Fruit of the Womb

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 12

2011-12-15T22:58:00.001-05:00

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.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 11

2011-12-15T02:23:00.000-05:00

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.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 10

2011-12-13T22:48:00.001-05:00

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.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 9

2011-12-12T14:46:00.003-05:00

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 and the Human Rights Violation : Chapter 8

2011-12-11T00:11:00.001-05:00

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.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation : Chapter 7

2011-12-09T23:33:00.001-05:00

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.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation : Chapter 6

2011-12-08T01:09:00.001-05:00

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.

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?

POEM: Blockage

2009-02-27T00:09:00.001-05:00

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.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 5

2008-11-20T16:30:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-20T16:25:00.005-05:00

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.

Harry and the Human Rights Violation: Chapter 3

2008-11-07T11:51:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-07T11:44:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-07T11:32:00.004-05:00

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.

VIDEO: Anne Murray-- You Needed Me

2007-12-06T20:19:00.001-05:00

Just for the song...

This latest batch of poems

2007-11-01T21:21:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-01T21:20:00.001-05:00

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

2007-11-01T21:18:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-01T21:12:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-01T21:11:00.000-05:00

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

VIDEO: ABBA - 1977 The Name of The Game

2007-08-19T17:48:00.001-05:00

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

POEM: The Would-Be Pro-Life Activist

2007-08-11T00:38:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-11T00:31:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-11T00:28:00.000-05:00

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

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

2007-08-02T15:42:00.001-05:00

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

H/T: Tribune St-Camille.

Superchick - Me against the world

2007-07-17T19:39:00.001-05:00

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