about his case. And yet her misguided beliefs made him cringe. Should I go just to be a good sport? He wondered. Maybe I should. Just to show my appreciation. I can’t afford to lose too many allies.
Sunday, 11 December, 2011
Harry and the Human Rights Violation : Chapter 8
Chapter 8
As Jack put away his phone in his coat pocket, Walter barged in. “I have a job for you” he announced.
Jack sat down and pretended to continue working at his computer. Walter crouched down beside him. “The book. It’s gotta go.” Jack looked at him from the corner of his eyes. “The Minister is ordering it removed. We have to go get it.”
“You mean me.”
“Yes, I mean you. “
“So the Minister is backing down,” Jack said laconically.
“Not at all. It’s a precautionary measure. They don’t want to look guilty. They’d actually burn the thing if it wouldn’t cause them any embarrassment. They wouldn’t risk their government over a lousy book. But there‘s too much chatter.”
“When do you want it done?”
“The sooner the better,” he said as he headed to the door.
“I’ll go tomorrow morning.”
Walter was somewhat miffed at his underling’s non-chalant attitude. “Don’t work yourself too hard. “ Then he left the office.
“I won’t,” Jack said under his breath.
He shuffled some papers around and organized his desk for a few minutes before he decided it was time for a coffee break. He grabbed his coat and headed for the donut shop across the street. He came back out with a cup of coffee and took in some air in the parking lot with the guys smoking their cigarettes next to their pick up trucks. He took out his cell phone and called Harry.
Harry was reviewing the catalogue when the phone rang, trying to weed out the Ann Coulters and the Phyllis Schlaffly’s. “What’s up?”
“Harry, my department is going to confiscate the book, “ Jack said.
Harry didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“They’re trying to make it look like they care, so they’re taking the book just in case it violates human rights. Do you still have it in the library?”
Harry turned to his computer and opened the window with the library catalogue search engine. “It’s not signed out.”
“I’ll swing by tomorrow, “ said Jack. “You know nothing about this.”
Harry turned to his library catalogue and made a note that Populations in Peril was now reserved. It had never been signed out before.
He continued to sift through his library catalogue, trying to work. He felt that on principal he should be angry. Very angry. Angry at the government interference. Angry at someone telling him how to do his job. Angry at the insinuation he was some kind of human rights abuser.
Yet part of him felt relieved. Relieved that maybe this was going to be taken out of his hands. That he would be absolved of responsibility, at least politically if not personally. He hated being second-guessed that way, but it did provide him the potential comfort of escaping the fallout from this controversy. At least politically.
The next morning, Jack took his time to go to the library. He felt a little dirty doing this job. What a monumental waste of taxpayer time, he thought to himself. He mused how the Human Rights Tribunals and the frivolous complaints they catered were a far greater threat to average people like Harry, than a silly book that no one had ever even read.
He opened the main door to the library. He went to the front desk to let Mrs. Keeble know he was there to retrieve the book. He went to the non-fiction section, where all the books, were bound in an eye-popping shade of green, so as to be perfectly indistinguishable from one another. It was said to even the intellectual playing field, as marketing gimmicks like colourful dust jackets would have no advantage over plainer volumes. After all, one mustn`t judge a book by its cover. Of course, it made it more difficult to tell the books apart, as if one book were really all the same as the others.
He felt confident he could find the book without the card catalogue number. He had enough experience with the library system to know that Populations in Peril would be in the 300 section, reserved for social science books, and it would probably be close to the beginning. How many books on demographics could there be? He was looking for a big tome, so that in itself would make it easier to spot.
He went to the front of the second row of shelves and his eyes speedily grazed through the titles. Some of the titles made him want to smile but he resisted picking up the book and fingering through it, otherwise he would be there all afternoon. His eyes the top level. Then the second highest. Then the lower shelf and finally the bottom shelf. No book. He went to the next set of shelves. Same thing. After three shelves he was at the books numbering 350. He stood back and looked for fat books. He spotted two or three that seemed to be the right size, but no Populations in Peril.
He resigned himself to going to the computer library catalogue and writing down the number on a slip of paper. It was in section 304. He went back, but the book numbers skipped from 303 to 305. He sighed. Was the book misplaced? Perhaps by some strange coincidence, today was the day that somebody had finally decided to consult the book. He went to the front of the library to see if it was on the tables near the reference section. No luck. Then he went back to the second row of shelves to see if it was perhaps hidden in a cubicle work station at the back.
As he got to the end of the row, he turned his head and saw a fat green book on the floor with several dozen of its pages torn out and sprawled all over the floor. His eyes then caught some graffiti on the wall written in garish red letters.
Jack went to the front desk and asked to see Harry. “You’d better take a look at this, “ he told him. Harry followed Jack, a little confused. “What’s the matter?”
They reached the end of the row of shelves and Jack pointed to the mess on the floor.
Harry gasped. “Oh no!” He fell to his knees to survey the damage. He looked at the book’s spine to to identify the casualty. It was indeed Populations in Peril.
He spread his arms as if to gather the remains of his savaged tome, but Jack said “hold on.” He pulled out his phone and started taking pictures. “We’re going to need evidence.”
As Harry rose to his feet, his eye caught the graffiti. In red jagged letters, it was written on the wall:
Women’s rights are not up for debate!
He looked more closely at the colour. He could easily wipe it off. It seemed to be written in lipstick.
Jack finished his photo shoot. “I’m going to have to call police now.”
Harry clicked his tongue. The police always attracted media.
While Jack made his call, Harry thought it would be a good idea to cordon off the area to prevent anyone from tampering with the crime scene. He went to his office to get some string.
In his office, he sat down to collect his thoughts. He wondered who would do such a thing. Clearly, some angry feminists. Being the book-lover that he was, he was mystified that anyone would desecrate a book like that, even if one strongly disagreed with its contents. Although no one was hurt by the incident, it struck him as rather violent to rip apart the thoughts of another as if to dismember a person limb from limb. What crazy, radical ideology justified this?
A pang of conscience stung him as he felt the unarticulated urge to generalize, but he stopped the thought before it surfaced into words at the forefront of his mind. To be fair, he said to himself, many feminists were upstanding and law-abiding citizens with a sense of honour, and they would be equally horrified at this act of vandalism. The feminists who did this were not representative of the majority who respected others, just like Gisela Gruber was not representative.
They just happened to be the only kind of feminists he ever heard from.
As Jack put away his phone in his coat pocket, Walter barged in. “I have a job for you” he announced.
Jack sat down and pretended to continue working at his computer. Walter crouched down beside him. “The book. It’s gotta go.” Jack looked at him from the corner of his eyes. “The Minister is ordering it removed. We have to go get it.”
“You mean me.”
“Yes, I mean you. “
“So the Minister is backing down,” Jack said laconically.
“Not at all. It’s a precautionary measure. They don’t want to look guilty. They’d actually burn the thing if it wouldn’t cause them any embarrassment. They wouldn’t risk their government over a lousy book. But there‘s too much chatter.”
“When do you want it done?”
“The sooner the better,” he said as he headed to the door.
“I’ll go tomorrow morning.”
Walter was somewhat miffed at his underling’s non-chalant attitude. “Don’t work yourself too hard. “ Then he left the office.
“I won’t,” Jack said under his breath.
He shuffled some papers around and organized his desk for a few minutes before he decided it was time for a coffee break. He grabbed his coat and headed for the donut shop across the street. He came back out with a cup of coffee and took in some air in the parking lot with the guys smoking their cigarettes next to their pick up trucks. He took out his cell phone and called Harry.
Harry was reviewing the catalogue when the phone rang, trying to weed out the Ann Coulters and the Phyllis Schlaffly’s. “What’s up?”
“Harry, my department is going to confiscate the book, “ Jack said.
Harry didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“They’re trying to make it look like they care, so they’re taking the book just in case it violates human rights. Do you still have it in the library?”
Harry turned to his computer and opened the window with the library catalogue search engine. “It’s not signed out.”
“I’ll swing by tomorrow, “ said Jack. “You know nothing about this.”
Harry turned to his library catalogue and made a note that Populations in Peril was now reserved. It had never been signed out before.
He continued to sift through his library catalogue, trying to work. He felt that on principal he should be angry. Very angry. Angry at the government interference. Angry at someone telling him how to do his job. Angry at the insinuation he was some kind of human rights abuser.
Yet part of him felt relieved. Relieved that maybe this was going to be taken out of his hands. That he would be absolved of responsibility, at least politically if not personally. He hated being second-guessed that way, but it did provide him the potential comfort of escaping the fallout from this controversy. At least politically.
The next morning, Jack took his time to go to the library. He felt a little dirty doing this job. What a monumental waste of taxpayer time, he thought to himself. He mused how the Human Rights Tribunals and the frivolous complaints they catered were a far greater threat to average people like Harry, than a silly book that no one had ever even read.
He opened the main door to the library. He went to the front desk to let Mrs. Keeble know he was there to retrieve the book. He went to the non-fiction section, where all the books, were bound in an eye-popping shade of green, so as to be perfectly indistinguishable from one another. It was said to even the intellectual playing field, as marketing gimmicks like colourful dust jackets would have no advantage over plainer volumes. After all, one mustn`t judge a book by its cover. Of course, it made it more difficult to tell the books apart, as if one book were really all the same as the others.
He felt confident he could find the book without the card catalogue number. He had enough experience with the library system to know that Populations in Peril would be in the 300 section, reserved for social science books, and it would probably be close to the beginning. How many books on demographics could there be? He was looking for a big tome, so that in itself would make it easier to spot.
He went to the front of the second row of shelves and his eyes speedily grazed through the titles. Some of the titles made him want to smile but he resisted picking up the book and fingering through it, otherwise he would be there all afternoon. His eyes the top level. Then the second highest. Then the lower shelf and finally the bottom shelf. No book. He went to the next set of shelves. Same thing. After three shelves he was at the books numbering 350. He stood back and looked for fat books. He spotted two or three that seemed to be the right size, but no Populations in Peril.
He resigned himself to going to the computer library catalogue and writing down the number on a slip of paper. It was in section 304. He went back, but the book numbers skipped from 303 to 305. He sighed. Was the book misplaced? Perhaps by some strange coincidence, today was the day that somebody had finally decided to consult the book. He went to the front of the library to see if it was on the tables near the reference section. No luck. Then he went back to the second row of shelves to see if it was perhaps hidden in a cubicle work station at the back.
As he got to the end of the row, he turned his head and saw a fat green book on the floor with several dozen of its pages torn out and sprawled all over the floor. His eyes then caught some graffiti on the wall written in garish red letters.
Jack went to the front desk and asked to see Harry. “You’d better take a look at this, “ he told him. Harry followed Jack, a little confused. “What’s the matter?”
They reached the end of the row of shelves and Jack pointed to the mess on the floor.
Harry gasped. “Oh no!” He fell to his knees to survey the damage. He looked at the book’s spine to to identify the casualty. It was indeed Populations in Peril.
He spread his arms as if to gather the remains of his savaged tome, but Jack said “hold on.” He pulled out his phone and started taking pictures. “We’re going to need evidence.”
As Harry rose to his feet, his eye caught the graffiti. In red jagged letters, it was written on the wall:
Women’s rights are not up for debate!
He looked more closely at the colour. He could easily wipe it off. It seemed to be written in lipstick.
Jack finished his photo shoot. “I’m going to have to call police now.”
Harry clicked his tongue. The police always attracted media.
While Jack made his call, Harry thought it would be a good idea to cordon off the area to prevent anyone from tampering with the crime scene. He went to his office to get some string.
In his office, he sat down to collect his thoughts. He wondered who would do such a thing. Clearly, some angry feminists. Being the book-lover that he was, he was mystified that anyone would desecrate a book like that, even if one strongly disagreed with its contents. Although no one was hurt by the incident, it struck him as rather violent to rip apart the thoughts of another as if to dismember a person limb from limb. What crazy, radical ideology justified this?
A pang of conscience stung him as he felt the unarticulated urge to generalize, but he stopped the thought before it surfaced into words at the forefront of his mind. To be fair, he said to himself, many feminists were upstanding and law-abiding citizens with a sense of honour, and they would be equally horrified at this act of vandalism. The feminists who did this were not representative of the majority who respected others, just like Gisela Gruber was not representative.
They just happened to be the only kind of feminists he ever heard from.
Friday, 9 December, 2011
Harry and the Human Rights Violation : Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Gisela Gruber’s office was located at the end of a long hallway on the second floor of New Concord College. The hallway walls were a sterile white, and there was a marble pattern of light hospital green and white on the linoleum. In between each door hung a trite abstract painting executed by students in the Fine Arts program.
To Kendra, Lila and Mitzi, the doors all looked the same at the entrance to the hallway, until they passed each one and saw the various, schedules, notices, magazine articles and bumper stickers that were posted on them. They were all of a distinctively progressive bent, which comforted them.
The girls had clung together ever since they had met in their first semester, as they quickly discovered that they were kindred spirits in their fight for all things feminist. To them, their college, their women studies programs and their friendship was an oasis in a world hostile to their struggle. Society was patriarchal after all. No amount of progress could allow them to let their guard down. The notion that women had arrived in this world was a mere illusion. In fact, because the discrimination and injustice against women was so subtle and well-disguised, it made their fight all the more difficult. They had to tease out the inherent oppression and expose it to the world, whereas in their grandmother’s age, discrimination was obvious and accepted. Society’s inability to understand and plug in to the values needed to see the discrimination frustrated them very much, because to those who were sufficiently attuned to progressive thinking, it was so very obvious. It only took a little instruction to be able to discern the problems. But it seems that most people only operated on the level of what they observed, and never on any subliminal level. “Common sense” was the mantra that blinded people to deeper realities.
Ostensibly, the purpose of their visit was to go over some issues they had with their essays. But deep down, they just wanted to be near her, and maybe engage in some enlightening and entertaining conversation. They harboured an admiration for her that they tacitly acknowledged in one another, but that their college sophistication would not permit to expose to the world. Their feelings for Gisela and determined struggle for women’s rights resembled those of a seventh-grade girl crush than that of serious progressive activists.
The girls were alerted by Gisela’s impending arrival by the distant“clock-clock” sound that her shoes made as they hit the linoleum. Gisela turned the corner into the hallway, carrying her handbag and her Domenicano coffee that she had asked the school cafeteria to dispense because she could not stand the more popular brands. “Sorry I’m late, I’ll be right with you, “ she said as she noticed the students on the floor. She began to walk faster. Now the sound her keys could be heard tinkling in her handbag. The students stood up and picked up their computer cases. She arrived at the door and felt the need to justify herself further. “ Sorry, I was just chatting with the lawyer and the conversation ran a little long,” she said as she pulled out the key to her office. She put it in the keyhole, turned the key and let in her students.
The girls cherished that little tidbit, feeling like they were in the presence of someone who was serious about her feminism, and not just talking the talk.
While the students sat down in the chairs in front of her desk and pulled out their tablet computers, Gisela took a last swig of her Domenicano then trashed her cup. She put her handbag in the large draw of her oak desk. Then she daintily sat down in the wheeled chair in front of her computer, jiggled the mouse to dispel the screen saver showing pictures of women in the Third World, and then pulled up the drafts of the essays that Kendra, Lila and Mitzi had set. Her raised chin and her cheek-length dark straight projected a statuesque look of educated certainty, the kind that is hard won by earning a postgraduate degree in Women’s Studies. She read with confidence, clicked with confidence, evaluated and judged with confidence. After all, she had all the requisite knowledge, skills and values to draw accurate, valid and acceptable conclusions the could seduce like-minded contemporaries in the academic, literary, activist and other elite circles, the people most likely to hold the reins of power necessary to improve the lives of the marginalized and the oppressed, notwithstanding the fact that they had no access to or interest in her theories about them or her proposed solutions to their problems.
“I saw the profile of you in The New Concord Times, “ said Kendra. “Very nice.”
“Thank you so much. Yes, that was done by a friend of mine who is very feminist conscious, “ replied Gisela as she clicked away.
“How exactly did you come across Population in Perils? “ wondered Lila.
“Funny you should ask, “ said Gisela. “I don’t actually visit that library very often. We have a very well-stocked library here at the college and I don’t have any particular reason to visit the New Concord Library—it’s full of trashy novels and self-help books. I was actually looking for books for my four-year-old niece who was coming for a visit. I needed to find something to keep her entertained. When I was done finding the books, I decided to peruse the shelves out of curiosity, and I pulled out one of the few books with serious academic qualifications published by a university press... as opposed to the commercial fare put out by multi-million dollar publishing companies. It was Population in Perils. And I was curious because one of the lessons I had taught that day was about demographics. And I took at look at it and I was quite shocked at the recommendation that sex selection abortions be restricted. Women in the Third World labour under enough constraints that they do not need another law to come tell them what they can or cannot do with their bodies. And of course, the secondary danger in all this is that anti-choice groups seize on this recommendation, issued with academic authority, and use it to advance their misogynist agenda. Consider what they do with obstetric and embryology textbooks. Naturally, they could make use of such suggestions and create a backdoor to antichoice legislation in this country.
“So I contacted the director, a man of obvious bourgeois sensibilities, and he wouldn’t hear of pulling the book. He thought nothing of displaying this book, and said the recommendation could even be justified, given the context. It was all a matter of debate.
“Well I don’t allow people to debate my rights. I am shocked and astonished that in this day and age there are still people who do not take women’s autonomy seriously. I just could not let it go. We have fought so hard for the right to determine our destinies. This is the kind of breach that antichoicers look for to promote their agenda. What can you do when a person won’t see reason? Totally unacceptable.”
“I’m so glad you took up the fight, Gisela, “ said Kendra. “I’m just so amazed that we keep having to re-fight the battles of the past. I thought the issue had been settled decades ago. It’s so confounding.”
As she was listening to the conversation, Lila surfed the blogs on her tablet. “It looks like some anti-choicer is planning a rally in favour of free speech,” she said contemptuously.
“Who’s this?” asked Kendra.
“Some little adolescent nutcase who was on Joe Colpitts.”
“Why are women so blind to their own interests, “ wondered Mitzi aloud. “This girl is far more likely to be a candidate for abortion than anyone else, but she’s defending the patriarchy.”
“You have to be aware that these are as much a victim of the patriarchy as its defenders. They have been well socialized. Part of it is selfishness. She wants to be able to thrive in a patriarchal culture without having to challenge it. Part of it is socialization. She has been profoundly indoctrinated with patriarchal conception of freedom and rights that oppresses women. Women are free insofar as they are not weak. But those that are weak and vulnerable—they are at risk for oppression, lectured Gisela. “Free speech as it is being vehicled by these privileged men—for the most part—is dangerous to the interests of women. Because women are so disadvantaged in the market place of ideas, ruled by corporate forces, that they face an uphill battle to make their views known. It’s only because she agrees with the male-dominated radio station that she was able to be interviewed and have her ideas broadcast. If she were a progressive, this would have never happened.”
“We can’t let this rally go unopposed, “ said Kendra. “I think we should counterprotest.”
“Awesome idea,”
“I’m typing the invites on my Facebook account as we speak, “ said Lila.
“I think though, that we should solve this incident ourselves, with a little civil disobedience,” Kendra hinted.
Gisela smiled approvingly.
“Our rights and freedom as women should not depend on the patriarchal structures used to oppress us. Perhaps it’s time to take things into our own hands.”
……
Tori sat on the bench outside the gas station downtown and waited for the Toronto bus to arrive. She would have liked for someone to come with her. But all her friends had left New Concord for better prospects elsewhere. She was a little mad at herself for not having gotten her act together and left. Here she was, taking a bus to Toronto for an abortion, when she could be taking the bus to pursue her dreams. She was stuck in New Concord. Stuck in life.
She didn’t know anything about the music industry. She had no friends in the business All she knew was how to sing. She cursed herself for lacking the drive and ambition. Success was just not coming to her. It occurred to her that she might have to make some calls and link up with bands, make some demos. It made her feel nervous and lonely. Maybe the Rat’s Nest wasn’t so bad.
The bus pulled into the gas station and the door swung open. She walked up the large steps and looked for a place to sit—the part of the voyage she hated the most. The first row was empty, and a sign said it was reserved for the elderly, the handicapped and the pregnant. But it did not seem to apply to her. She moved up the rows. The passengers seemed to be sleeping or indifferent. The fifth last row was empty. She sat down, relieved. The view was not marred by a badly placed window frame. He could then easily stare out the pane and daydream.
The bus headed out to the highway out of New Concord, and the scene outside the window became a monotonous movie of rolling greenery, interspersed with the occasional farmhouse.
She wondered how other people did it—how they became successful. It was too easy to pin it down to luck, but even hard work was no guarantee. In her case, life just happened to her. That’s why she was so happy to have Jack. So many people in the world pined for someone. And she had Jack. On that score, she felt very lucky. But as far as other things in her life, it seemed like the Big Unknown. Jack was the only thing she was certain of.
The bus arrived at the main bus depot in Toronto. Tori got off the bus and entered the station. The terminal was so dilapidated that pigeons were able to gain entrance through holes in the rafters and roamed freely. No one seemed to mind the danger posed by bird droppings. Tori liked seeing the birds. They were a small distraction on this difficult day.
She sat on a metallic bench to read a map she had brought with her in her backpack. Although it was somewhat far away, she did not want to have to tell a cab driver where she was going, and then have to explain her business. She took the subway instead, and got off a few blocks away from the clinic.
Within the block of the clinic, she was approached by two women wearing bright orange vests: an older lady of around fifty with very short grey hair, and a younger girl with long black hair and a ring through her lip. “Are you going to the Women’s Health Clinic?” asked the older lady.
Before Tori could give an answer, a pamphlet appeared in front of her face. “Here read this, “ said a woman’s voice. Tori’s hand grabbed the pamphlet. As she started to walk, she tried to make sense of the pictures, which all seemed a blur as everything had happened so fast. The older lady blocked the intrusive woman from Tori’s sight. “Pay no attention to her, “ she said.
Then it clicked: Tori realized she was an anti-abortion protester.
“Are you from Toronto? “ asked the younger woman, trying to engage Tori.
“No, New Concord, actually,” said Tori, not really paying attention to the escorts. She was trying to focus on the pamphlet.. The escorts picked up the pace so get away from the protester.
“I hear it’s very nice down there.”
“You’ll like the people at the clinic. They’re very nice, “ said the older lady.
“Oh good.” Her mind was heady as the protester tried to get in a word edgewise. Between the chit chat and the protester’s interjections, she had trouble making sense of the pictures. Then it dawned on her: they were of fetuses.
“You don’t have to do this, you can have this baby, “ said the protester as she shuffled next to the escorts.
Tori was slightly annoyed at this stranger trying to give her this ridiculous advice that had no bearing on her situation. Then she looked at the caption of one of the pictures:
Embryo at six weeks.
She wasn’t sure how far along she was, but it must have been at least that much. She was quite surprised at the development: the eyes, the face, the arm buds and legs.
She and the escorts had now escaped the protester, as they were now on the clinic’s private property. “You don’t have to pay attention to anything she says, she’s just trying to mess with your mind,” said the younger escort. Tori put the pamphlet in her coat pocket to open the heavy glass door to the health centre.
She reported to the receptionist who told her to have a seat. She wanted to take out the pamphlet, but she thought it would have looked weird. The picture nagged at her. Was that really a picture of what was inside of her? Or was that a fancy Photoshop job? The answer seemed trivial, as the abortion had to take place. She was reluctant to let second thoughts stop her, but her mind couldn’t let it go. Could it be that abortion really did kill?
Her principles of non-violence towards living things seemed very abstract in the face of the very real consequences of not going through with the abortion. Were mere ideas really worth the trouble? Did it really matter that much if she had an abortion? Millions of women did and seemed fine about it.
Was having a moral value with inconvenient consequences worth the trouble? It seemed like the right time to ask if it was really a moral value at all. Or if it was just something that made her feel good. It did make her feel good about herself to stick to her principles. That seemed to be the main purpose of having them: to have integrity and self-respect in one’s eyes.
She began to reason through her thoughts with her internal scales on which she mentally weighed the cost and benefits of each potential course of action. The weight of each decision was weighed in terms of emotional impact. The happier it made her, the more weight she accorded to each possibility.
Would sticking to her principles make her happy, if indeed the embryo was some kind of living being? If she decided against the abortion, there would be a heavy and catastrophic fall out.
Jack would no longer love her.
But if she did go through with the abortion, Jack would continue to love her. And the situation would be just like before the pregnancy.
And if the betrayal of her principles made her unhappy, the solution seemed simple: to redefine her principles. Allow for this exception.
Why should she, and Jack, and even Barbara, have to suffer because of her sexual behavior? The consequences seemed so overwhelming considering the nature of the mistake.
The receptionist called her to see the counselor in the examination room. She was a stout dark skinned woman with a kind face who sported an impressive mane of African tresses that contrasted with her white nurse’s uniform. “Hi, I’m Tammy. I’ll be going over the procedure with you and address any concerns you might have about it.” She sat at the table in the middle of the room. “Now before we begin, we just want to check that you’re sure of your decision.”
“I’m not really sure,” Tori confessed. “I’m just a little confused.”
“Okay, that’s normal. Not everyone comes in here with their minds completely made up. It’s a difficult decision.”
“I just need to know something, Tammy. Does abortion…harm a living thing? Is the embryo alive?”
“If you think it’s alive, ” began Tammy.
“No, really. Is it? Is it alive?”
“That’s up to you to determine. I can’t tell you what to think,” said Tammy. “ Just remember that at this stage of the pregnancy, the embryo is about the size of a pea.” she said, using her thumb and her forefinger to show the size.”
“That doesn’t help at all. I don’t know what to think.”
“ Would you like some time to sit and think about it some more?”
Tori agreed. She left the examination room to visit other patients. Tori couldn’t come to a decision. She needed help making that decision. She thought Jack would be of help. She took out her cell phone and called Jack.
Jack was at work, reading over some complaints when his cell phone rang. He picked up his phone in his pocket, and the first words he heard from Tori were “Jack, I’m having second thoughts.”
It took a second for him to process who was talking and what she was saying. His eyes lit up. “How can you be having second thoughts?”
“I think…I think they kill something during an abortion.”
He rolled his eyes. “Did you get caught by an anti-abortion protester?”
“I saw the picture on the pamphlet—“
“It’s propaganda, Tori. You can’t throw your life away for a pamphlet.”
“I have principles, Jack. It’s wrong to kill. I’d just feel awful if I did that.”
“You’re going to listen to an anti-abortion protester?”
“I’m not listening to her. I’m listening to me. I’m—I’m not sure. I don’t know any more. I’m confused.”
“Well I’m sure I want you to have an abortion,” huffed Jack.
“I’m not sure what I want.”
“You’d better get sure, or else you’ll be delivering a baby in nine months,”
“Would that be so bad?”
“It’d be awful.”
She was even more confused after that conversation. It settled nothing. Her feelings were more conflicted than ever. She didn’t know how to make a decision. Either decision she made, it seemed that she would lose.
Tammy opened the door and closed it behind her. “So, have you made a decision?”
“ I don’t know what I want any more, “Tori said as she started to cry. Tammy sat down next to her and wrapper her arm around Tori’s shoulder. “I just don’t know what to think,” Tori sobbed.
Tammy hugged her. “You take the time you need.”
“I don’t know what good any of that will do. Maybe I’ll just be as confused and end up having the baby by default. It seems so unfair that that’s the default position when it comes to being pregnant.”
She thanked the counselor and went down the hall to the lobby to get her coat and her backpack. Although she suspected it was a good idea to wait until she was sure of what to do, she felt dumb. Why couldn’t she go into the operating room and have an abortion like millions of other women had done? Wouldn’t it be a relief to know this was over and done with? What is the point of respecting living things? Ideals were supposed to make her feel good about herself, and make the world a better place. How was having a baby going to accomplish that?
It seemed like it boiled down to what she was prepared to live with. There was no other apparent standard by which to determine the answer. Following her principles were supposed to make her happy. How can betraying one’s principles make one unhappy? There were only ideas, after all, products of one’s brain chemistry. What’s a belief in the face of real world consequences? But then why did rethinking these beliefs feel so hypocritical? And why should she care?
Some people valued their principles to the point of wanting to die for them. She was sure that she was not one of these people. It all just thoughts, ideas, values. Did they mean something beyond what people wanted them to mean? She couldn’t articulate any reason to think so. All she had to prod her was a nagging feeling. It seemed so foolish to surrender to a nagging feeling.
She stepped outside the door and said goodbye to the escorts. She started down the sidewalk, when she met the anti-abortion protester who had hounded her into the clinic. She handed Tori another pamphlet. Tori was taken aback, but said thank you. As she walked away, she noticed the title: Post-Abortion Healing.
She put it back in her pocket and saved it for the bus.
Gisela Gruber’s office was located at the end of a long hallway on the second floor of New Concord College. The hallway walls were a sterile white, and there was a marble pattern of light hospital green and white on the linoleum. In between each door hung a trite abstract painting executed by students in the Fine Arts program.
To Kendra, Lila and Mitzi, the doors all looked the same at the entrance to the hallway, until they passed each one and saw the various, schedules, notices, magazine articles and bumper stickers that were posted on them. They were all of a distinctively progressive bent, which comforted them.
The girls had clung together ever since they had met in their first semester, as they quickly discovered that they were kindred spirits in their fight for all things feminist. To them, their college, their women studies programs and their friendship was an oasis in a world hostile to their struggle. Society was patriarchal after all. No amount of progress could allow them to let their guard down. The notion that women had arrived in this world was a mere illusion. In fact, because the discrimination and injustice against women was so subtle and well-disguised, it made their fight all the more difficult. They had to tease out the inherent oppression and expose it to the world, whereas in their grandmother’s age, discrimination was obvious and accepted. Society’s inability to understand and plug in to the values needed to see the discrimination frustrated them very much, because to those who were sufficiently attuned to progressive thinking, it was so very obvious. It only took a little instruction to be able to discern the problems. But it seems that most people only operated on the level of what they observed, and never on any subliminal level. “Common sense” was the mantra that blinded people to deeper realities.
Ostensibly, the purpose of their visit was to go over some issues they had with their essays. But deep down, they just wanted to be near her, and maybe engage in some enlightening and entertaining conversation. They harboured an admiration for her that they tacitly acknowledged in one another, but that their college sophistication would not permit to expose to the world. Their feelings for Gisela and determined struggle for women’s rights resembled those of a seventh-grade girl crush than that of serious progressive activists.
The girls were alerted by Gisela’s impending arrival by the distant“clock-clock” sound that her shoes made as they hit the linoleum. Gisela turned the corner into the hallway, carrying her handbag and her Domenicano coffee that she had asked the school cafeteria to dispense because she could not stand the more popular brands. “Sorry I’m late, I’ll be right with you, “ she said as she noticed the students on the floor. She began to walk faster. Now the sound her keys could be heard tinkling in her handbag. The students stood up and picked up their computer cases. She arrived at the door and felt the need to justify herself further. “ Sorry, I was just chatting with the lawyer and the conversation ran a little long,” she said as she pulled out the key to her office. She put it in the keyhole, turned the key and let in her students.
The girls cherished that little tidbit, feeling like they were in the presence of someone who was serious about her feminism, and not just talking the talk.
While the students sat down in the chairs in front of her desk and pulled out their tablet computers, Gisela took a last swig of her Domenicano then trashed her cup. She put her handbag in the large draw of her oak desk. Then she daintily sat down in the wheeled chair in front of her computer, jiggled the mouse to dispel the screen saver showing pictures of women in the Third World, and then pulled up the drafts of the essays that Kendra, Lila and Mitzi had set. Her raised chin and her cheek-length dark straight projected a statuesque look of educated certainty, the kind that is hard won by earning a postgraduate degree in Women’s Studies. She read with confidence, clicked with confidence, evaluated and judged with confidence. After all, she had all the requisite knowledge, skills and values to draw accurate, valid and acceptable conclusions the could seduce like-minded contemporaries in the academic, literary, activist and other elite circles, the people most likely to hold the reins of power necessary to improve the lives of the marginalized and the oppressed, notwithstanding the fact that they had no access to or interest in her theories about them or her proposed solutions to their problems.
“I saw the profile of you in The New Concord Times, “ said Kendra. “Very nice.”
“Thank you so much. Yes, that was done by a friend of mine who is very feminist conscious, “ replied Gisela as she clicked away.
“How exactly did you come across Population in Perils? “ wondered Lila.
“Funny you should ask, “ said Gisela. “I don’t actually visit that library very often. We have a very well-stocked library here at the college and I don’t have any particular reason to visit the New Concord Library—it’s full of trashy novels and self-help books. I was actually looking for books for my four-year-old niece who was coming for a visit. I needed to find something to keep her entertained. When I was done finding the books, I decided to peruse the shelves out of curiosity, and I pulled out one of the few books with serious academic qualifications published by a university press... as opposed to the commercial fare put out by multi-million dollar publishing companies. It was Population in Perils. And I was curious because one of the lessons I had taught that day was about demographics. And I took at look at it and I was quite shocked at the recommendation that sex selection abortions be restricted. Women in the Third World labour under enough constraints that they do not need another law to come tell them what they can or cannot do with their bodies. And of course, the secondary danger in all this is that anti-choice groups seize on this recommendation, issued with academic authority, and use it to advance their misogynist agenda. Consider what they do with obstetric and embryology textbooks. Naturally, they could make use of such suggestions and create a backdoor to antichoice legislation in this country.
“So I contacted the director, a man of obvious bourgeois sensibilities, and he wouldn’t hear of pulling the book. He thought nothing of displaying this book, and said the recommendation could even be justified, given the context. It was all a matter of debate.
“Well I don’t allow people to debate my rights. I am shocked and astonished that in this day and age there are still people who do not take women’s autonomy seriously. I just could not let it go. We have fought so hard for the right to determine our destinies. This is the kind of breach that antichoicers look for to promote their agenda. What can you do when a person won’t see reason? Totally unacceptable.”
“I’m so glad you took up the fight, Gisela, “ said Kendra. “I’m just so amazed that we keep having to re-fight the battles of the past. I thought the issue had been settled decades ago. It’s so confounding.”
As she was listening to the conversation, Lila surfed the blogs on her tablet. “It looks like some anti-choicer is planning a rally in favour of free speech,” she said contemptuously.
“Who’s this?” asked Kendra.
“Some little adolescent nutcase who was on Joe Colpitts.”
“Why are women so blind to their own interests, “ wondered Mitzi aloud. “This girl is far more likely to be a candidate for abortion than anyone else, but she’s defending the patriarchy.”
“You have to be aware that these are as much a victim of the patriarchy as its defenders. They have been well socialized. Part of it is selfishness. She wants to be able to thrive in a patriarchal culture without having to challenge it. Part of it is socialization. She has been profoundly indoctrinated with patriarchal conception of freedom and rights that oppresses women. Women are free insofar as they are not weak. But those that are weak and vulnerable—they are at risk for oppression, lectured Gisela. “Free speech as it is being vehicled by these privileged men—for the most part—is dangerous to the interests of women. Because women are so disadvantaged in the market place of ideas, ruled by corporate forces, that they face an uphill battle to make their views known. It’s only because she agrees with the male-dominated radio station that she was able to be interviewed and have her ideas broadcast. If she were a progressive, this would have never happened.”
“We can’t let this rally go unopposed, “ said Kendra. “I think we should counterprotest.”
“Awesome idea,”
“I’m typing the invites on my Facebook account as we speak, “ said Lila.
“I think though, that we should solve this incident ourselves, with a little civil disobedience,” Kendra hinted.
Gisela smiled approvingly.
“Our rights and freedom as women should not depend on the patriarchal structures used to oppress us. Perhaps it’s time to take things into our own hands.”
……
Tori sat on the bench outside the gas station downtown and waited for the Toronto bus to arrive. She would have liked for someone to come with her. But all her friends had left New Concord for better prospects elsewhere. She was a little mad at herself for not having gotten her act together and left. Here she was, taking a bus to Toronto for an abortion, when she could be taking the bus to pursue her dreams. She was stuck in New Concord. Stuck in life.
She didn’t know anything about the music industry. She had no friends in the business All she knew was how to sing. She cursed herself for lacking the drive and ambition. Success was just not coming to her. It occurred to her that she might have to make some calls and link up with bands, make some demos. It made her feel nervous and lonely. Maybe the Rat’s Nest wasn’t so bad.
The bus pulled into the gas station and the door swung open. She walked up the large steps and looked for a place to sit—the part of the voyage she hated the most. The first row was empty, and a sign said it was reserved for the elderly, the handicapped and the pregnant. But it did not seem to apply to her. She moved up the rows. The passengers seemed to be sleeping or indifferent. The fifth last row was empty. She sat down, relieved. The view was not marred by a badly placed window frame. He could then easily stare out the pane and daydream.
The bus headed out to the highway out of New Concord, and the scene outside the window became a monotonous movie of rolling greenery, interspersed with the occasional farmhouse.
She wondered how other people did it—how they became successful. It was too easy to pin it down to luck, but even hard work was no guarantee. In her case, life just happened to her. That’s why she was so happy to have Jack. So many people in the world pined for someone. And she had Jack. On that score, she felt very lucky. But as far as other things in her life, it seemed like the Big Unknown. Jack was the only thing she was certain of.
The bus arrived at the main bus depot in Toronto. Tori got off the bus and entered the station. The terminal was so dilapidated that pigeons were able to gain entrance through holes in the rafters and roamed freely. No one seemed to mind the danger posed by bird droppings. Tori liked seeing the birds. They were a small distraction on this difficult day.
She sat on a metallic bench to read a map she had brought with her in her backpack. Although it was somewhat far away, she did not want to have to tell a cab driver where she was going, and then have to explain her business. She took the subway instead, and got off a few blocks away from the clinic.
Within the block of the clinic, she was approached by two women wearing bright orange vests: an older lady of around fifty with very short grey hair, and a younger girl with long black hair and a ring through her lip. “Are you going to the Women’s Health Clinic?” asked the older lady.
Before Tori could give an answer, a pamphlet appeared in front of her face. “Here read this, “ said a woman’s voice. Tori’s hand grabbed the pamphlet. As she started to walk, she tried to make sense of the pictures, which all seemed a blur as everything had happened so fast. The older lady blocked the intrusive woman from Tori’s sight. “Pay no attention to her, “ she said.
Then it clicked: Tori realized she was an anti-abortion protester.
“Are you from Toronto? “ asked the younger woman, trying to engage Tori.
“No, New Concord, actually,” said Tori, not really paying attention to the escorts. She was trying to focus on the pamphlet.. The escorts picked up the pace so get away from the protester.
“I hear it’s very nice down there.”
“You’ll like the people at the clinic. They’re very nice, “ said the older lady.
“Oh good.” Her mind was heady as the protester tried to get in a word edgewise. Between the chit chat and the protester’s interjections, she had trouble making sense of the pictures. Then it dawned on her: they were of fetuses.
“You don’t have to do this, you can have this baby, “ said the protester as she shuffled next to the escorts.
Tori was slightly annoyed at this stranger trying to give her this ridiculous advice that had no bearing on her situation. Then she looked at the caption of one of the pictures:
Embryo at six weeks.
She wasn’t sure how far along she was, but it must have been at least that much. She was quite surprised at the development: the eyes, the face, the arm buds and legs.
She and the escorts had now escaped the protester, as they were now on the clinic’s private property. “You don’t have to pay attention to anything she says, she’s just trying to mess with your mind,” said the younger escort. Tori put the pamphlet in her coat pocket to open the heavy glass door to the health centre.
She reported to the receptionist who told her to have a seat. She wanted to take out the pamphlet, but she thought it would have looked weird. The picture nagged at her. Was that really a picture of what was inside of her? Or was that a fancy Photoshop job? The answer seemed trivial, as the abortion had to take place. She was reluctant to let second thoughts stop her, but her mind couldn’t let it go. Could it be that abortion really did kill?
Her principles of non-violence towards living things seemed very abstract in the face of the very real consequences of not going through with the abortion. Were mere ideas really worth the trouble? Did it really matter that much if she had an abortion? Millions of women did and seemed fine about it.
Was having a moral value with inconvenient consequences worth the trouble? It seemed like the right time to ask if it was really a moral value at all. Or if it was just something that made her feel good. It did make her feel good about herself to stick to her principles. That seemed to be the main purpose of having them: to have integrity and self-respect in one’s eyes.
She began to reason through her thoughts with her internal scales on which she mentally weighed the cost and benefits of each potential course of action. The weight of each decision was weighed in terms of emotional impact. The happier it made her, the more weight she accorded to each possibility.
Would sticking to her principles make her happy, if indeed the embryo was some kind of living being? If she decided against the abortion, there would be a heavy and catastrophic fall out.
Jack would no longer love her.
But if she did go through with the abortion, Jack would continue to love her. And the situation would be just like before the pregnancy.
And if the betrayal of her principles made her unhappy, the solution seemed simple: to redefine her principles. Allow for this exception.
Why should she, and Jack, and even Barbara, have to suffer because of her sexual behavior? The consequences seemed so overwhelming considering the nature of the mistake.
The receptionist called her to see the counselor in the examination room. She was a stout dark skinned woman with a kind face who sported an impressive mane of African tresses that contrasted with her white nurse’s uniform. “Hi, I’m Tammy. I’ll be going over the procedure with you and address any concerns you might have about it.” She sat at the table in the middle of the room. “Now before we begin, we just want to check that you’re sure of your decision.”
“I’m not really sure,” Tori confessed. “I’m just a little confused.”
“Okay, that’s normal. Not everyone comes in here with their minds completely made up. It’s a difficult decision.”
“I just need to know something, Tammy. Does abortion…harm a living thing? Is the embryo alive?”
“If you think it’s alive, ” began Tammy.
“No, really. Is it? Is it alive?”
“That’s up to you to determine. I can’t tell you what to think,” said Tammy. “ Just remember that at this stage of the pregnancy, the embryo is about the size of a pea.” she said, using her thumb and her forefinger to show the size.”
“That doesn’t help at all. I don’t know what to think.”
“ Would you like some time to sit and think about it some more?”
Tori agreed. She left the examination room to visit other patients. Tori couldn’t come to a decision. She needed help making that decision. She thought Jack would be of help. She took out her cell phone and called Jack.
Jack was at work, reading over some complaints when his cell phone rang. He picked up his phone in his pocket, and the first words he heard from Tori were “Jack, I’m having second thoughts.”
It took a second for him to process who was talking and what she was saying. His eyes lit up. “How can you be having second thoughts?”
“I think…I think they kill something during an abortion.”
He rolled his eyes. “Did you get caught by an anti-abortion protester?”
“I saw the picture on the pamphlet—“
“It’s propaganda, Tori. You can’t throw your life away for a pamphlet.”
“I have principles, Jack. It’s wrong to kill. I’d just feel awful if I did that.”
“You’re going to listen to an anti-abortion protester?”
“I’m not listening to her. I’m listening to me. I’m—I’m not sure. I don’t know any more. I’m confused.”
“Well I’m sure I want you to have an abortion,” huffed Jack.
“I’m not sure what I want.”
“You’d better get sure, or else you’ll be delivering a baby in nine months,”
“Would that be so bad?”
“It’d be awful.”
She was even more confused after that conversation. It settled nothing. Her feelings were more conflicted than ever. She didn’t know how to make a decision. Either decision she made, it seemed that she would lose.
Tammy opened the door and closed it behind her. “So, have you made a decision?”
“ I don’t know what I want any more, “Tori said as she started to cry. Tammy sat down next to her and wrapper her arm around Tori’s shoulder. “I just don’t know what to think,” Tori sobbed.
Tammy hugged her. “You take the time you need.”
“I don’t know what good any of that will do. Maybe I’ll just be as confused and end up having the baby by default. It seems so unfair that that’s the default position when it comes to being pregnant.”
She thanked the counselor and went down the hall to the lobby to get her coat and her backpack. Although she suspected it was a good idea to wait until she was sure of what to do, she felt dumb. Why couldn’t she go into the operating room and have an abortion like millions of other women had done? Wouldn’t it be a relief to know this was over and done with? What is the point of respecting living things? Ideals were supposed to make her feel good about herself, and make the world a better place. How was having a baby going to accomplish that?
It seemed like it boiled down to what she was prepared to live with. There was no other apparent standard by which to determine the answer. Following her principles were supposed to make her happy. How can betraying one’s principles make one unhappy? There were only ideas, after all, products of one’s brain chemistry. What’s a belief in the face of real world consequences? But then why did rethinking these beliefs feel so hypocritical? And why should she care?
Some people valued their principles to the point of wanting to die for them. She was sure that she was not one of these people. It all just thoughts, ideas, values. Did they mean something beyond what people wanted them to mean? She couldn’t articulate any reason to think so. All she had to prod her was a nagging feeling. It seemed so foolish to surrender to a nagging feeling.
She stepped outside the door and said goodbye to the escorts. She started down the sidewalk, when she met the anti-abortion protester who had hounded her into the clinic. She handed Tori another pamphlet. Tori was taken aback, but said thank you. As she walked away, she noticed the title: Post-Abortion Healing.
She put it back in her pocket and saved it for the bus.
Thursday, 8 December, 2011
Harry and the Human Rights Violation : Chapter 6
Tori picked up the cellphone and sat down on her bed, next to her laptop, which displayed the abortion clinic’s phone number. She braced herself to talk to a stranger. Her mind went over her thoughts about her situation.
She wouldn’t allow even the remotest thought of a baby. Thinking of one, even semi-consciously, made the tears well up and her chest tighten. Motherhood seemed both attractive and ridiculous. It would have been something of a joke at this point in her life, at age nineteen, to have a baby, even though she could barely pay the rent, lived in a studio apartment and needed Jack to help her pay her groceries. And yet, she craved that little baby, that being who would love her unconditionally and whom she would unconditionally love.
But Jack needed this abortion. So she needed this abortion.
With that surge of resolve, she dialed the clinic’s number. The voice on the other side made her think of that of a DJ on an easy listening radio station. The receptionist proceeded to ask her a series of questions: whether she was sure she was pregnant. Whether she was sure of her decision to terminate. The date of her last menstrual period. Tori just wanted to get to the bottom line: when could she get to her appointment?
“ Well, since you’re not very far along, and there’s a bit of a backlog, there is no availability for surgical abortion until next month.”
Tori was crestfallen. “Next month?”
“ Now, surgical abortion only requires one two-hour visit, but the alternative is to get a medical abortion.”
“What’s that?”
“The nurse would give you an injection to stop the pregnancy from growing and then you would some pills at home. The pills would cause a miscarriage and you would bleed for several days, like a heavy period.”
The prospect of inducing a miscarriage spooked her.
“ We can schedule an appointment much sooner for that.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It can hurt, and it’s like a big period, but your pregnancy would be over sooner.”
Tori resolved to push through the pain. “I’ll take it.”
When she finished her call, she felt relief. Her life was going to get back on track. She would stop being pregnant. She could continue her job waitressing and singing at the Rat’s Nest. And maybe she could finally get of town and pursue her dreams in Toronto.
…..
Harry arrived at the Hepburn building downtown and took the elevator to the fourth floor where he found the office of Eli Applebaum, whom his union assigned as his lawyer for his case. The receptionist called in Eli, who promptly came to the waiting area and took Harry to the consultation room, a big office that was kept spic and span for clients who wanted to talk. There was a great big desk made of cherry, with matching shelves and lunch table.
Eli went behind his desk and took seat and invited Harry to do the same. But Harry dumped his latest complaint on the desk. “I got another surprise in the mail this morning.”
Eli looked down at the envelope. “Another complaint? You’re a popular man.” He took out to the letter and took at look at it.
“I honestly have no recollection of this conversation, “ Harry said as he sat down. “ I didn’t talk to Josh about it. “
“Smart man,” said Eli.
“ I figured if there aren’t any witnesses, it’s an open and shut case, “ Harry reasoned.
“You’d figure. But that’s now how it works.”
Harry frowned.
“It’s a question of who they believe, “ explained Eli.
“Honestly, Eli, the guy did look like a bum. Wouldn’t surprise me if he showed up wearing the same gangbanger outfit.”
“Rasta, Harry, he’s Rasta.”
“Whatever. He didn’t have the slightest clue on how to dress.”
“Making his case all the more believable.”
“Believable? He couldn’t even bother to tidy himself up.”
“Exactly. He’s a disadvantaged minority. “
“Oh come on. I know Black have suffered oppression, but having to put on a tie is not oppression.”
“In the eyes of some Rastafarians, it is. And you disparaged his cultural headdress.”
Harry thought he was joking.
“No, it’s true. “
“So I|’m going to be dragged through his tribunal because he won’t get with the game and wear a shirt and tie with the rest of us?”
“We live in a multicultural society, Harry. And people of colour suffer discrimination because of their background, “ said Eli, parroting the government line.
“How does this advance Social Harmony? Is it too much to ask to respect basic conventions of the dominant culture, like wearing a shirt and tie?”
Eli stared at him with mock seriousness. “Sensitivity training may be in order.” He continued “the good news is that this could probably be resolved at the mediation hearing. The case with Gisela Gruber however…”
Harry got up and took a few steps. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about this complaint, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that I’m right and she’s wrong.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I think if we just lay down the facts about the issue of sex selection abortion, the judge will plainly see that concerns about gender imbalance are completely justified, and that the suggestion to limit abortion is not motivated by any animus against women, and in fact, are driven by a desire to preserve the female population.”
“It doesn’t work that way, “said Eli.
Harry looked confused. “But it’s so plain to anyone with an ounce of sense.”
“This is a free speech issue.”
Harry’s jaw dropped.
“You have no idea what these judges think about the abortion issue, and that’s not the point. You should simply affirm your right to disseminate any viewpoint you like.”
“But…that’s a dangerous angle to take…All kinds of people could abuse that Charter provision and undermine Social Harmony.”
“You have to worry about how this affects your case.”
“But that’s unprincipled.”
“Someone else is being principled and trying to censor your library.”
“I don’t begrudge her for that. They just need the correct principles, that’s all. She’s just plain wrong. Wrong ideas are the problem, not the censorship.”
“The judge’s job, the legal system’s job—in theory—is not to regulate everybody’s principles.”
Harry cocked his head.
“The legal system’s job is to abide by the rule of law. The Charter says we have freedom of expression, so we’re going to go with that.”
“But if everyone did that, we wouldn’t be able to effectively regulate our freedoms.”
“I think you’re starting to catch on.”
But what about Social Harmony, Harry protested silently.
“I know you want to be right, but this is not about right and wrong—“
“Yes it is—“
“Harry, the government is always right. That’s why we have a Charter. I know you mean well, but your stance is terrible legal strategy. If you want to have any chance at all in this fight, you need to engage on the legal system’s premise, not on your own principles.”
Eli proceeded to tell Harry about the details of their first hearing. Harry was terribly confused. He had grown up with the idea that the Charter of Rights and Freedoms was about legislating basic common sense and decency, the rules and regulations that would ensure Peace, Order and Good Government—the very values that made him proud to be Canadian.
“And by the way Harry, there is the matter of my retainer fee…”
Harry’s eyes lit up. “Retainer fee? But I thought the government was paying for this? Isn’t it in my contract?”
“Well, yeah, it’ll pay back your expenses…if you win.”
“How much are we talkin’ about here?”
“Five thousand.”
The acid started to erupt in his stomach.
Harry made it back to the office in time for lunch. He sat at his computer and pulled out a sandwich from his lunch bag. He turned on the computer and clicked the bookmark to Poliblogs, his favourite political blogs aggregator.
As he lifted the sandwich to his mouth, on the blog headlines jumped out at him: Small Town Library Slapped with Human Rights Complaint. Harry dreaded clicking on the link from a blog called Trudeaupian Refugee. It appeared that his story had left the confines of of New Concord.
He loaded the page, disgusted at all the phobic banners on display, decrying feminism, environmentalism and every “ism” of every right-thinking person who wanted to invest in Social Harmony. The excessive capitalization, the excessive exclamation marks, the spelling mistakes, the mismatched colours suggested an angry and instable individual. Amateurism was always the mark of a far right mentality.
Harry was indignant at the conspicuous racism. He admitted to himself that he wasn’t very knowledgeable about Rasta. And he did think that his dreadlocks made him look like a bum. But he couldn’t sanction this bigoted defence, even if he thought that some of what Trudeaupian said was sort of true. The tone was all wrong. The attack against a cultural dress, against a religion and a parodying of the Jamaican accent—not to mention the reference to cultural stereotypes. Who dared say such things? It was all so hateful. So disparaging. So judgemental. So unCanadian. This was not was he was all about.
He pressed the “back” button on his browser and scanned for more headlines. More right-wing blogs posted in the same vein, dredging up the same contempt for Jamaican culture, along with reminding readers of the high illegitimacy rate among them. “Who’s your daddy, Jaheem Howell?” asked one blog. Harry was disgusted.
Harry’s case did not receive a lot of sympathy among progressive bloggers. The Anti-Racism Collective said it showed that the fight against racism was not dead, and that Black people still suffered many obstacles to employment, including cultural insensitivity. Political Diva, a feminist blogger, was outraged that this was happening at all. She wrote:
Harry was very sympathetic to that post. Until he got to the part that shamed him. It was as if he were reading about someone else, some other case. He had nothing to do with racism, totalitarianism and misogyny. Those were the very things he despised. He in no way associated himself with those words, those concepts. Those were things that other people did. The name “Harry Harman”, written in that context, seemed like someone else’s name. It felt like they couldn’t really be talking about him. This was not what he was about.
Backstreet Liberal took the trouble to actually do some research. He laid out the bare facts of the case—that it was not about cultural headdress, as was widely reported in the blogosphere, but rather Jaheem’s overall appearance, making it seem that it wasn’t just his hat that was in question, but his Jamaican look.
Backstreet took a few shots at the speeches crowd, noting that they were so far off the political spectrum, even the Progressive Conservatives— their supposed allies on the right—disavowed them. As evidence, he posted a video of an exchange at Queen’s Park, between the PC Women Issue’s Critic, Penelope Brooks, and Liberal Culture Minister Ron Browning.
The video began with a wide angle shot showing the MPP’s banging on their tables like misbehaving children in a school cafeteria. It panned to the Speaker of the House, who called for order. Then MPP Penelope Brooks, a refined woman dressed in a well-tailored two-piece dark grey pinstriped skirt and blazer outfit, radiant in all her Torontonian sophistication, finally got up to ask a question, her first of that session. She took her 8 x 11 paper in her exquisitely manicured hand.”It has been revealed that the Director of the Public Library in New Concord Ontario has been the subject of a Human Rights Complaint as a result of a book on the shelves that advocates for restrictions a woman’s right to choose.”
In the background, a garbled male backbencher yelled “no it doesn’t, she can choose anything she want. Have the courage of your convictions and say what you mean.”
The Speaker rose again to get the members to settle down. Brooks rose again and said “Thank you Mr. Speaker. My question to the Minister of Culture: when he will show the respect due to the women of Ontario and order the New Concord Library to withdraw Populations in Peril from its shelves?”
The PC caucus erupted in wild applause. The video showed Brooks sitting down with an air of satisfaction next to her rotund colleague, Bubba Jamieson, who, in a former life, was a Pentecostalist minister from a small rural village outside of London, Ontario. With every vigourous and labored clap, his jowls swayed in unison.
The Minister of Culture rose to respond. “It appears that my esteemed colleague from the progressive conservative side of the house has forgotten a basic legal principle: that a man is innocent until proven guilty. The same should be said for any book. The Human Rights Tribunal has not issued any ruling stating that the book advocated for the violation of human rights. The government’s position is to allow the legal process to run its course and to take action once we receive the decision from the Human Rights Tribunal.”
The Liberals applauded dutifully at the Minister’s bland response, so obviously full of common sense and prudence. Penelope Brooks rose again to ask her follow up question. “It appears that the Minister is deaf to the outcry this book has caused among women’s groups. He seems only interested in protecting his government’s reputation than laboring for true justice. Let me give the members a taste of what this book advocates.
[INSERT QUOTE HERE]
The PC members reacted with appropriate shock and dismay to the quoted passages.
“That any book would advocate restrictions on abortion is shocking in itself. That this book was paid for by Ontarian taxpayers and shelved in a public library is even more scandalous. My question to the Minister of Culture: Do you not consider the right to abortion as indisputable? Are women’s rights such a low priority that your government would not banish all suggestion that they may be curtailed?”
More applause from the caucus.
The Minister rose to answer the question. “The women of Ontario can rest assured that this government profoundly believes in their rights, especially that of choice, but it simply wishes to allow the legal process to run out of respect for our legal tradition.”
The PC members scoffed “Choice is our legal tradition, “ yelled one male voice.
The video ended there. Backstreet Liberal went on to Penelope Brooks discussing how abortion was necessary to Social Harmony, and the dissemination of misogynist ideas undermined its implementation. Then he mentioned that even Bubba “Praise the Lord” Jamieson was egging her on. Clearly the speechies were beyond the pale, a bunch of crazies who whacked out ideas only served to sow hatred, dissension and social disorder.
As a parting shot, to cement the guilt by association, Backstreet Liberal reported on his research of Harry Harman’s attorney, Eli Applebaum. It turns out that Applebaum had once defended a notorious Nazi sympathizer by the name of Gunther Schmelling in a case involving examining free speech rights and Holocaust denial. Applebaum, Backstreet Liberal said, was not only a speechie who came to the defense of hatemongerer, he sold out his own people by representing this client.
Birds of a feather and all that. [Maybe should put this as a quote].
Harry’s hear sank. Backstreet Liberal was the kind of blog read by the pundits and the political war room types. His reputation was destroyed in front of all the right-thinking people of his community. It was so patently unfair. He thought of himself as an average guy with no axe to grind with any idea that was good and pure; and here he was, being condemned as a partisan of the extreme Right through two degrees of separation. His decision to allow people access to a book on a shelf was framed as some underhanded conspiracy to oppress women. But he was the quintessential nice guy.
It angered him to be lumped in with those who campaigned for an unregulated world where the strong oppress the weak with their words, their influence, their power. Laws were the best protection against such tyranny. His case was the exception. An inevitable mistake. The system is only human. Nothing’s perfect. The notion of overthrowing the whole system that protect the marginalized in the name of one mistake made no sense to him.
How dare they think he was against Social Harmony.
He turned to the New Concord Online Book Club. He thought he could get away from the buzz for a little bit. Instead, the first thread that turned up on the message board read:
ATTENTION ALL FREEDOM LOVERS.
It was from Liberty Bell.
He clicked on the message.
In light of the events surrounding the Human Rights Complaints laid on Harry Harman, I am organizing a rally to support free speech at the Courthouse...
Harry cringed. His eyes skimmed to the end of the message:
Don’t be a douchebag…show up!
Stacy, why must you do this to me, pleaded Harry silently. He hesistated about printing the message. He was somewhat touched that she would go through all this effort on his behalf. But he wasn’t too keen on someone hosting a rally populated by bigots and sundry opponents of Social Harmony. He deleted the “douchebag” comment and let it through. How many people would read it? Five, perhaps ten, at the most?
He didn’t want to leave the office and have to face the world outside after that was said about him. So he stayed there, and worked on paying the outstanding invoices. Really, that was Josh’s job, but he was only too happy to find an excuse to do something mindless and soul-numbing.
He left the office somewhat early. He had gone in early. It all evened out in his mind. He had driven in that morning instead of walked. His car was his refuge from the judgemental eyes on Main Street.
He turned on Joe Colpitts. “Today on the show: a sixteen-year-old is rallying for free speech in the case of the library manager who is the subject of a human rights complaint. Isn’t that great? Sixteen-years-old and already civic-minded. How about that? More after the news.”
Harry snapped off the radio. Oh for goodness sakes, he said to himself, embarrassed. He feared all the freaks will come out of the woodwork and use their defense of his cause to spew their bilge. What was she going to say. Would fear get the better of him, or curiosity?
He braced himself and turned on the radio. Joe Colpitts had the mike.
“Free speech. People have fought and died for it. One young woman from New Concord wants to rally for it. Her name is Stacy Cameron and she is mad as hell. Mad as hell that elitist busybodies want to dictate to the rest of us what we can or cannot say, read or think. And we have Miss Cameron on the line to talk about all this. Hi Stacy how ya doin’?”
She gushed like she had just won a call-in contest. “Oh my God, I am so psyched! Thanks for having me Joe. This is so awesome!”
You could hear the smile in Joe’s voice. “I love your enthusiasm. Now Stacy, what’s this about you holding a rally for free speech? Why are you doing this?”
Stacy began to rant. “Joe, there are wankers in this world who think that they are entitled to commandeer the governmental apparatus for the purpose of goading us all into this state-directed program of thought control.”
The unexpected vulgarity caught Joe offguard. Harry could hear Joe’s barely audible muffled laugh of bemusement at how she made her analysis sound so ominous.
“And in our town, the name of our local wanker—oh wait, I’m not being very gender inclusive here, I should say ‘cunt’—is Gisela Gruber, a professor of Gender Studies—whatever the hell that is—at the local college. This little professional victim thinks she is empowered to tell the manager of our local library what he can or cannot display on his shelves because her widdle feewings were hurt because somebody suggested that governments in the THIRD WORLD should legislate restrictions to restrict sex-selection abortions. In short, Joe, she is a petty censor.”
“You’d better be careful, she might sue you for saying that, “ warned Joe.
“I will stand up and say it in any court of law in this country: she is a PETTY CENSOR. She can sue me till the cow comes home, I will not be silenced! I’ll scream it from my jail cell if I have to! She wants to empower women by treating them like they’re so fragile and weak-kneed that the we need publicly funded legal thuggery to protect our pretty little heads from a sentence in a textbook read by fewer readers that the femlit hagrag that she edits.”
“But Stacy, aren’t you afraid that this publication will lead down the slippery slope to abortion bans and rusty coathangers?”
“I’d rather have an abortion with a rusty coat hanger that give up inch of freedom to these tyrannical statists. Suppressing free speech in the name of human rights is a total contradiction, but this is completely lost on these morons because they’re so engrossed in their bizarre patriarchal mindrape fantasies that they can’t see forest for the ecofem treehuggers. When you don’t have free speech, you don’t have nothing. The question then becomes whose speech is legal? Free speech is what protects us, and if we don’t protect it, we’ll begin down the slippery slope down to government oppression, which is exactly what happened to Harry Harman, but they think it can happen to them, because they think government is their friend. They don’t seem to think that governments change and that it won’t turn around to bite them in the ass. Can I say ass on radio? ”
“Stacy, what do the kids at school think of all this?”
“They all think I’m a freakin’ nut. But in a bad way. I think being a freedom freak is a good thing.”
“How about your teachers?”
“They really don’t say much. They’re mostly condescending if they say anything at all. They think I can’t see through the congratulations that they don’t agree. They’re all brainwashed by their unions.”
“How many people do you expect to see at your rally?”
“I have no clue, I’ve never done anything like this before. All I know is that someone has to stand up for freedom in this town.”
“And you’re just the girl to do it, Stacy. You’ve re-stoked the fire in my belly, you go get ‘em, girl. Thank you so much for your time.”
“My pleasure, Joe. Hope to see you there!”
By the time the interview had ended, Harry had long covered his face with his hands. The vulgarity, the extremism, the pedantic language, the naked political innocence—it all made for an embarrassing political performance to this seasoned veteran of governmental operations. She had made a humongous fool of herself in front of thousands of people. For what? Defending the right to free speech. Stacy, Stacy, you crazy nut. Why couldn’t you just stick to gossip and celebrities like the rest of the girls your age?
She wouldn’t allow even the remotest thought of a baby. Thinking of one, even semi-consciously, made the tears well up and her chest tighten. Motherhood seemed both attractive and ridiculous. It would have been something of a joke at this point in her life, at age nineteen, to have a baby, even though she could barely pay the rent, lived in a studio apartment and needed Jack to help her pay her groceries. And yet, she craved that little baby, that being who would love her unconditionally and whom she would unconditionally love.
But Jack needed this abortion. So she needed this abortion.
With that surge of resolve, she dialed the clinic’s number. The voice on the other side made her think of that of a DJ on an easy listening radio station. The receptionist proceeded to ask her a series of questions: whether she was sure she was pregnant. Whether she was sure of her decision to terminate. The date of her last menstrual period. Tori just wanted to get to the bottom line: when could she get to her appointment?
“ Well, since you’re not very far along, and there’s a bit of a backlog, there is no availability for surgical abortion until next month.”
Tori was crestfallen. “Next month?”
“ Now, surgical abortion only requires one two-hour visit, but the alternative is to get a medical abortion.”
“What’s that?”
“The nurse would give you an injection to stop the pregnancy from growing and then you would some pills at home. The pills would cause a miscarriage and you would bleed for several days, like a heavy period.”
The prospect of inducing a miscarriage spooked her.
“ We can schedule an appointment much sooner for that.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It can hurt, and it’s like a big period, but your pregnancy would be over sooner.”
Tori resolved to push through the pain. “I’ll take it.”
When she finished her call, she felt relief. Her life was going to get back on track. She would stop being pregnant. She could continue her job waitressing and singing at the Rat’s Nest. And maybe she could finally get of town and pursue her dreams in Toronto.
…..
Harry arrived at the Hepburn building downtown and took the elevator to the fourth floor where he found the office of Eli Applebaum, whom his union assigned as his lawyer for his case. The receptionist called in Eli, who promptly came to the waiting area and took Harry to the consultation room, a big office that was kept spic and span for clients who wanted to talk. There was a great big desk made of cherry, with matching shelves and lunch table.
Eli went behind his desk and took seat and invited Harry to do the same. But Harry dumped his latest complaint on the desk. “I got another surprise in the mail this morning.”
Eli looked down at the envelope. “Another complaint? You’re a popular man.” He took out to the letter and took at look at it.
“I honestly have no recollection of this conversation, “ Harry said as he sat down. “ I didn’t talk to Josh about it. “
“Smart man,” said Eli.
“ I figured if there aren’t any witnesses, it’s an open and shut case, “ Harry reasoned.
“You’d figure. But that’s now how it works.”
Harry frowned.
“It’s a question of who they believe, “ explained Eli.
“Honestly, Eli, the guy did look like a bum. Wouldn’t surprise me if he showed up wearing the same gangbanger outfit.”
“Rasta, Harry, he’s Rasta.”
“Whatever. He didn’t have the slightest clue on how to dress.”
“Making his case all the more believable.”
“Believable? He couldn’t even bother to tidy himself up.”
“Exactly. He’s a disadvantaged minority. “
“Oh come on. I know Black have suffered oppression, but having to put on a tie is not oppression.”
“In the eyes of some Rastafarians, it is. And you disparaged his cultural headdress.”
Harry thought he was joking.
“No, it’s true. “
“So I|’m going to be dragged through his tribunal because he won’t get with the game and wear a shirt and tie with the rest of us?”
“We live in a multicultural society, Harry. And people of colour suffer discrimination because of their background, “ said Eli, parroting the government line.
“How does this advance Social Harmony? Is it too much to ask to respect basic conventions of the dominant culture, like wearing a shirt and tie?”
Eli stared at him with mock seriousness. “Sensitivity training may be in order.” He continued “the good news is that this could probably be resolved at the mediation hearing. The case with Gisela Gruber however…”
Harry got up and took a few steps. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about this complaint, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that I’m right and she’s wrong.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I think if we just lay down the facts about the issue of sex selection abortion, the judge will plainly see that concerns about gender imbalance are completely justified, and that the suggestion to limit abortion is not motivated by any animus against women, and in fact, are driven by a desire to preserve the female population.”
“It doesn’t work that way, “said Eli.
Harry looked confused. “But it’s so plain to anyone with an ounce of sense.”
“This is a free speech issue.”
Harry’s jaw dropped.
“You have no idea what these judges think about the abortion issue, and that’s not the point. You should simply affirm your right to disseminate any viewpoint you like.”
“But…that’s a dangerous angle to take…All kinds of people could abuse that Charter provision and undermine Social Harmony.”
“You have to worry about how this affects your case.”
“But that’s unprincipled.”
“Someone else is being principled and trying to censor your library.”
“I don’t begrudge her for that. They just need the correct principles, that’s all. She’s just plain wrong. Wrong ideas are the problem, not the censorship.”
“The judge’s job, the legal system’s job—in theory—is not to regulate everybody’s principles.”
Harry cocked his head.
“The legal system’s job is to abide by the rule of law. The Charter says we have freedom of expression, so we’re going to go with that.”
“But if everyone did that, we wouldn’t be able to effectively regulate our freedoms.”
“I think you’re starting to catch on.”
But what about Social Harmony, Harry protested silently.
“I know you want to be right, but this is not about right and wrong—“
“Yes it is—“
“Harry, the government is always right. That’s why we have a Charter. I know you mean well, but your stance is terrible legal strategy. If you want to have any chance at all in this fight, you need to engage on the legal system’s premise, not on your own principles.”
Eli proceeded to tell Harry about the details of their first hearing. Harry was terribly confused. He had grown up with the idea that the Charter of Rights and Freedoms was about legislating basic common sense and decency, the rules and regulations that would ensure Peace, Order and Good Government—the very values that made him proud to be Canadian.
“And by the way Harry, there is the matter of my retainer fee…”
Harry’s eyes lit up. “Retainer fee? But I thought the government was paying for this? Isn’t it in my contract?”
“Well, yeah, it’ll pay back your expenses…if you win.”
“How much are we talkin’ about here?”
“Five thousand.”
The acid started to erupt in his stomach.
Harry made it back to the office in time for lunch. He sat at his computer and pulled out a sandwich from his lunch bag. He turned on the computer and clicked the bookmark to Poliblogs, his favourite political blogs aggregator.
As he lifted the sandwich to his mouth, on the blog headlines jumped out at him: Small Town Library Slapped with Human Rights Complaint. Harry dreaded clicking on the link from a blog called Trudeaupian Refugee. It appeared that his story had left the confines of of New Concord.
He loaded the page, disgusted at all the phobic banners on display, decrying feminism, environmentalism and every “ism” of every right-thinking person who wanted to invest in Social Harmony. The excessive capitalization, the excessive exclamation marks, the spelling mistakes, the mismatched colours suggested an angry and instable individual. Amateurism was always the mark of a far right mentality.
Poor Harry Harman. Seems another whiner decided to get on the Human Rights Commission Gravy Train and slap him with another complaint. This time, Harman is accused of discrimination because he criticized a Jamaican cultural headdress.Well that’s not entirely the story, thought Harry…
It seems that Harry thought Jaheem looked like a bum. The aspiring library assistant wouldn’t take his hat off, as is the custom in Western countries.It’s not like it was a turban or a yarmulke. No, Jaheem couldn’t be bothered with Canadian Society’s dress code. He had to wear his silly little hat, like the dope-smoking bum dat ee iz for the sake of some ersatz religion made up by a bunch of illiterates who wanted to get high.
Harry was indignant at the conspicuous racism. He admitted to himself that he wasn’t very knowledgeable about Rasta. And he did think that his dreadlocks made him look like a bum. But he couldn’t sanction this bigoted defence, even if he thought that some of what Trudeaupian said was sort of true. The tone was all wrong. The attack against a cultural dress, against a religion and a parodying of the Jamaican accent—not to mention the reference to cultural stereotypes. Who dared say such things? It was all so hateful. So disparaging. So judgemental. So unCanadian. This was not was he was all about.
He pressed the “back” button on his browser and scanned for more headlines. More right-wing blogs posted in the same vein, dredging up the same contempt for Jamaican culture, along with reminding readers of the high illegitimacy rate among them. “Who’s your daddy, Jaheem Howell?” asked one blog. Harry was disgusted.
Harry’s case did not receive a lot of sympathy among progressive bloggers. The Anti-Racism Collective said it showed that the fight against racism was not dead, and that Black people still suffered many obstacles to employment, including cultural insensitivity. Political Diva, a feminist blogger, was outraged that this was happening at all. She wrote:
When my parents came to Canada in my childhood, they thought they were coming to the land of Social Harmony, a land free of racism, totalitarianism and misogyny.
It appears that their dream of a land free of bigotry and ignorance is beginning to crumble. How else to explain the spate of Human Rights Complaints?
We’ve made progress—don’t get me wrong. But in the face of our relaxed vigilance, the forces of darkness have become emboldened. How is it in this day and age that people continue to demonstrate such ignorance and complete disregard for human rights? Discriminatory hiring? Debating women’s bodily autonomy? How did we let this happen?
Now the speeches are using these breaches of human rights to promote their foul ideology. We have allowed freedom to become an excuse for evil, instead of the instrument of progress.
Shame on you, speeches. Shame on YOU Harry Harman!
Harry was very sympathetic to that post. Until he got to the part that shamed him. It was as if he were reading about someone else, some other case. He had nothing to do with racism, totalitarianism and misogyny. Those were the very things he despised. He in no way associated himself with those words, those concepts. Those were things that other people did. The name “Harry Harman”, written in that context, seemed like someone else’s name. It felt like they couldn’t really be talking about him. This was not what he was about.
Backstreet Liberal took the trouble to actually do some research. He laid out the bare facts of the case—that it was not about cultural headdress, as was widely reported in the blogosphere, but rather Jaheem’s overall appearance, making it seem that it wasn’t just his hat that was in question, but his Jamaican look.
Backstreet took a few shots at the speeches crowd, noting that they were so far off the political spectrum, even the Progressive Conservatives— their supposed allies on the right—disavowed them. As evidence, he posted a video of an exchange at Queen’s Park, between the PC Women Issue’s Critic, Penelope Brooks, and Liberal Culture Minister Ron Browning.
The video began with a wide angle shot showing the MPP’s banging on their tables like misbehaving children in a school cafeteria. It panned to the Speaker of the House, who called for order. Then MPP Penelope Brooks, a refined woman dressed in a well-tailored two-piece dark grey pinstriped skirt and blazer outfit, radiant in all her Torontonian sophistication, finally got up to ask a question, her first of that session. She took her 8 x 11 paper in her exquisitely manicured hand.”It has been revealed that the Director of the Public Library in New Concord Ontario has been the subject of a Human Rights Complaint as a result of a book on the shelves that advocates for restrictions a woman’s right to choose.”
In the background, a garbled male backbencher yelled “no it doesn’t, she can choose anything she want. Have the courage of your convictions and say what you mean.”
The Speaker rose again to get the members to settle down. Brooks rose again and said “Thank you Mr. Speaker. My question to the Minister of Culture: when he will show the respect due to the women of Ontario and order the New Concord Library to withdraw Populations in Peril from its shelves?”
The PC caucus erupted in wild applause. The video showed Brooks sitting down with an air of satisfaction next to her rotund colleague, Bubba Jamieson, who, in a former life, was a Pentecostalist minister from a small rural village outside of London, Ontario. With every vigourous and labored clap, his jowls swayed in unison.
The Minister of Culture rose to respond. “It appears that my esteemed colleague from the progressive conservative side of the house has forgotten a basic legal principle: that a man is innocent until proven guilty. The same should be said for any book. The Human Rights Tribunal has not issued any ruling stating that the book advocated for the violation of human rights. The government’s position is to allow the legal process to run its course and to take action once we receive the decision from the Human Rights Tribunal.”
The Liberals applauded dutifully at the Minister’s bland response, so obviously full of common sense and prudence. Penelope Brooks rose again to ask her follow up question. “It appears that the Minister is deaf to the outcry this book has caused among women’s groups. He seems only interested in protecting his government’s reputation than laboring for true justice. Let me give the members a taste of what this book advocates.
[INSERT QUOTE HERE]
The PC members reacted with appropriate shock and dismay to the quoted passages.
“That any book would advocate restrictions on abortion is shocking in itself. That this book was paid for by Ontarian taxpayers and shelved in a public library is even more scandalous. My question to the Minister of Culture: Do you not consider the right to abortion as indisputable? Are women’s rights such a low priority that your government would not banish all suggestion that they may be curtailed?”
More applause from the caucus.
The Minister rose to answer the question. “The women of Ontario can rest assured that this government profoundly believes in their rights, especially that of choice, but it simply wishes to allow the legal process to run out of respect for our legal tradition.”
The PC members scoffed “Choice is our legal tradition, “ yelled one male voice.
The video ended there. Backstreet Liberal went on to Penelope Brooks discussing how abortion was necessary to Social Harmony, and the dissemination of misogynist ideas undermined its implementation. Then he mentioned that even Bubba “Praise the Lord” Jamieson was egging her on. Clearly the speechies were beyond the pale, a bunch of crazies who whacked out ideas only served to sow hatred, dissension and social disorder.
As a parting shot, to cement the guilt by association, Backstreet Liberal reported on his research of Harry Harman’s attorney, Eli Applebaum. It turns out that Applebaum had once defended a notorious Nazi sympathizer by the name of Gunther Schmelling in a case involving examining free speech rights and Holocaust denial. Applebaum, Backstreet Liberal said, was not only a speechie who came to the defense of hatemongerer, he sold out his own people by representing this client.
Birds of a feather and all that. [Maybe should put this as a quote].
Harry’s hear sank. Backstreet Liberal was the kind of blog read by the pundits and the political war room types. His reputation was destroyed in front of all the right-thinking people of his community. It was so patently unfair. He thought of himself as an average guy with no axe to grind with any idea that was good and pure; and here he was, being condemned as a partisan of the extreme Right through two degrees of separation. His decision to allow people access to a book on a shelf was framed as some underhanded conspiracy to oppress women. But he was the quintessential nice guy.
It angered him to be lumped in with those who campaigned for an unregulated world where the strong oppress the weak with their words, their influence, their power. Laws were the best protection against such tyranny. His case was the exception. An inevitable mistake. The system is only human. Nothing’s perfect. The notion of overthrowing the whole system that protect the marginalized in the name of one mistake made no sense to him.
How dare they think he was against Social Harmony.
He turned to the New Concord Online Book Club. He thought he could get away from the buzz for a little bit. Instead, the first thread that turned up on the message board read:
ATTENTION ALL FREEDOM LOVERS.
It was from Liberty Bell.
He clicked on the message.
In light of the events surrounding the Human Rights Complaints laid on Harry Harman, I am organizing a rally to support free speech at the Courthouse...
Harry cringed. His eyes skimmed to the end of the message:
Don’t be a douchebag…show up!
Stacy, why must you do this to me, pleaded Harry silently. He hesistated about printing the message. He was somewhat touched that she would go through all this effort on his behalf. But he wasn’t too keen on someone hosting a rally populated by bigots and sundry opponents of Social Harmony. He deleted the “douchebag” comment and let it through. How many people would read it? Five, perhaps ten, at the most?
He didn’t want to leave the office and have to face the world outside after that was said about him. So he stayed there, and worked on paying the outstanding invoices. Really, that was Josh’s job, but he was only too happy to find an excuse to do something mindless and soul-numbing.
He left the office somewhat early. He had gone in early. It all evened out in his mind. He had driven in that morning instead of walked. His car was his refuge from the judgemental eyes on Main Street.
He turned on Joe Colpitts. “Today on the show: a sixteen-year-old is rallying for free speech in the case of the library manager who is the subject of a human rights complaint. Isn’t that great? Sixteen-years-old and already civic-minded. How about that? More after the news.”
Harry snapped off the radio. Oh for goodness sakes, he said to himself, embarrassed. He feared all the freaks will come out of the woodwork and use their defense of his cause to spew their bilge. What was she going to say. Would fear get the better of him, or curiosity?
He braced himself and turned on the radio. Joe Colpitts had the mike.
“Free speech. People have fought and died for it. One young woman from New Concord wants to rally for it. Her name is Stacy Cameron and she is mad as hell. Mad as hell that elitist busybodies want to dictate to the rest of us what we can or cannot say, read or think. And we have Miss Cameron on the line to talk about all this. Hi Stacy how ya doin’?”
She gushed like she had just won a call-in contest. “Oh my God, I am so psyched! Thanks for having me Joe. This is so awesome!”
You could hear the smile in Joe’s voice. “I love your enthusiasm. Now Stacy, what’s this about you holding a rally for free speech? Why are you doing this?”
Stacy began to rant. “Joe, there are wankers in this world who think that they are entitled to commandeer the governmental apparatus for the purpose of goading us all into this state-directed program of thought control.”
The unexpected vulgarity caught Joe offguard. Harry could hear Joe’s barely audible muffled laugh of bemusement at how she made her analysis sound so ominous.
“And in our town, the name of our local wanker—oh wait, I’m not being very gender inclusive here, I should say ‘cunt’—is Gisela Gruber, a professor of Gender Studies—whatever the hell that is—at the local college. This little professional victim thinks she is empowered to tell the manager of our local library what he can or cannot display on his shelves because her widdle feewings were hurt because somebody suggested that governments in the THIRD WORLD should legislate restrictions to restrict sex-selection abortions. In short, Joe, she is a petty censor.”
“You’d better be careful, she might sue you for saying that, “ warned Joe.
“I will stand up and say it in any court of law in this country: she is a PETTY CENSOR. She can sue me till the cow comes home, I will not be silenced! I’ll scream it from my jail cell if I have to! She wants to empower women by treating them like they’re so fragile and weak-kneed that the we need publicly funded legal thuggery to protect our pretty little heads from a sentence in a textbook read by fewer readers that the femlit hagrag that she edits.”
“But Stacy, aren’t you afraid that this publication will lead down the slippery slope to abortion bans and rusty coathangers?”
“I’d rather have an abortion with a rusty coat hanger that give up inch of freedom to these tyrannical statists. Suppressing free speech in the name of human rights is a total contradiction, but this is completely lost on these morons because they’re so engrossed in their bizarre patriarchal mindrape fantasies that they can’t see forest for the ecofem treehuggers. When you don’t have free speech, you don’t have nothing. The question then becomes whose speech is legal? Free speech is what protects us, and if we don’t protect it, we’ll begin down the slippery slope down to government oppression, which is exactly what happened to Harry Harman, but they think it can happen to them, because they think government is their friend. They don’t seem to think that governments change and that it won’t turn around to bite them in the ass. Can I say ass on radio? ”
“Stacy, what do the kids at school think of all this?”
“They all think I’m a freakin’ nut. But in a bad way. I think being a freedom freak is a good thing.”
“How about your teachers?”
“They really don’t say much. They’re mostly condescending if they say anything at all. They think I can’t see through the congratulations that they don’t agree. They’re all brainwashed by their unions.”
“How many people do you expect to see at your rally?”
“I have no clue, I’ve never done anything like this before. All I know is that someone has to stand up for freedom in this town.”
“And you’re just the girl to do it, Stacy. You’ve re-stoked the fire in my belly, you go get ‘em, girl. Thank you so much for your time.”
“My pleasure, Joe. Hope to see you there!”
By the time the interview had ended, Harry had long covered his face with his hands. The vulgarity, the extremism, the pedantic language, the naked political innocence—it all made for an embarrassing political performance to this seasoned veteran of governmental operations. She had made a humongous fool of herself in front of thousands of people. For what? Defending the right to free speech. Stacy, Stacy, you crazy nut. Why couldn’t you just stick to gossip and celebrities like the rest of the girls your age?
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