At the height of the adrenalin-charged daily newspaper war in Toronto, then-National Post wordsmith Christie Blatchford called me at our impressive Don Mills office to slowly read back her column, word for word, despite a nearing deadline in our understaffed sports department, fondly dubbed The Sandbox.
Krusty, as she was called in The Big Smoke, was on assignment in the Excited States covering a trial where two southern good old boys thought it would be plenty fun to hitch a black man to their pickup truck and drag him down a gravel road until his colour matched that of skeletal remains.
I found it difficult, as her graphic column progressed, to withhold anger at the what’s-the-big-deal attitude of the murderers and redneck supporters trying to explain that being black and hanging out in their part of the neighbourhood “was just asking for trouble.”
The murderers insisted they were just trying to teach the poor soul a lesson, not kill him. Guess they just don’t make ’em tough enough down south to survive that kind of spin around town.
Blatchford’s disturbing description of how the screaming victim died is forever etched in my brain. His only “mistake” was being the “wrong” colour.
Which somehow brings me to Saturday’s social justice Rally in the Valley and the horror stories of Abbotsford people being bullied for being fat, gay, goth or “different.” And the sad stories from many frustrated parents who, despite being told they were partners in local education, were basically told to pump sand by an elected few over the Social Justice 12 course that is accepted everywhere in B.C. – except Abbotsford.
One letter writer last week, who called himself Richard despite an e-mail address that suggests otherwise, was livid we published a story outlining plans for the rally. His letter also included a shot at me for a column outlining the death of my wonderful dog. His exact words: “Quit crying about your dog and do your job. There is no reason to have any story about faggots in your paper.” – Richard.
Well “Richard,” – or should I call you Dick? – it’s morons like you who make such marches necessary. I suppose the good thing is that at least we know where you stand, Dick. Let’s all hope you don’t own a pickup truck, Dick, or live in your mom’s basement forever hoping to one day run for school board.
The less obvious perpetrators, of course, are the ones in positions of power to influence change, tolerance and acceptance, but don’t. Often they go to church, dress well, hold public office and promise equality, fairness, acceptance and diversity – and then do the complete opposite. Gotta keep those constituents happy, eh?
During the recent civic election, mayoral candidate Alvin Epp was asked a question about supporting a gay parade. The class-act candidate eloquently explained how he’d handle the situation. George W. Peary, who went on to win the mayor’s race, immediately praised his answer. Epp, however, was forced to explain his “answer and actions” for the next two weeks by many voters who were disgusted he didn’t just say no.
I think that fact alone speaks volumes of a city that might be better dubbed Bumpkins in the Country.
Robert Kennedy said this: “But suppose God is black? What if we go to Heaven and we, all our lives, have treated the Negro as an inferior, and God is there, and we look up and He is not white? What then is our response?”
Or, as Mother Teresa said during her final Christmas on this planet: “If you judge people, you have no time to love them.”
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