WRONG

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Sometimes I can be wrong.

I don’t admit that easily, but it’s true. I can be rash, opinionated, and vocal without truly having all the facts. I will support the good cause, champion those who are persecuted or downtrodden, and fight for action and social justice, and a big part of that is because I’ve seen so much injustice through the years. I want this world we live in to be a better place, and I truly believe it can be. So when news broke about Jian Ghomeshi and his firing from the CBC, I was angry, frustrated, and quick to rush to judgment.

And I was wrong.

Now I can’t say I’ve been an avid follower of Jian like so many others. But as a creative type, I’ve admired his creativity, and how he managed to parlay that into such an incredible career trajectory: from his indie pop beginnings with “Moxy Fruvous”, his sophisticated and hip presence as a host of “Q” on CBC radio, and the debut of his bestselling memoir 1982, there was nothing Jian couldn’t do. Like some shining star in the northern constellation, he seemed like some magnetic unstoppable force, perhaps now poised for international stardom.   When I first learned of the allegations, my mind IMMEDIATELY went to thoughts of racism: a case of that bastion of white, upper class patriarchy known as the CBC attempting to marginalize this man of colour. Then, I thought, here this same elite guard of conservative blowhards ready to dismiss him as a “pervert” and pass judgment on his “unusual bedroom antics”. It’s like the way homophobia “works” in this country. We are ready to describe what we don’t understand as disgusting or perverse or immoral. And then finally, when more people started to come forward with stories about Jian and his wicked ways, I thought, perhaps desperately, that these were people jealous of his success, looking to undermine, discredit, and somehow harm him.

No. I was wrong. And as more and more brave women come forward with their stories, forced to now share to their world some secret hidden shame, I’m angry again, this time for very different reasons. My reality check came first from another Facebook post, a column by author Chad Pelley in the Newfoundland arts and culture paper The Overcast. In it, Chad talked about “the real take away message” from this whole ordeal, and that is that women who are assaulted by men – by powerful men in particular – are now afraid to come forward due to the public persecution and shaming that THEY would most assuredly endure. He noted that while comments about the story were mostly supportive or added to the conversation, over 20% were decidedly NOT, with many of those blaming the women, minimizing the story’s impact, or excusing it by way of the BDSM lifestyle (something I admittedly don’t know much about, but what I do know tells me that bondage and discipline is more about a role play of power inequalities between equals who are players in a game involving consent. Something this clearly was not).

There exists in this country a rape culture, and its pervasiveness seems to grow year after year. We tell our young women “if you dress a certain way, if you act a certain way…you’ll draw unwanted attention”. We lecture them to “never leave your drink unattended at your party…you don’t know what might get slipped into it”. We tell them to lock their doors at night, and walk with a buddy, carry a phone for emergencies…and if they don’t do all that, well, I guess at least they have been warned. But I wonder does it ever occur to us to teach our young men what it means to treat another human being with dignity and respect? I’ve worked for many years with aggressive youth, the vast majority of them young males, and often when they are emotionally dysregulated these same youth will act out verbally. They might threaten me, or scream at me to “fuck off”, but for more female colleague the focus and intensity of their aggression is that much worse, and I’ve literally heard hundreds of variations of how to viciously belittle and degrade a woman: bitch, whore, cunt, slut…and the list, sadly, goes on and on. But little boys weren’t born with this vocabulary. This is learned behaviour. As a society, what are we teaching our little boys? What are we showing and modeling for them everyday that seems to tell them this is some accepted norm?   That this is somehow OK?

Here in Nova Scotia, we need look no further than the case of Rehteah Parsons, a young woman bullied to DEATH, and failed miserably by both our justice and mental health systems. Local police and RCMP decided, after much public pressure, to seriously follow up on her allegations of rape only after her death by suicide after months and months of cyber bullying over her assault claims, and even then chose to prosecute the accused not for rape but for making and distributing child pornography. Recently we have learned of the “always on stalker case”, a story detailed in The Coast by Hilary Beaumont of two women relentlessly harassed by a jilted ex who, among other things such as making harassing phone calls, showing up at places of work unannounced and distributing private nude photos, went as far as to actually place ads as his former girlfriend online seeking a “rape fantasy”, and sending those who responded to her door. When these women sought help, they encountered roadblocks and barriers through the police and mental health, to the degree they have no faith there even is help for women like them today. And finally, there’s the fine example of Saint Mary’s University, where a chant about rape was used (and had been used for years) as a bonding exercise during frosh week. When someone finally pointed out this is wrong, student leaders stood like deer in the media headlights glare, seemingly unaware why there was uproar over the chant and why we might expect someone to be held accountable. And all the while as this unfolded, the country’s media seemed to shake its head and do a collective “tsk tsk” about the “inappropriateness” of it all. You know, boys will be boys and all that. But rape chants aren’t “inappropriate”. Swearing in front of your grandma, talking on a cellphone in a theatre, wearing high heels on a mountain hike, and most guys in Speedos (I don’t care if you THINK you look like Channing Tatum or not – you don’t) are inappropriate. To be clear, distributing pictures of drunk girls being assaulted at parties, placing ads seeking rape fantasies on your ex’s behalf, and rape chants of ANY kind are taking inappropriate to a whole new disturbing level, and therefore requires a swift and appropriately measured response.

There are no winners in this story, only losers. The women who suffered at Ghomeshi hands get to relive their trauma all over again, some privately and others very publicly. Other victims of similar circumstances who felt they couldn’t come forward get to vicariously live through someone else’s pain, and feel those familiar stirrings of their own self-doubt.  A media giant in this country perhaps failed to protect its employees from a known predator in its mix, perhaps afraid to lose their very own “goose that laid golden eggs” as some have speculated, while writers and journalists and music industry types snickered and gossiped about rumours and innuendos for years, and yet did nothing to stop it. And young women in the media…reporters and editors, interns, assistants, and on air personalities – share talk now of their secret code: lists they share with one another, lists of powerful men to be careful around or avoid, to never get to close to or be alone with. And then there’s Ghomeshi himself, an Iranian man, a man of “colour” who for many has served undoubtedly as a symbol of cultural diversity breaking down “white barriers” in this country. It is a sad day that such a symbol is now gone.

So what can we do to make a change, as bystanders in this country, particularly as men? We can call out misogyny and sexism every time we see it…on the streets, in our beer ads, in our music videos. We can stop treating women’s issues as special interest groups in our governments. Women are more then half our country’s population, so by definition they are therefore NOT a special interest group. And with all the time and energy we invest in teaching girls how to be “safe” and “careful”, we appear to spend disproportionately less teaching our boys to be “moral” and “good”, to never violate the rights of others, to never marginalize or oppress. Again, this doesn’t come instinctually. This is learned behaviour, instilled in our young at an early age and reinforced time and time again through the thoughts, beliefs, and actions of our collective society.

Let’s teach the world a simple lesson – right from wrong.

Children need role models. Be THAT role model. Let’s show them a better way, starting today.

Storytellers

S T O R Y T E L L E R S

Storytelling is defined by Wikipedia (that oft-times questionable but yet still vastly knowledgeable source of all things definitive like) as the conveying of events in words, images and sounds, often by improvisation or embellishment….Stories or narratives have been shared in every culture as a means of entertainment, education, cultural preservation and…to instill moral values.”

I like to think of myself as a storyteller, back from the very moment I could grasp a pencil in hand, and perhaps even before then. ( I mean….I can’t really say where an idea for a story comes from, but it has to come from somewhere, before it’s pulled, all raw material just waiting to be molded, sometimes kicking and screaming, into the “real world”). And in this act of storytelling, like all good storytellers I suppose, I hope to entertain, engage, perhaps titillate, and, in this case, through this medium, provide what I’d like to think is an informed opinion or two on those matters, things and events important and of interest to me, and I hope, in return, to you.

During the recent Word On The Street festival in Halifax, a national book and magazine festival celebrating reading and advocating literacy, my partner Shawn and I had the absolute pleasure of meeting Alexander MacLeod, Giller Prize Winning Author of “Light Lifting”. Now truth be told I’d only come across MacLeod fairly recently, when the Giller Prize nominees were first announced…and “Light Lifting” seemed only the latest rave amongst ever-expanding East Coast book offerings that continue to gain a wide audience and a well deserved national spotlight. And if MacLeod’s leading a charge, he has an entire army behind him…a new generation of writers who are paving the way through this Atlantic Canadian Literary landscape, with stories filled with humor and drama and emotion and pathos and beauty that could only come from our rugged country and coastline. This impressive list of new literary heroes (and heroines) includes great new talent like Chad Pelley (Away From Everywhere), Michael Winter (The Death of Donna Whalen), Kathleen Winter (Anabel), Christy Lee Conlin (Heave), Ami MacKay (The Birth House), Sheree Fitch (Kiss The Joy As It Flies), Lisa Moore (Alligator), Jessica Grant (O Come Thou Tortoise) and Chris Benjamin (Drive By Saviours – and I mean, seriously,aren’t those last two just totally awesome titles or what? ). And happily, that list could go on and on. All unique new voices, all exciting and masterful in their command of time and place, mood and language, atmosphere and tone…and, in my own writing, I can only someday hope to equal their talent, enthusiasm, and expertise.

But Alexander, a distinctly talented author in his own right, comes by an auspicious pedigree of his very own, one not shared by the others….He is the son of the legendary Alistair MacLeod, THE literary giant from the hills of Cape Breton, who’s short story collections “The Lost Salt Gift of Blood” and “As Birds Bring Forth The Sun and Other Stories” I – along with thousands and thousands of other students – had dissected in loving detail throughout junior high and high school english classes, and then later went on to study in more detail in Contemporary Twentieth Century fiction during my English majoring days at Dalhousie University. So meeting the son of this literary idol of mine was a bit of a surreal moment, and one I was more than a bit star struck by. (But then again, it’s not everyday you get to hang out in front of a wooden boat by the Maritime Museum chatting to one Alexander MacLeod of THE MacLeods, now is it?) But before that moment when I struggled to put two words together (and can we just say THAT never happens?), I had the opportunity to listen to Alexander talk about growing up in this famous family. And as I listened to this bright, funny, insightful, and handsome man tell a tale or two of his upbringing, I was struck by how much this life he described sounded so typical of any Cape Breton family. (I actually told him I thought meeting him would be like talking to royalty, but hey, what do you know? It seems he’s like everybody else.) And when later I was….you know…hanging by a wooden boat, talking to the son of Alistair MacLeod… Shawn asked if he knew who his father was growing up, if he lived some sort of life one might expect of a son of a writer type. And to this he replied….no, not at all. That, in fact, no one who entered his family home would ever have guessed his dad was a writer. That there were rarely books about, that his parents rarely even read to their children, and that he and his siblings shared a love of sports, food , music, laughter and good times with both friends and family, all those good things that most good families share, Cape Breton or otherwise. But how could this be? His dad’s a world renowned master of his craft, who wrote stories that shaped and defined in many ways the hearts and minds of students in classrooms all across our country. But then again, what did I expect? A reading jacket and smoking pipe in some old world library,with rows upon rows of shiny books, all with that new book smell, and perhaps a sign saying “Shhhhh! Genius at work!”… You can see how my imagination might run wild with it.

However, just because it wasn’t a houseful of academics and scribes didn’t mean the ancient traditions of storytelling weren’t alive and well within his family. In fact, Alexander went on to describe how everyone back in his childhood community was a true storyteller within his or her right. You see, growing up in rural Cape Breton, the act of visiting your neighbors was an active and expected and oft encouraged past time. But if you went all the way to visit someone, often miles and miles of road in not so pleasant weather, and they went all the way to prepare a huge meal and pour a drink to welcome you, well, as a trade-off, you had better have a story. And that story had better be a good story, told with punctuations of wild laughter and broad humour or high drama and dark intrigue. And so these tales were woven, tales from the past of fishermen and hunters and farmers, or of things just glimpsed and imagined, of what wonders might lay just around the corner. Gossips of budding romances or dying love affairs. Of children born out-of-wedlock or loved ones taken too soon. Of far exotic places, the bustle of some big city life, or the quiet solitude of small town living. Regardless, these stories were told, and passed on, around campfires and kitchen tables, backyards to playing fields, entire generations of storytellers, weaving all the magic and wonders of everyday life that they so artfully described.

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