Tuesday, December 15, 2009

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Friday, February 27, 2009

POEM: Blockage



This poem was inspired by something that I say at the 40 Days for Life Kick Off Rally in Ottawa. In front of the abortion clinic was a McDonald's van unloading its shipment for the restaurant next door. I thought that that image worked on so many levels.




Blockage



The help for which every woman begs.
And no more lethal than scrambled eggs.
Eggspress Lane. That’s what it said--
The McDonald’s van that kept the clinic
Hid. Disrobe. Cover up. Wait in line.
It’s confidential as there’s little time.
Billions served. Without question.
With only minor indigestion.
Undergone with a heavy heart but with no more
Trauma than a
Fart.

It’ll curb your hunger and it’s so nutritious.
Well sufficiently so. But there’s no dishes!
It’s no nine-course meal, but it’s no Chick Filet.

And you deserve a break today.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 5

When Harry had gotten off the phone with Jack, he went around the library and herding out the patrons. “We have to close now,” he repeated as he walked around the desks and tables. “There’s a small emergency. Nothing to fear, “he assured. “ I apologize for the inconvenience. We need to do some repairs, and this would disrupt the peace and quiet necessary for a public library. I’m very sorry.”

He didn’t even give patrons time to sign out their books. He whooshed them out the front and locked the door behind them. He felt a little bad for contravening government regulations on closings, but this was an emergency.

He went behind the front desk and poked his head into Josh’s office. Josh was slipping on his jacket.

“Take off that jacket, “Harry ordered. Josh stared. “We’re being inspected. Tomorrow. I got a tip-off.”

Josh cursed under his breath. “But I was going out with my girlfriend,” he protested.

“Never mind your girlfriend. You have to help me.” Harry stormed back into his office and Josh followed him. “They want my head. This place has got to be spic and span. Every book, every shelf has to be in its place. “

Josh pleaded with his eyes.

Harry took down the dusty binder with the LSC regulations. “You can make it up to your girlfriend. I can’t make it up to the boss.” He blew off some dust. Josh coughed.

“Watch it, I have allergies. “ He wiped his eyes. “I can’t imagine you could lose your job over this. This is the public sector.”

“Exactly, Josh. And when you’re a political embarrassment, they will find an excuse to fire you, and no one will come to your defense.” Harry snapped open the binder to have the regulations more handy. “Get the ladies to make sure every book is in their proper place. Then they should vacuum and dust and clean the bathrooms. “He felt a small surge of remorse swell inside of him. He felt bad about the way he expected his women employees to do the traditional dirty work. “It’s too bad they have to be involved.” He handed Josh a walkie-talkie.

Josh went and told the ladies the bad news. Harry went over the regulations and tried to focus on the most important ones. The most glaring infraction was the fact that two of the library’s four computers were out of action. Normally, Harry would phone up Larry, the IT guy at the LSC and get a ticket, but he did not have two weeks to wait for the man to show up and he certainly did not want anyone to know that he was aware of his “surprise” inspection. So he sat down at his computer and searched the internet for a computer technician willing to come to the library.

He tried to narrow down the search to places in and around New Concord, as he did not want to pay for travel costs. He found a guy by the name of Quentin Moss, who happened to be just a short drive down the street. He phoned him to see if he was available.

“Quentin Moss speaking.”

“Hello Mr. Moss. Would you be available to come over this very minute? I have something of an emergency that needs to be addressed right away.”

“This is my supper hour, and I wasn’t planning on doing any calls.”

“I’m really in a bind.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“A hundred-fifty bucks an hour.”

Harry was steamed. But he was in no mood to negotiate. He kept his cool. “Sure. Come over now to the library. Two of my computers are shot.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Harry wondered whether he should have paid for travel costs of someone cheaper.

He went back to the regulations and his eyes fell on the page dealing with accessibility. He remembered that the lock for the stall for handicapped patrons in the men’s washroom was broken. That had to be fixed. Otherwise it would like he did not care about Social Harmony, because he did not care enough about the privacy of disabled patrons, even though the only handicapped patron in town was Jordan, an army veteran who lost his legs because of a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. Leaving that stall lock unfixed was tantamount to being unwelcoming of the disabled. And therefore intolerant.

Harry was not a man of manual labour. He called up his friend Leo, who was only too happy to show off his handy man skills and make himself useful.

Harry browsed for more regulations. His eyes fell on a line that stated that no book could be more than 413 millimeters in width. Otherwise, it had to be re-bound into two books at the bookbinding centre in Toronto. The Library Standards Commission was afraid that such heavy books would be inaccessible to little old ladies and medically fragile patrons. Harry grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Josh, have Mrs. Keeble and Mrs. Quigley remove any books over 4 centimeters.”

“Where do you want me to put them?”

Harry racked his brains. “In the storage closet under the stairs. Box them up so that they’re not obvious.”

He returned, nervous and sweaty to the regulations. His eyes fell on the line that stated that no encyclopedia set could be any older than ten years old. The Library Standards Commission was petrified of outdated facts and especially outdated values. He remembered that the Encyclopedia Britannica set he had was eleven years old. He radio Josh. “Josh, ditch the Britannicas, they’re too old.”

“Do you want me to put those in the storage, too?”

“Yeah, and make sure they’re hidden. But don’t make it too obvious that we’re hiding them, okay?”

Harry heard his cell phone ring. Quentin Moss wanted to be let in. Harry went over to the door and opened it for him and locked it again. Harry pointed him to the computers. “You turn them on, but they just freeze. The main software programs freeze up and you can’t use the internet.” He explained.

“This might take a while. I’ll have to get out my desktop and monitor and perform some diagnostics.”

“By the way, Quentin, if you could keep this quiet, I’d appreciate it.”

“Must be serious,” Quentin mumbled.

“I can’t talk about it. “

Quentin looked at him.

“Government business.”

“So?”

Government business,” Harry repeated emphatically.

He took a wood block they had lying around and set it on the floor as a door stop so that Quentin could make multiple trips to his van. “And please close the door behind you when you’re finished getting everything in.”

As Quentin walked out the door, Leo showed up with his toolbox. Harry led him to the back of the library and into the men’s bathroom where he spotted the hospital-green handicapped stall. He walked over to the door to take a look at it. He found only holes, no loose lock.

“The slider’s missing,” he said.

They scanned the floor. “It’s gotta be here somewhere, “said Harry. He nervously looked behind the garbage bin and under the sink and behind the door. Nothing. Just white tiles. “Do they sell them at the hardware store downtown?”

“’Fraid not, “said Leo. “But let me check my toolbox.” He rummaged through his big black box, and scrounged through the fiddly bits—the nuts and the bolts and the screws and other unnamable parts. He picked up the pieces of a hook-and-eye lock. “This could work.”

Harry winced. That would look so cheap. And yet: what were his other options. It wouldn’t create the professional touch he was looking for. “It’ll have to do for now.”

Leo took out his drill, plugged it in and started making the holes he needed for the hook and eye lock. Harry left the bathroom and scooted back to the front desk to get to his sheets with the regulations on them.

He picked them up and fingered through them. There were so many. He didn’t know which one to start with—they were all on such minor things. He went back to his office to get more regulations to see if there were any that seemed more important.

The anxiety over this inspection was wearing him down. The constant surges of blood pressure, the running around were leaving him physically exhausted. I’m not going to last, he thought. He wondered whether he was perhaps overreacting. Maybe he should just take out Population Perils, satisfy the Human Rights Commission and save his job. Why was he doing all this, for some book?

Was there some grander principle at stake? He wondered. Was it his own stubbornness that was keeping him from untangling himself from this situation and finding lasting peace? Was his belief all that important in the grand scheme of things?

He sat down behind the front desk to regroup. He ran through the complaint one more time in his head, about how suggesting that any restriction on abortion was tantamount to misogyny. Did that make sense to him?

Of course not. Sincere and well-meaning people could have sincere and well-meaning differences of opinion. Launching a government investigation over such an insignificant grievance was not a good expenditure of taxpayer money. This complaint would not in any way advance Social Harmony.

He marveled at the pettiness of the whole situation. And the worse part was that he sympathized with Gisela Gruber. He shared her desire for the advancement of feminism. But in his mind, suggesting a restriction on a small number of abortions was no viable threat.

He was right and she was wrong.

That was his opinion. His own personal, subjective, fallible opinion. It seemed like such a petty reason to fight. He was pretty sure he was right. And he wasn’t a rabid misogynist because he believed in letting people have some differences of opinion. That was a foolish conclusion.

He felt a surge of anger. Is that what she thinks of me? That I’m a misogynist for letting this guy disagree?

This was all so foolish. And yet, if he backed down because of this complaint, it would mean that, in the public domain, she was right: Harry was a misogynist, because he protected misogynists.

He sighed. This was so ridiculous.

Mrs. Keeble, sporting her bifocals, approached him with a tattered green cover. The front cover was breaking off. “Harry, this book looks somewhat used. Perhaps we need to send it to the bookbinding office.”

It did look like it was on its last legs. “There’s no time for filling out the forms, “he told her. He radioed Josh. “Josh, box up all the books with covers breaking off. We stick those in the storage closet, too.”

Harry read the gold lettering on the cover:

How to Talk to a Liberal (If You Must): The World According to Ann Coulter

His eyeballs popped. She was the very antithesis of Social Harmony. Vile, lying, disgusting, abrasive, venomous, divisive, far-right wench. “Josh, how the hell did Ann Coulter end up in my library?”

He sounded bewildered. “Ann Coulter? I never ordered any Ann Coulter.”

Harry looked at the book in disgust. It was bound in standard green Government of Ontario binding. “I have an Ann Coulter book in my library.”

“I had noticed it, Mr. Harman, “confessed Mrs. Keeble, “but since no one complained, I didn’t say anything either. I thought perhaps you left it there for research purposes, “she explained.

Mrs. Keeble had a good heart. She would not have let an author like Ann Coulter be displayed in the library unless she thought there was a higher ulterior purpose. “Do we have any more of these books?”

“We might have a few more Ann Coulters. And perhaps some Rush Limbaughs, a Mark Steyn, and I think a Phyllis Schlafly.”

“Phyllis Schlaffly? “ His head sunk into his hands. “Phyllis Schlaffly? I’ve been here all these years and I never saw the Phyllis Schlaffly?”

He looked at the shelves. What else did was he not aware of?

All the books looked alike. Perhaps if the inspectors did not peer too closely, the titles would escape their notice.

“You know what? This is a library. I don’t have to agree with everything, here, “he said to appease his conscience. “Get this Ann Coulter to the bookbinding office.”

He began to wrestle with his decision. There impressionable minds who roamed those aisles. How would he feel if his library was some adolescent’s first encounter with extremist far right ideas?

On the other hand, maybe he might find out what exactly earned Ann Coulter’s reputation. He thought of her as a right-wing political slut, who put out with her columns so that vile right-wing haters could derive orgasmic delight out from the exposure of her bile. The more they praised her and relished her books, the more she wrote, satisfying their lust for hate. It was political porn for bigots, with the bod and looks to match.

To think that his library was spreading that kind of divisiveness made him sick.

He felt wearied by those divisive political debates. He just wanted Social Harmony to prevail. That was all that mattered. Knuckle-draggers like Ann Coulter sure didn’t. They were the reason why Canada needed the creed of Social Harmony. If it weren’t for those right-wingers, Canada would be just fine.

Quentin walked up to Harry to tell him the bad news about the computers. “You have a virus, and your wireless router is on the fritz.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred dollars. Plus labour.”

“Okay, do whatever you need to do, “Harry said as he waved him off.

Leo brought his toolbox to the front desk to tell Harry that he was done, and then left for home.

Harry went back to his binder and realized the impossibility of his task. To get every single regulation correct, so that his government boss would not be mad at him. He flipped through the pages. Hundreds and hundreds of them. He thought of them as hundred of mousetraps, waiting to snap his little toe and punish him for his negligence. All at the cost of deep mental anguish at the prospect of losing a job he loved.

He decided to just finish straightening out the place and hope for the best.

He turned out the lights at eight o’clock and prayed that there were no surprises waiting for him.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 4

The receptionist at Jack’s office had been busy all afternoon taking calls from reporters about the Human Rights complaint. That suited Jack just fine, as that kept his boss, Walter Cranston busy and left him alone to review Library Standards complaints and possible violations. He thought this was one of the more tedious and insignificant parts of his job, as ninety per cent of the complaints were ridiculous. One man complained that a library in Ferguson’s Corners was too loud, and that the noise level surpassed the regulation decibel level. Another complained that the library in Halicon was too quiet. One was wondered why more writings from the Marxist scholar Professor Ludwig von Gimmel was not included. Clearly a biased system. Another asked why the writings of conservative columnist Patty Lou Patrowski were not stocked. The library was the fifth column for a communist takeover.

And so on.

Jack got sick of reading through these whiny complaints and sat back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost quitting time. He sighed with relief. It was almost time to go see Tori.

Walter Cranston barged into his office unannounced and closed the door hastily, as if he had escaped the crowd. He looked at Jack. “The Minister is not happy.”

“So what else is new?” wondered Jack as he feigned reading the complaints. He couldn’t stand Walter’s melodramatic voice.

“We’re getting unwanted media attention. They think we committed this Human Rights violation.”

“It’s an allegation. Any jerk could file one.” Jack turned his back to Walt.

“And he’s getting questions in the Legislature.”

“So?”

“If my Minister is not happy, my Director General is not happy. And if he’s not happy, he will make me very unhappy, if something isn’t done about it.”

“So what’s he gonna do? “

“They’re contemplating new guidelines for the book selection process.”

Jack put his head in his hand. “For one complaint?”

“That one complaint is embarrassing the government.”

“It’s media-driven bullshit. Who says he did anything wrong?”

“He pissed off a feminist. He’s as good as guilty.”

Jack scoffed in disgust. There is a misperception among the public that civil servants love rules and regulations. The truth is: nobody hates bureaucracy like a bureaucrat. That certainly was the case with Jack. The Library Standards Commission put bread on his table and he loved working for the government. But more regulations meant more complaints; and more complaints meant more work; and more work meant more headaches and more effort. So long as he had a job, Jack Welland was content to be left alone and let people do as they please.

He was rather libertarian that way.

“Oh, by the way, you’re coming with me tomorrow morning,” Walter announced.

Jack turned around “Where to?”

“The New Concord Municipal Library.”

“What the hell for?”

“Surprise inspection.”

“Surprise inspection?” Jack couldn’t remember the last time he had been on one. “They’re concerned about following regulations all of a sudden?”

Walter was about to walk out the door. He turned to Jack and said “You better believe it.”

“What about our budget meeting?”

“Cancelled, “said Walt. And he stepped out.

Jack turned off his computer and left his office. When he got to the car, he pulled his cell phone and dialed up Harry’s direct line at the library.

“Harry? It’s Jack. Listen, you’re not supposed to know this, but tomorrow I and Walter Cranston will be paying you a surprise visit, if you know what I mean…”

“A surprise inspection?”

“You said it, not me. Walt told me the Minister is not happy about this feminazi complaint. I suggest that you work real hard to get everything in order. “

Harry hung up and swore to himself.

Just as he was about to start his car, Jack’s cell phone rang. He answered it. It was Barb.
“Jack, I have to take the kids to the hospital.”

“Is it serious?”

“Not very. Jeremy and Brian were fooling around on the front stoop and he managed to cut a gash above his eyebrow and I think Brian sprained his ankle.”

Jack sighed. Why did these boys always have to fight? Why couldn’t they get along like normal people? “Will you be okay by yourself?”

“I think it’s serious enough that they won’t let me wait. You’ll have to scrounge for your own dinner.”

“That’s quite alright, Barb.”

The good news was that he would have more time with Tori. Which is what he needed, given all the tension in his life?


For the better part of the afternoon, Tori had been rolling around in her Murphy bed sobbing uncontrollably. That morning, she woke up feeling nauseous, and she was still expecting her period. She made her way to the dollar store to buy a cheap pregnancy test. When it turned up positive, she couldn’t believe it and made her way to the pharmacy and spent fifteen dollars to get a top-of-the line brand.

And it confirmed her worst nightmare.

This was not supposed to happen! She protested to herself. How? What am I going to do?

She looked at the alarm clock on the night stand. He would be arriving soon. She had to pull herself together to figure out what she was going to say. She didn’t feel like keeping this to herself. It was news that was too important to keep a secret. He would figure out something was bugging her anyway.

She sat up and tried to stop the hiccupping. If only Jack weren’t married, maybe…maybe this could work. He’s a family man…The thought of a lost opportunity made her cry again. If only he weren’t married!

She stopped herself again. She had to think. Was there any way she could have this baby?

Would it fair to the baby to bring him into the world when Jack and I aren’t together? Would it be fair to bring him into the world when I don’t even have a good job?

And what about Jack? Is it fair to saddle him with another kid? He already has two.

And what about society? Is it fair to expect society to pick up the tab for his upbringing? Canada is a generous country, but generosity has a price.

And what about the Earth? Overpopulation is a plague. Too many people creating garbage, polluting the air and putting a strain on the planet’s limited resources. That’s a recipe for social unrest.

All her questions pointed to one answer.

She began to cry all over again. She had pictured getting pregnant in a time in her life when she was settled; not while she was young and still pursuing her dreams.

She went to the bathroom to wash her face and put on some make up before Jack arrived.

Just as she had finished gliding the lipstick across her mouth there was a knock and the front door opened. “Tori, it’s me.”

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Jack’s lips lunged at her face and his hands dug deeply into her frizzy yellow hair. He pushed her all the way to the bathroom wall, kissing her so hard she couldn’t reciprocate.

Finally he let her take a breath while he kissed her neck repeatedly. “Jack…I have something to say to you…”

“I love you, too, “he mumbled with his mouth full.

“No, I need to talk.”

He lifted his head. “Can it wait?”

“I don’t want to wait.” She freed herself from his grasp and sat on her Murphy bed.

He followed her out of the bathroom. “What is it? Are you late with the rent? “

“No, it’s more serious than that.”

He sat beside her. She stifled the tears. “What’s the matter? “ He drew her into a hug.

She sat back up. “I’m…” She paused. She tried to bring herself to say the word.

“…Pregnant.”

Jack’s eyes lit up. He swallowed. “Have you thought of…”

Afraid that his surprise would turn to anger, she looked up. “Don’t worry Jack,” I’ll take care of it.”

His eyes dimmed. He was sad at his own relief.

“You’re okay with that, right?”

“It’s entirely up to you, “he said, a little hurt. “ I would never second-guess your choice.”

“I would have kept it quiet, but…” Her eyes welled up and she wiped the tear off her cheek. “ I just…I just had to tell you. Keeping this inside of me. You just don’t know what it’s like. I can’t tell anyone. Not a soul. I don’t want them to know. How did this happen? It wasn’t supposed to. I feel like such a fool. A stupid fool who should have known better, except I did everything I knew how to do. And now it’s come to this.”

“Don’t feel so bad, hun, “he said as he hugged her. “It happens all the time. “

“I feel responsible. I wish—I wish we could have this baby. I wish, somehow, it was possible.”

Jack’s heart raced. “That’s not in anyone’s best interest, “he said calmly.

“I know that all too well. “ She got up and looked out the window. “I just think…” She looked down. “You make a great dad.”

He was touched.

“You know, my dad wasn’t around much for me. I only saw him every other week. And I would never want to bring a child into that situation. I want my kids to have a dad in the house. Not a part-time dad. My dad meant well but…he just wasn’t there for me sometimes, you know?”

Jack slid up on the bed and lied down on his back. Tori lied down next to him. “I’m so glad you’re here for me, “she said.

She began to express her feelings about having fallen pregnant at this time of her life, and how she would have liked to have had a child but this was not a good time, and how she really wished she did not need to have an abortion, and how this was all so very painful to her. And her words circled back to the same refrain. She was so glad that Jack was there to hear her verbal catharsis.

Jack’s mind drifted back to when she told him she was pregnant. For half a second, he was happy. The happiest he had been in a long time. Perhaps this could have been his lucky chance and he would have had his little girl.

It was all too bad. But that’s the way things were. No use complaining about them, he figured. That’s the way they had to be, for everyone’s sake. It was just a silly, frilly dream. Still. It was all too bad.

His mind drifted further and further way from the conversation—or monologue, as it were—until a soft snore buzzed from Jack’s mouth. Tori did not stop talking long enough to notice. Another snore roused him from unconsciousness. He slurped the saliva from his lips. How long had he been asleep? He looked at his watch. Not very long.
She turned around and looked at him. “You are such a good listener. It’s so nice to have one’s feelings taken seriously.”

“Anytime. But, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be going, “Jack announced as he sat up.

“So soon? “

“Barbara…took the boys to the emergency…”

“Oh no! “

Jack shook his head. “It’s not…” He paused. “It might be a long night.”

“Of course. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because…I had you on my mind.” He headed to the door.

“Your kids need you, Jack. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay.” She said as she followed him.

He turned the doorknob. He turned around for one final goodbye. She pecked him on the nose. “And Jack…thanks for being there for me. It meant a lot.”

“Any time, “he said. “Have a good night.” And he stepped out the door.

Tori felt very lucky to be dating such a man.



Jeremy and Brian came home with their mother later that night. The trip to the hospital did not dampen the boys’ spirits. Jeremy got his stitches, which was somewhat scary and painful, but he got over it fairly quickly. Brian hobbled on a cane. His sprain was not very serious and he would be normal in a week. They were teasing each other as if nothing had happened. Barb told them to go upstairs and get to bed because there was school the next day.

Barbara followed the boys and found Jack looking at the kids’ photo albums on their bed. He looked at the baby pictures and remember how fascinating and exciting it was to bring home a new baby. Their gurgles were so cute. Their antics made them laugh. Jeremy used to climb anything and everything. Brian always pulled the toilet paper roll.

Barb sat down next to Jack and gave a quick summary of their hospital visit.

“I’m so glad we have kids, “he said still looking at the photos. “People who don’t have kids don’t know what they’re missing. “He put his arm around her.

“You’re huggy, huggy, tonight, “she commented.

“What’s the matter? Can’t a man hug his wife?”

“Touchy.”

He let go.

“I didn’t say to stop hugging me. “

He felt a bit dirty hugging his wife. But he was in that kind of mood.

Barbara got up to put her nightdress on. She began to disrobe. Jack hadn’t seen her undress in many months. She unbuttoned her shirt with her back toward him. The flesh sagged and jiggled with every step. She took off her pants and her underwear did not cover her behind all the way. He mentally winced at the dimples in her butt; they made him think of the craters in the moon. And those knees. They weren’t knees, they were hubcaps. Her thighs quivered with every step of that pachyderm-like leg of hers, as she went to the closet to get her nightdress.

She could not put that nightdress on fast enough.

She sat on her side and pulled the blankets over her. She reached into the drawer of the nightstand and took out a book. Jack took off his pants and shoes and got into bed.

Notwithstanding her flab, Barbara’s presence comforted Jack because she exuded the warmth of a Mama Grizzly when she was next to him. He needed that warmth now. It was the reassurance of stability, that all things would turn out alright. His disappointment at the turn of events at Tori’s apartment still lingered. He harboured a vague feeling of regret, and the domesticity of his household comforted him.

Barbara was such a good wife. A really good mother. Such a rock. What would he do without her? He was so grateful for her, and that she gave birth to their two sons.

He was happy to have Tori, too. It’s just that having two women in one’s life complicated matters. Both brought their strengths to his life.

Both brought their challenges.

Friday, November 7, 2008

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 As Harry walked to work the next day, wondering what he would do about his situation, he walked by the newspaper vending machines on Division Street. Normally, he didn’t pay them much attention—he usually read the paper online—but he saw the word “Library” from the corner of his eye. Was he being paranoid? He stopped to look at the newspaper. It read:

 “Library Director target of Human Rights Complaint.”

 His heart sank. Now everybody would know about it. He rushed to the library to get to his office and read the article.

 It wasn’t a horrible article. But still, the news was out there. Now he was the subject of public disapproval. Here read the comments following the article:

 That man should be fired! Who in their right mind allows a book in a taxpayer-funded library that suggests women should give up their rights? That’s just asinine!

...

 Why doesn’t he just take down the book? How many people are going to read it, anyway? My tax money is going to this?

...

 Bravo to Gisela Gruber for standing up for women! That Harry Harman should be ashamed of himself and I hope the Library Standards Commission fires him. 

...

 I thank my inner goddess that I live in a country that values human rights and is willing to go the distance in making sure they are not violated. He doesn’t respect human rights. He should be fired. His job is to promote Social Harmony, instead he’s promoting misogyny.

...

 The calls for his dismissal were bad enough, but the free speech proponents horrified him.
 

 Harry Harman should be left alone. He should be able to display any book he damned well pleases. The government is persecuting an innocent man for doing his job. The government is becoming fascist.

...

  Feminazis are trying to take over this country and operate a fascist police state. This hairy-legged mafia is trying to dictate to people what they can or cannot say, read or write. 

...

Our public policy should not be fashioned on the fly by ball-busting vagina warriors who’re too ugly to get laid.

...

 Of course the fembots could never support free speech or true freedom. Their ideas could never win in a true marketplace of ideas. The only thing they know how to do is suppress and destroy. They cannot let people be free because freedom would be the end of their movement.

...

  The leftard butches and their metrosexual enablers should take their human rights complaint and stick it where the sun don’t shine.

...

 He didn’t want to read any more. He was aghast that the people who defended them were the ones who comments dripped with bigotry and misogyny; the very people whose existence justified the need for the creed of Social Harmony. Now, not only was he embarrassed and angry to be the subject of a Human Rights Complaint, he was an icon for the Free Speech movement, which consisted mainly of a bunch of right-wing extremists, who couldn’t otherwise get their views taken seriously by mainstream society. And no wonder. How could anyone take such vitriol seriously? Hairy-legged mafia? Feminazis? A bunch of uneducated, knuckle-dragging rednecks—that’s what they were. No self-respecting Canadian would give them the time of day.

 He was disgusted that his case was fodder for the push for freedom. Which was code for selfishness. Freedom was for racists, sexists, homophobes, religious fanatics, gun nuts and all manner of extremists.

 Fine upstanding citizens did not need freedom.

 He was confident that his case could be won on merit, not on the basis of some American-style concept of free speech. It was plainly obvious: discussing the possibility of restricting a type of abortion that only a handful of women actually performed in Canada would pose no threat to women’s rights. All he had to do was persuasively make that case with facts and logic, and he would win the day. It was open and shut, so long as he was given the opportunity to present his views.

 Mrs. Keeble phoned to say she would be late, so Harry took over the front desk while he waited for her to arrive. The first person through the door when it opened was the scrawny, black-haired Stacy Cameron. She went directly to the front desk as soon as she stepped through the door.

 “I am so sorry.” She said. “So sorry about this stupid Human Rights Complaint. You are being royally shafted.” 

 “Well…that’s—very nice of you,” said Harry, unsure as to how to react. 

 “You know, I skipped economics class to come here. They were teaching some socialist bullshit anyway, so I didn’t much. The point is: I came here to support you. You are a victim of over-arching government encroachment. They have no right to tell you that you can’t display a book simply because they think it's offensive.”

 “I’m not upset that they want to remove a book they consider offensive, it’s just that….it’s no threat to women.”

 “Harry, you don’t have to apologize for James Robinson. You should simply be able to transmit any idea you like.”

 Harry cringed at that statement. Her defense of freedom was so very adolescent. 

 “You cannot be allowed to take this lying down. There is so much at stake here. You have to stand up to these thugs. You have to make some noise.”

 “I wasn’t really thinking of doing that, “Harry said as he scratched the little bit of hair left on his head.

 “You weren’t? “ Stacy said, disappointed. “Why not? Your job is on the line. Are you just going to let these people steamroll all over you?”

 “Not at all. I’m sure the Library Standards Commission will hire a very competent lawyer for my defense.”

 She scoffed. “You think your future rides on a lawyer’s briefs? Are you kidding? Some tax-paid buffoon is not going to go to bat for you. Whether you win or lose, he still gets paid. Ah man, this sucks. I thought someone might actually stand up for freedom in this country.”

 There was that word again. “Sorry to disappoint. I just don’t think this is about free speech. It’s really about whether this is threatening to women.”

 “You are so naïve,” Stacy shot back. Harry couldn’t help but smile back at her arrogance. “The judge is going to find you guilty. And then you will pay. And then you’ll be fired.”

 “How can you be so sure?”

 “Because Human Rights Commissions have a 100% conviction rate in cases  involving Section 13”

 “A hundred per cent conviction rate.” He repeated flatly.

 “Of course. Your arguments are useless. You’re done. You can’t win in that arena. You can only win outside of it.”

 Harry was skeptical, but she seemed so sure of herself, and she wasn’t one to make a statement without having some kind of grounds for saying so.

 “Ah man, I risked detention for this. Look, call me when you need me. You know my number; it’s in your database.”

 She walked out of the hall in disgust.

 Throughout the morning, Harry carried around her statement in his head—that the Human Rights Commissions had a 100% conviction rate. When Mrs. Keeble checked in for work, he went to his office to search the internet to see what was at the heart of her assertion.
 
 He discovered that the right-wing blogosphere had jumped all over this case, and they assured the world that when any Section 13 case came to a hearing, the defendant lost.

 There was no way to verify that. But it made Harry a little nervous. It sounded like he would have to make a deal with Gisela or else lose his job.
  
 He tried googling to see if he could find a defendant that had been acquitted under Section 13.1
 
 He couldn’t find one.
 
 Perhaps it was time to consider taking down that book. He did not want to lose his job. Where would he find one as good as working in a library all day?

 He got up from his desk to go himself some coffee, but the coffee pot was empty, and they were no more filters.

 He decided to take a breather and walk to the small shopping centre down the street where he could order double-double at the Tim Horton’s stand. At this time of the morning, the food court was populated with retired and semi-retired old fogeys who gathered there to shoot the breeze and play some cards. These old men had their age etched in their wrinkles. They reminded Harry of old bloodhounds who had lost their hunger for the hunt and just wanted to lounge around all day. This sentiment made Harry a little self-conscious, as he had attended school with some of these men.

 Harry bought his coffee and went over to a table with four old-timers seated around it. Leo looked up and saw his old school buddy and his eyes lit up. “Hey, Harry, glad to see you. “

 “Hi Leo.”

 “I’m just astonished at the complaint they laid on you, “said Archie. He was fat and wore a baseball cap to hide his balding head.

 Harry pulled up a chair from another table and sat down. “I’m kind of at loss of what to do, guys. It’s not looking good right now.”

 “What can you do? Said Ernie as he picked up his cards. “The deck is stacked against us.”

 Sal shook his head. “Thank goodness you’re close to retirement. You can take your pension.”

 Retire? Harry thought. “I wasn’t thinking of retiring just yet. I like my job.”

 “What’s the point? If it’s not this complaint that’ll get you, they’ll come after you with another one,” Sal replied.

 “That’s Canada today. It’s not the same place as when I was growing up. It used to be people cared about being able to speak up. Not anymore.” Said Archie.

 Harry liked his old friends, but they were always so down on Canada. He suspected it was because they were so ignorant of Canada’s past and its great accomplishments. They were the kind of fellows who admitted to listening to Joe Colpitts and happily called up to agree with him and vent their spleen. Joe Colpitts, Hockey Night in Canada and the local tabloid rag were the only culture they knew. Harry felt a little sorry for them. He knew they meant well. But they just never caught on to the fact that Social Harmony was a great thing and that it did a world of good for Canada.
 
 Stacy walked to mall, figuring she might as well make the most of her self-selected holiday from school and decided to hang around the mall while she internally grumbled about the state of affairs in her country. There was just something about window shopping that made her feel better and soothed her hurt and despair.

 When she came to the food court and saw Harry and the men talking. She could hear them talking about the Human Rights complaint. Talk, talk, talk. That’s all people do, she thought. It exasperated her. 
 
 “So what are you going to do about your job, Harry? “ Stacy jumped in. The four men looked up in surprise.

 “Who’s that?” Leo asked, pointing with his thumb.

 Harry was mildly embarrassed. “She’s a patron.”

 “I am not just a patron. I’m a freedom fighter,” said Stacy.

 The four old-timers chuckled. “With the Che Guevara contingent, are you?” Said Ernie.

 “Don’t insult my intelligence!” Stacy said with disgust. “He was a political terrorist.”

 The men were impressed with her moxy, but unsure as to her purpose.

 “Are all you guys going to do is fart around and whine about the government? “ Stacy demanded. ‘Cause that’s pathetic.”

 “If I talked to my elders like that when I was a kid, my folks would have taken a switch to me, “Sal informed.

 “Someone needs to take a switch to you now for not being so sassy,” Stacy shot back. “Are you going to roll over and let the government do this? Not protest? Not demand change?”

 Leo spoke to her gently. “We’ve done all that. I’ve written letters to the editor. They were rejected. I’ve tried getting the CBC to broadcast our views, but no going. The politicians don’t care. They promise one thing, and do another. There’s just nothing to be done. It’s stacked against us little people.”

 “The CBC? Why the fuck are you farting around with the CBC?”

 “Because they’re tax-funded; they use our money.”

 “All the more reason to run as fast from the CBC as possible. Why don’t you get your word out on the internet? You know. Make some noise. A letter to the editor…pfft. That’s not going to do anything. You have to take political action. You have to get people organized. Not just send a lame-assed letter to the editor.” 
 
 The four men were getting annoyed with her youthful exuberance. Her naiveté and abrasiveness were turning them off. 
 
 Stacy detested their defeatism. They obviously did not understand what was at stake here. They were too weak-willed to overcome little defeats like having a letter rejecting.

 “You guys don’t deserve freedom. Freedom is not for the weak. Weak people get pushed around. You’re letting yourself be dictated to. Whatever happened to ‘give me liberty or give me death?’ For goodness sakes, no one is asking you to like actually die for your freedom, “she ranted as they played cards. They ignored her like a troublesome housefly.

 Stacy sighed. “Well I, for one, am not going to let this go. You guys don’t feel like you have to stand up for yourselves because you’ll be dead in ten years. I’m not going to roll over and let the government tell the good people what they can or cannot say or read. I’m organizing a protest.” She looked to Harry. “If you want to join in, my number’s in your database.”

 And she walked off and left the mall to go back to her English class. Nobody censored her there. Yet.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 Jack lay in bed with Tori with her head on his chest. He looked out the window of her bachelor apartment, staring only at an overcast sky.

 “You seem so distant. Is everything okay at work?” 

 He sighed. “No. My friend Harry had a human rights complaint laid against him.”

 Tori sat up. “A human rights complaint? That sounds so serious.”

 “It’s actually ridiculous. A feminist complained that one of the books in his library is misogynist.”

 “Misogynist? “

 “Some book on demographics said that sex-selection abortions should be banned. And if he loses, he might lose his job, and he’s a damned good librarian. And I don’t want to lose him, and it’d be a damned shame to see him go. He’s very dedicated. You don’t see too many people like him. Just so gung ho about his work. And all because of some stupid book.”

 “So why doesn’t he just take down the book? He’d still have his job.”

 “He thinks it’s a good book.”

 “He’s willing to risk his job over a book?”

 “The whole point of a library is that you present all kinds of views. And besides the complainant’s a bitch.”

 “Don’t you support feminism?”

 “I do, one hundred per cent.” Jack sat up and looked at Tori. “It’s the feminists I can’t stand!”  

 Tori could see that he was getting ready to leave. She felt a little sheepish, but she needed to talk to him. “Uh Jack…I’m a little short this month. I haven’t been able to find any more gigs and…I need money for birth control pills…”

 Jack picked up his pants off the floor and grabbed his wallet. He pulled out a couple of hundred dollars and placed it on the dresser. “Never feel shy about asking me for money for birth control.”

 “Thanks Jack. I appreciate it.” She noticed a spider crawl on the floor. “Oh Jack, there’s a spider on the floor.”

 He stood up and lifted his foot.

 “Don’t kill it Jack!” Jack looked at her bewildered. “It’s against my beliefs.” 

 “Your beliefs?

 “I’ve adopted non-violence towards all living creatures.”

 Jack grimaced. “What about that hamburger you had for lunch?”

 Tori was taken aback. “Well…I wasn’t the one who killed it. Look, just get rid of it.”
 Jack grabbed an envelope on the dresser and let the spider climb onto it. He then opened the window and threw it out. “Ya happy?”

 “Yes.”

 He zipped up his pants. “Barbara gets mad if I’m not home for dinner.”

 Tori didn’t like it when he mentioned her name. “You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
 “If I can make it.” He put on his shoes and kissed her goodbye.

 She didn’t like being “the other woman.” But that’s the only way it could be if she wanted to have him. 

 They had met one Sunday night at The Rat’s Nest. Jack and his buddies were celebrating a friend’s birthday. She worked as a waitress there. On Sundays, the manager let her sing on the stage because it was the cheapest gig he could find, and no one cared about the show on Sundays in any case. Jack noticed that she had a pretty voice and thought she was really hot. He went back for a number of Happy Hours. Eventually, their relationship progressed. And eventually, Barbara found out.

 Tori’s only motive to work at the Rat’s Nest—an appropriately named bar if there ever was one—in order to save up enough money to move to Toronto and pursue her dream of making it in music. She wasn’t sure about the course to follow, but she had some vague plans of renting an apartment and hanging out with musicians in the hopes of hooking up with music industry people and eventually record an album.

 For now, her life was work, and Jack. She loved Jack. If he weren’t already married, she’d think about marrying him. Even if she were only nineteen. She liked the fact he was a family man, a man who was really serious about his life; not some adolescent frat boy spending his evenings going from party to party and his mornings parked in front of a toilet. He obviously had a track record of doing something serious with himself. He was mature and devoted. She hoped someday she could have that.

 For now, Jack would have to do.

...
 Jack got into the visitor’s parking lot and started his car. He wasn’t unhappy about going home. In fact, he loved his wife. And she loved him.

 And because of that, they had an understanding.

 She loved him so much that she thought the loving thing to do would be to let Jack have his fling. After all, after giving birth to two children, she was overweight and out of shape and not very attractive any more. She knew what Jack needed. Jack needed good sex. She couldn’t provide it. She was obese and too busy with the kids. So she thought the selfless thing to do was let him have it.

 Why get in the way of his physical gratification? She knew he would appreciate it.

 And he did.

 Jack, on the other hand, was glad that she raised his children and cooked his meals, did his laundry and made his bed. That’s what she was good at. That’s why she stayed married to her. And he loved her for it.

 And she loved him.

 The car radio was on when he turned on the ignition. It was set to AM 600, the last AM station on the dial. In public, only farty old cranks took that last staticky AM station seriously. Except everyone tuned in. To listen to the traffic and weather reports, it was assured. Not to those reprehensible talk show hosts.

 Jack thought of it as the masturbatory axe-grinding station, which the audience secretly listened to hear people piss off or be pissed off, and to react in kind, according to one’s political inclinations. The show raised one’s blood pressure, whether one liked what was being said or not. It was a political junkie’s adrenaline rush. 

 It was the Joe Colpitts show. Everyone in town knew that AM 600 was about to lose its radio license. And he was the reason. He kept crossing the line and violating Social Harmony. Behind the scenes, some begged him to tone it down, afraid that the government would shut down the last vestige of sanity that they knew of. Even if he only went half-way with his thoughts, his editorials and comments were light years ahead of anything that was available to them. 

Save the internet. 

 But Joe ignored them. If he back down, they would win. He preferred to speak up and be crushed than not say anything at all.

 “So I heard today that the Director of our beloved New Concord Municipal Library has had a Human Rights Complain laid against him. “

 Jack’s heart sank. Oh no, the media got a hold of it.

 “What for? You might ask. Did he refuse to hire a visible minority? No. Did he make unwanted sexual advances to a female employee? No. Did he threaten to kill anyone? No.”

 He began to have a conversation with himself…

Well Joe, what did he do that was so terrible? I’ll tell you! “ 

He paused for dramatic effect. 

“He refused to take down a book. 

A book? Like Mein Kampf or The Protocols of the Elders of Zion? 

“No. Nothing like that. The title of the book is Population Perils: A Review of Demographic Crises Around the World, by James Robinson, PhD. Sounds pretty innocuous. Well, according to a press release, Mizzzz Gisela Gruber of the Canadian Feminist Alliance is offended that on page 208 of the book, James Robinson PhD suggests that governments ban sex-selection abortions to avoid demographic disasters like the one currently being experienced in China and India. For the crime of allowing people to read an offensive idea, he is being prosecuted by the Human Rights Commission, because Mizz Gruber is terrified that you might have a thought contrary to hers.”

 Jack thought it felt kind of nice to have an ally on his side.

 “What are your thoughts? Call 555-0600 to give your opinion. And no, we don’t censor here, unlike the government. Okay first call, Matilda, you’re on the line—“

 A cackly old voice came on. “Heh-heh-hello? Am I on?”

 “This is Joe Colpitts, Matilda. You’re on the air. What do you think about the complaint against the Director of the New Concord Library?”

 “I’m appalled. Just appalled. But not surprised. We’ve been warning people against this encroachment for decades and no one would listen to us.”

 “You’re wrong, Matilda!” Joe said, sarcastically. “We’re all free to say whatever you want. Just as long as it’s not Hate.”

 “They’re just making up ‘Hate’ as it goes along. Nobody takes the word seriously any more. We all know what ‘hate’ means. And speaking of hate, Joe…it’s high time that people understood that abortion is hate…abortion is murder.”

 You could picture Joe sit back in his chair. “--Oh no, Matilda”

 She tried to get her words in. “No, no, no, it’s the murder of innocent little babies—“

 “But you’re not allowed to say that!” he screamed.

“--It’s high time someone said it out loud--”

  “I can practically hear the feminists typing away their letters of complaint to the CRTC right now saying that we’re undermining Social Harmony. Ma’am, you’re in Canada. You’re not allowed to say that—“

 “The government has gone too far—“

 “Do you realize you’re engaging in criminal dissent?”

 “Well let them take me. I’ll spend my dying days rotting in jail, but it had to be said.”

 “You’re a real trooper, Matilda. Thanks for phoning. Next call. Hugo you’re on the line. What do you think of the complaint against the Library Director?”

 “Mr. Colpitts. With all due respect—“said a young male voice. “You’re full of shit.”
 “You’re right. I’ll have to take a bathroom break during the next commercial.”

 “It’s not against the law to say abortion is murder, “insisted Hugo.

 “It’s not? But Gisela Gruber said…”

 “What’s against the law is to suggest that we should take away a woman’s right to choose. See, there is a difference…”

 “Ooooooh, there’s a difference, “Joe interrupted sarcastically. “ When the government decided that people no longer had the right to say that, weren’t they taking away a right?”

 “No. Because a woman has always had the right to choose.”

 “But people didn’t know that before.”

 “But now they know.”

 “What else do people not know? What other rights are being violated without our knowing?” Joe wondered aloud.

 “Well, we don’t know, but that’s the necessary price of being progressive. Social Harmony is the result, along with greater tolerance and freedom.”

 “How am I free if I don’t know whether what I’m doing is violating the law or not?”

 “You don’t. But that’s the price of being progressive and creating a better society.”

 Jack had had enough of that idiot and turned off the radio. His world wasn’t improved by some Human Rights complaint.

 When he pulled into the driveway of his brick house, his two sons Jeremy and Brian were playing with a soccer ball in the front yard. They had used small dollar-store cones as goal posts. They didn’t get to dribble the ball much, because any time the other one got control of the ball, the dispossessed brother would start rough-housing. When the younger Brian scored against the older Jeremy, Jeremy playfully protested “hey no fair!”, then he held Brian’s head in a headlock. Brian stumbled and as he fell, he tripped Jeremy. Jeremy got on top of Brian and started hitting him, but not very hard.

 Jack sighed. He loved his boys, but they were magnetically attracted to aggressive play. He was constantly breaking up their rough-housing.

 He opened the door and got out of the car. “Hey, boys, that’s enough wrestling.”

 “We’re not wrestling, we’re playing soccer, “Jeremy protested.

 “You don’t hit people in soccer, “Jack replied.

 “House rules,” Jeremy shot back.

 “Get off your brother, now, “Jack barked. “He’s your little brother. You shouldn’t be beating him up.”

 “I wasn’t beating him up. “

 “He was being a thug, “said Brian. 

 “Why you---!” Jeremy started to run after Brian to get back at him for his comments.

 “Hey! Hey! Hey! That’s enough! “Jack shouted. “Or else I’ll send you in time out.”
 They kept running.

 Jack shuffled into the house. He loved his boys, but he thought a little girl would have been nice. A pretty, sweet little girl who liked dolls and ribbons and didn’t want to hurt anybody. It made him feel a sugary sense of happiness when he thought of it.

 But it was too late for such wishes. Besides the fact that they were practically celibate, Barbara had had a tubal ligation. 

 He was happy with his boys, though; notwithstanding the fact they were constantly bickering and going at each other. 

Two was a nice number.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Harry Harman lived at the library. The New Concord Library. Population: 10 000. His bed was his mother’s house, and that’s where he slept. But every morning at 8 a.m., he walked to the refurbished Victorian mansion on Division Street and unlocked the main entrance to the library and switched on the lights and sighed with satisfaction at the sight of all the rows and rows of books. 

 It was a beautiful world of ideas.

 And he was the manager.

 Actually, his title was Director of Library Services. But he thought of himself as the manager, just like a person who runs a store.

 On one side of the main hall were books bound in blue. These were the fiction books. On the other side were books bound in green: the non-fiction section, including reference. The Library Standards Commission implemented those standards to make sure that the public was not confused about the nature of the books. For about a decade now, the government had been issuing new regulations regarding library operations in its efforts to create Social Harmony.

 Since Canada had such a diverse population whose various interests and values could come into conflict, it was thought that a body of beliefs and best practices was necessary to promote tolerance, foster diversity and social cohesion. Hence the development of Social Harmony.

 Libraries were seen as an integral part of that strategy. Enlightenment was seen as the key to bringing people together. The better educated people were, the more likely they were to cast aside prejudices. Libraries were instrumental in the search for truth. Or the best versions of it. This truth was what would bind people together through a set of common values and further national unity.

 Harry was proud of his contribution to Social Harmony. The world of ideas was awesome and so eye-opening. He was proud to be a gatekeeper to that world. When he unlocked that door and turned on the lights at 8 am every morning, he thought he had the best job in the world. Directing people to knowledge. Opening minds. Changing hearts. Being an important member of a societal effort gave him feelings of transcendence.

 He went into his office on the other side of the front desk and turned on his computer. He poured some coffee into his mug and sat down at his monitor. It was time to moderate the New Concord Library’s online book club. It was a modest effort—there were only a dozen regulars. But it was active and productive.

 He would not have had to moderate the content of the message board, were it not for the abrasive postings of a participant who went by the name of Liberty Bell. The software already filtered the usual four-letter expletives, but not vulgarly used words that punctuated her writings.

Of course welfare leads to laziness you douchebag. If you give people money, they won’t be motivated to look for work.

Harry highlighted the word “douchebag” and pressed the “delete” button. He then replaced it with pound signs.

Guns are good! They shoot potential murderers and rapists. Liberals should be in love with guns: they can defend the defenseless and avenge the downtrodden. Only pussies and criminals should be worried about them. Naturally, that’s why liberals hate them.

Harry eliminated the word “pussies” and then approved it for publication.

Islam is a vile religion. It approves of pedophilia and enslaves women. Why anyone would want to convert to that mind-death cult is beyond my comprehension. You’d have to be a retard to want to join, and probably have a predisposition to brainwashing in the first place.

Harry shook his head at that comment and erased the word “retard” then allowed it to be posted.

Part of him thought he should react with more horror at her opinions. But actually he was bemused; bemused at how their coarseness conveyed a lack of experience and sophistication all the while seeming so smug and harsh in their certitude. Her adolescent hubris that made her so sure of herself despite her inexperience, made him smirk.

He knew that in fact, Liberty Bell was actually a tall, scrawny sixteen-year-old named Stacy Cameron. Liberty Bell had mentioned that she was a high school student, and he had checked out the books she had borrowed to for the club. Not too many teenagers sign out the book club selections.

He didn’t actually mind doing the moderating. Too many of the world’s teenagers were disengaged from current affairs and he thought it was a positive thing for a student so young to be thinking about important issues, even if her opinions were outrageous and her language bordered on the obscene.

She’ll grow up, he thought.

 Soon the employees started checking in for work. There was Mrs. Keeble and Mrs. Quigley. Harry felt a little weird calling them by their first names since they were so much older than him. Then there was Josh Kramer, his twenty-something assistant who worked in the office beside his.

 He showed up in Harry’s doorway.

 “I have this week’s new acquisitions,” he said as he carted the boxes of books into his office.

 “Oh great!” Harry picked up a book. There was nothing like the feel of a new acquisition. “You pick great books, Josh.”

 “And you know, with the new budget coming in, we’ll be able to buy more.”

 “Such a shame more people don’t sign out these books, “Harry lamented. He sat down and browsed a book on Middle Eastern Archeology. “There’s just so much to learn.”

 “I think people have been too sucked in by the internet. There’s nothing like having a book in your hands.” He said as he fished through the box of books. “The feeling of having knowledge right in your hands, and not some transient writings on a screen.”

 “I know, people said that the internet would augur the death of books, but I think they’ve just made them more important. Knowledge on the internet is so superficial and so based on hearsay. A book is so much better argued and more permanent. That’s what makes them so necessary to this world.”

 Josh put back the books and pulled out an envelope that was on his cart. “By the way, Harry, you got a letter—“

 Harry shrugged.

 “From the Human Rights Commission.”

 He was intrigued. Were they going to honour him for his noble work as a herald of Social Harmony?

 It was a fairly fat envelope. He pulled out the cover letter. As he read the letter, the colour drained from his face.

 “What’s the matter, Harry? Are we being sued?” Josh said in a playful manner.

 He nodded. “Yes!”

 Josh looked at him in disbelief. “What?”

 Harry sat back to re-read the letter. “There’s a complaint lodged against us.”

 “By who?”

 “Gisela Gruber.”

 Josh’s shoulders sank. “Gisela Gruber? Why?”

 He got up and slammed the envelope on the desk. “Because she can, that’s why!” He slumped into his chair. “We’re being cited under section 13.1 of the Canadian Human Rights Code.”

 Gisela Gruber was a woman’s studies professor who was on a year-long sabbatical and living in New Concord at her cottage in order to devote herself to her writing. About six months ago, she began contacting Harry—first by email, then in person—about a library book entitled Population Perils: A Review of Demographic Crises Around the World by James Robinson PhD. Harry was surprised to hear from her—or at least her surrogates—since he had not had any contact with her in the last three months. He figured that that was the amount of time it took for her application to wind its way through the complaints process. 

 Ms. Gruber’s objection to the book was that in the face of lopsided sex ratios in various parts of the world it recommended that sex-selection abortions should be banned.

 To suggest a curb on such a fundamental right in this day and age was inadmissible. In the eyes of the good professor, it amounted to hate speech.

 Now of course, since the author and the publisher were American, she could not take up her complaint with them and persuade them of the rightness of her cause.

 She had to contact the library to express her offense and demand that it be removed from library. The right to abortion was a hard-won right and any suggestion that it should be curtailed for any reason whatsoever could unleash the forces of misogyny and lead down the path to its complete prohibition. For decades, feminists had worked tirelessly first to legalize it, then decriminalize it and finally to stigmatize and suppress every proposal for guidelines to frame its practice. The slightest breath of dissent could unravel the present day social consensus on the matter and ignite the dying embers of the anti-choice movement. The gains that feminists had made were too fragile in the face of omnipresent patriarchal impulses that were still buried deep in the hearts of the people. Allowing that book to stand on the shelves of the New Concord Library was far too risky.

 It had to be eliminated.

 Ms. Gruber had had several email conversations on this matter and even met Harry at one point. But nothing could sway him. As a supporter of abortion on demand, he was sympathetic to her struggle to keep abortion accessible and legal, but he did not believe that this one book posed that great a danger. The social consensus on this issue was strong, and sometimes it was a common practice that it was sometimes acceptable to limit the exercise of certain rights for the greater good. And on this premise, he thought that this book should be displayed for the sake of discussion.

 Ms. Gruber was exasperated by his inability to understand the essence of her complaint. Sure, he supported legal abortion on demand, but he didn’t get it. He did not understand the extent of patriarchy, nor was he able to step back, discern the sexism in his own thinking and self-correct. He was, fundamentally, a fake progressive. In other words, a liberal. A man who deluded himself into thinking that espousing broadminded social policies was sufficient in counting himself among the standard bearers of an egalitarian and democratic society. A man who was ignorant of the fact that it was not enough to vote progressive, but to think and act like one.

 Harry could not believe this was happening to him. He considered a model proponent of Social Harmony. He wasn’t some crazed wingnut anonymous spewing filth on some message board. He was a fine, upstanding citizen who worked towards eradicating hatred. And now to be accused of hatred? It was all too much.

 “I feel really bad about this, “said Josh. “I’m the one who chose the book.”

 “No, don’t blame yourself, Josh. If I had just stopped displaying it, it would have been solved. “

 “But now, if you lose this case, your job could be in jeopardy.”

 The colour drained from Harry’s face. The prospect of losing his job terrified him. What would he do with himself? Who would hire him after such a disgrace?

 But this couldn’t be. This had to be some mistake. How could he be the subject of a Human Rights complaint?

 All he had to have done was remove the book. Problem solved. The government would pay the damages: $5000 for “hurt feelings”.

 But this seemed like capitulation to him, and he was a man dedicated to ideas. Restricting sex-selection abortions didn’t seem like such a bad one. After all, how many women in Canada decide to terminate a pregnancy based on the sex of their child? Probably a handful, if that. And of course, there would be medical exceptions. It didn’t seem like such a big deal to him. 

 There was a principal here at stake. Part of him wondered if his stance was worth it. It seemed, after all, like a petty thing. Just a couple of sentences in a book. One book out of thousands. Was he really being reasonable in stubbornly refusing to give in and remove the book? There was so much effort and taxpayer money going into prosecuting him, and there would be so much effort and taxpayer money going into defending himself. He felt sort of selfish for thinking so highly of himself that he thought others should foot the bill for his actions. Buying a book. Putting it on display. Standing up for it. These were all such small actions. Of practically no consequence. How many people would actually read the book? Aside from Professor Gruber, probably no one. It all seemed like much ado about nothing. Why didn’t he save the whole world a lot of time, energy and money and just take down the book? How could he justify himself? The taxpayer might not be happy with his resistance. If he gave in, he could keep his job, and none would be the wiser.

 Part of him resented being bullied this way, especially when he thought the point up for discussion was so reasonable and within the due limits of civil discourse. Who did this woman think she was, telling him he couldn’t display a reasonable book in his library? Okay, it wasn’t his library. But he ran it. He was the boss. The Government of Ontario thought he was competent enough to manage and make prudent decisions about which books to offer and he’d been doing a fine job for the last twenty-five years. No one had ever made such a drama about his book selections. Sure, some were mad about some omissions, and some found a couple of books mildly objectionable, but no one had ever laid a hate speech complaint against him.

 When he thought about the arrogance of this woman, trying to dictate to him how to do his job, it made him angry. She only cared about her particular ideology. She did not care about the free market of ideas. She did not care about debate. He cared. He wanted various ideas offered to the public so that they could discuss and argue them. She only cared about advancing her own ideology.

 It made him furious.

 But what to do?

 He sent Josh to open up the library. Then he sat down as his desk to call his friend and boss, Jack Welland, who worked at the Library Standards Commission.

 Jack was in charge of the department that issued library licenses. Operating a public library without a license is subject to fines of up to $10 000 and a possible five-year jail term. Jack is proud that, in the ten years since the law was passed, nobody had ever been investigated—let alone charged—for attempting to run a library without a license. This meant that the law worked. It had prevented people from setting up rogue libraries that could possibly foment hatred and threaten social harmony. He was proud of his role in preventing such social unrest.

 “Jack, it’s Harry. I got some bad news.”

 “I heard.”

 “You heard? Where?”

 “There was a press release on the internet. Some feminist outfit. They’re out to get us.”

 Harry sank his head into his hand. “Oh crap”

 “My superiors are not happy. They want that book off the shelf. There are even whispers about implementing new vetting policies. My boss wants to talk to me about it this afternoon. It’s embarrassing the department.”

 Harry clicked his tongue. “You’re not going to make me take the book off the shelf, are you?”

 “If it were up to me, I’d tell the bitch to fuck off.”

  “Do they even care about what the book says?”

 “No they don’t care what the book says. All they care about is that this makes us look bad, like we don’t support Social Harmony. Social Harmony is the whole purpose of our department’s existence, and if we don’t support—or look like we’re supporting it—they’re going to start calling for budget cuts. “

 “But it’s a really reasonable book, you know, Jack. It doesn’t deserve censorship.”

 “I know that. But they don’t care. In their eyes, if the government is embarrassed, it’s not promoting Social Harmony. Got it? If the feminists say it’s not, then it’s not. And that’s that.”

 “So what about me?”

 “Well, they’re going to provide you with a lawyer, seeing as this is the result of your particular mandate. But if you lose this case, Harry, they might let you go.”

 “Let me go?”

 “The government is not going to risk embarrassing itself by continuing to employ a human rights violator. And that’s what you’d be if you lost this case, a human rights violator.”

 “But that’s insane! I’m not a human rights violator. It makes me sound like I’m some goddamned genocidal maniac!”

 “In their eyes, you might as well be. It’s the same thing.”

 Harry hung up. Let me go, repeated to himself. This is fucking ridiculous. For a book?

 Maybe I should just take down the book. I’d save my job, and this whole story would be gone.

 But then he thought: what else are they going to ask him to remove? Where does it end? Was this about Social Harmony? Or Indoctrination?

 This couldn’t be allowed to stand.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

VIDEO: Anne Murray-- You Needed Me


Just for the song...


Thursday, November 1, 2007

This latest batch of poems

I decided to post these poems not because I think they're necessarily good, but because I thought there were some interesting bits in them. Maybe someone will like them in any case.

POEM: The Concert in the Park

She went among them like a ghost
filtering through the crowd as if
immaterial

she went looking
and found no one she knew
pushed around
she kept slipping through them,
the speakers pushed down
her heart with crushing booms

numb, she was almost happy
being lost, being
unfound
yet the search continued
she was looking for another soul
to transcend this material world
and yet
once she came back to earth
away from the euphoria of the crowd
away from the bodies closing in on each other
away from the screams and the sweat
she'd be just a mortal body
wondering where her spirit went;
wondering if there's life
beyond herself.

POEM: Agnostic

You grow weary of all the questions in your head,
afraid that there are no answers;
and afraid that there are some.
Your questions commit you.
But you are already committed
to other engagements, other routines.
Thinking gets in the way
and yet, the questions remain.
You're always wanting some measure of what they bring
too aloof to really invest in them. And so your
skepticism is not pure. It remains
self-interested.

POEM: New Mother

the flies amass
over the unrinsed bowl of applesauce
and the crumpled Kleenex
used to wipe the puke
bakes in a blade of light

the baby squawks from her crib
but I am coming down with a nap
a slumber so heavy that I fail
to rise to clarion call of duty

POEM: The Rabbit's Dying Lament

I smirk as I lay dying
hunted down in cold blood

to think I am the symbol
of the Resurrection holiday

I laugh at the
theologians of nature
who say the earth recycles herself
trying to construct immortality
of this soup of chemicals

somehow I am supposed to be content
to spend my after life as Elmer Fudd's
excrement

Nature is so divine
for those who live beyond her tenets
With my dying breath
I curse that bitch goddess
Mother Nature

Sunday, August 19, 2007

VIDEO: ABBA - 1977 The Name of The Game

From one of the best groups of all time: ABBA-- one of my favourite songs:

Saturday, August 11, 2007

POEM: The Would-Be Pro-Life Activist

I want to say things that are taboo.
Will you allow me to?

I want to be revolutionary
But will ask permission
In order to set forth
My personal vision.

I’ll try not to be too shrill
Or make you ill
And not say things that you won’t believe
About abortion, condoms
Or the Pill.

I wouldn’t want my credibility
In tatters. After all,
that’s what matters
The ability to be taken
seriously
By my cultural
Enemy.

Alas, there is no point.
Why get out of joint?
I could stay home and
Be as effective
And spare myself
All the invective.

If none of the networks will listen to me
I might as well just
Let it Be.

Why in the world would I waste my time
In trying to make
Abortion a crime?

POEM: Doomed

a tumbleweed moonjumps
across the arid bed
like a blastocyst with
nowhere to go
The parched cows move on to the creek
Some a little too weak

POEM: the thunder groans in the distance

the thunder groans in the distance
the sky blanched of its celestial bodies
pale and sickly
with sultry anticipation
aching for the outcome
in the agitated leaves

Thursday, August 2, 2007

VIDEO: Richard Simmons does "Whose Line is it Anyway"?

It's a bit adult. But oh man is this funny. The funniest I've ever seen.



H/T: Tribune St-Camille.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Superchick - Me against the world



I just really like the song. It's about me. :D

Sunday, June 10, 2007

VIDEO: Schoolhouse Rock-- Mother Necessity

Just a little bit of nostalgia:

Thursday, March 29, 2007

POEM: the couch potato bishop

the couch potato bishop
governs by paper
instead of crook
otherwise that could mean
standing up

dispassionate examinations by
committee are worded just so--
so as to presverve his
reputation for his non-
confrontational approach;
and thereby retain
the world’s esteem
(that is, of those who know his name)
and thereby make everyone
comfy, especially
the lukewarm

a document should soothe
like that well-worn groove
on the Simpsons’ sofa, where
Homer can pat himself on the belly
after gorging on a box of
jelly doughnuts

and should anyone decide to transgress
let’s not get too hung up on the rules,
unless—
that causes the lukewarm any distress
after all—
rules are made to be broken
for a reason

Me? I am orthodox and insubordinate
so I’m bereft of the prophetic spirit

but what I see lost in the calls
for fillial reverence and proprieties
is a confession of the blunt truth; as if
our salvation was founded on niceties;
no, our Church was built on the blood and
bones of Christ and every martyr; they
refused to mince their words or barter
we, on the other hand, bellyache over our
social conscience; because God forbid we look
too dumb or extreme to
our opponents

the bishop? he is safely tucked away
behind committee doors
safe from the blood of the culture wars
that’s all done by the pro-life nutjobs--
who are carefully muted

meanwhile the radical-less church
is slowly
uprooted

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Fight for the Unborn's Right to Life

Saturday, February 17, 2007

POEM: Hear me

I am woman, hear me roar
in the throes of crisis pregnancy
in numbers too big to ignore.

Feeling hopeless, powerless, poor,
I cringe at the uncertainty.
I am woman—hear me roar?

The boyfriend stormed out the door
and I can’t rely on my family
in numbers too big to ignore.

The only choice? Restore
my body’s former integrity.
I am woman—hear me roar…

The sadness grips me more and more
as I near the abortion facility
in numbers too big to ignore.

My legs in the stirrups-- my blood on the floor—
the nurse still insists on my sovereignty.
I am woman! Hear me? (ROAR!)
(In numbers too big to ignore!)

POEM: Face to Face with the Truth

Canada—


I want to rub your muzzle
in the entrails of a mangled
fetus and tell you what a
naughty dog you’ve been

and make you sniff in deep
the putrid odour of your
abominable sin.

I want you to taste my disgust and
I want to make you gag
so that your projectile vomit desecrates
the Canadian flag.

And if this little poem makes you wretch because
you cannot stand abortion’s stench; and if the blood
and the guts make you not want to read any more,

remember

YOU are the one who makes this gore.

Monday, February 5, 2007

POEM: Snow Geese

Trudging through the fallen leaves
my heart grieves
from the great blue sky
mournful soundtrack
singing in hoc signo
vincit

I want to pull one of those
fingers down
and tell them where
to stick it

Monday, January 15, 2007

Poem: The Recovering Separatist

now that I've left
I no longer harbour the white hot rage against the pages of history
that thumping textbook of reproach that sliced,
a paper cut always ready to be re-opened and bled

for a hunger than never seems to be fed.

My head is filled with non-Quebec thoughts
crowding out the Commandment to never forget.
In this other world, I slowly convert to that heresy
that religion
of Being One

Perhaps I could be less disconnected
if communion did not require assimilation
but for now I question
I am denounced
I am dead.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

POEM: Saint Ottawa

You are painted
draped with a flag
as you pose
for your martyrdom by those evil
right-wing zealots--proposing death
by a thousand tax cuts--
sharp as the arrows of
St. Sebastian,--

They must be opposed
Without question,

Your mouth raises a cry and
you call them fanatics,
although they're pretty mainstream,
but that's just semantics. It's the substance
that matters and it might sound pedantic but
for their own good you must
milk their sympathy

And you dangle the Charter
The Holy Scripture
Look at the camera
And wait for the rapture
Of election night
For your martyr’s crown
Because you’re the elect.
And we must bow down.

Monday, January 8, 2007

POEM: The So-Con

I have nothing to feel for Canada
The sore is too deep and wide
There used to be something in me
Resembling pride

I have been wounded, wounded, wounded,
The stabs have made me numb
Inured me to the charge of bigotry
And mainstream odium

I am the intolerant
Qui tollis peccata mundi
Nailed again and again
For being a fundy

I am vide,
apatride,
A political invalid.

With only decadence in view

I cling for dear life
To Psalm Twenty-Two.

Sunday, January 7, 2007

POEM: To My Dead Fetus

You’re supposed to be in heaven
As of a month ago, although, you
Could be in limbo. I dunno.
You’re gone and now I can finish
My semester. Still,
Questions fester.

As I rummage through the looseleaf
And the spiral notebooks, looking
For the answers to essay questions, you’re
Still fresh in my mind, like that
Last cup of coffee; somehow, maybe,
This wasn’t the right decision; the pros and the cons
Weren’t debated with academic
Precision, and like any other
Operation, you should weigh the risks
Before they make an incision, but honestly
I had a different vision.

I switch channels to late night talk show
Discussion.

No one asked me if I wanted to get pregnant.
I took the Pill and he had a condom. What are
The chances? And what are the chances
That he’d turned out to be a jerk?

I couldn’t face the world pregnant. I couldn’t be
One those girls who was thought to
Not take precautions; or be one of those moms
In the supermarket you know is single because
She’s so young and her kid is a brat.
I didn’t want to be that.

The exam was soon, and I needed an “A”
To get the scholarship; I had to make it go away
And as foolish as it sounds
I started to pray.

When they sucked you out, the clouds dispelled
And I thanked the doctor for saving my life.
Crisis over. Back to normal. Things back on track.

But I suspect a little soul was zapped that day.
Gone. We kill all kinds of things in this world
And don’t feel sorry.

Except I’m a little sorry we didn’t get
Introduced. It might have been fun to love you.
And see you smile.

But it would have costed. I have a life to live.
A degree to finish. A career to manage.
Can’t be bothered with it. Still.
I can’t help think what if.
I can’t help to think of where you are
And if I’ll see you again.
And if you’ll love me.

They say abortion is murder.

It’s murder alright.

Thursday, January 4, 2007

POEM: chihuahua eyes

Chihuahua eyes, dimpled with light,
stare mournfully out of the buxom
SUV whose fat ass pontificates
“My Body, My Choice!”
as she shuffles through the slush-laden street
fuming at how slow-going this whole
world is, just about ready to
drive off the road
to get where she’s going.

And the little Chihuahua curls up into a ball
To go for a long sleep
Out of my sight.

Tuesday, January 2, 2007

POEM: t-shirt

the t-shirts that say “Quebec”
in suspension
arms outstretched like
haunting phantoms—
they wait to be adopted

or they’re wannabe Messiahs
looking for a
crucifixion

instead they are purchased
by tourists
shoved in a backpack
to be occasionally displayed
and worn
when necessity
dictates

Monday, January 1, 2007

POEM: Cloudburst

The embryo-sized droplets explode on the
sidewalk, a shiny black billboard.
The shrapnel—little pinpricks—snap
and crackle against my window
and the sad rivulets
drain into the river
but fail to percolate
into the skull
of Mother Earth.

The Obligatory Inaugural Post

I've decided to create yet another blog. The purpose of this blog will be to publish my literary writings.

I will not wait until my writing is all neat and polished. I'll simply publish what I have. It may even remain unfinished. Just whatever suits my fancy.

I think I need to do this.

I write a lot, but I don't actually show a lot of it off. I don't even finish a good part of what I write, especially if it's prose.

Part of the reason is that I lose enthusiasm during the writing process. Other things get in the way, and the critic in me is so loud, because my writing does not live up to my standards in a hurry, that I just leave it aside and don't come back to it.

So I'm hoping that blog readers will happen to land on this blog, want to read whatever I have posted, and maybe comment. Hopefully the comments will be good, but even if they think my writing sucks, oh well. I know what won't be worth my time.

This blog will feature many first drafts and unpolished pieces. I'm amazed that some people actually like the first drafts of my writing. Does it mean that it's good? No. What their appreciation does for me is give me the enthusiasm to carry on, because I know I can make it better.

Deep down, I think I'm a pretty good writer, which is why I cringe at some of the stuff I write. I know that if people like my first draft, they'll adore my fifth draft.

I fully intend this blog to be entirely self-indulgent. I am going to publish whatever I feel like, and if other people don't like it, well just too damned bad, I'm showing off my wares.

Some people are probably wondering: why "The Uterus"?

If you look at my other blogs, you'll realize that I'm a pro-life activist. So it neatly ties in with that theme.

My writings are the product of my fertile mind. :) And this blog is a like a uterus, carrying my little babies, who may come to term, or be miscarried.

I rarely abort literary activities, i.e. rip them to shreds. It'd have to be something atrociously bad or offensive.

So there you have it: that's what this blog is all about. Thanks for reading. I hope you stop by often.