The Headline

It is December 6^th, 1989. I am in the lobby of Wilson Hall, home of the School of Social Work at McGill University in Montreal. I am here often. The old building is not yet adapted for my wheelchair. An accident resulting in a spinal-cord injury has slowed me down but I am determined to forge on. I have been accepted to the program this semester despite the fact that the renovations are not complete. I am told that it is time that society changes with the changing needs of its members.

 I love the atmosphere in the lobby. Everything looks old-fashioned.  The moldings and staircase are made of heavy, dark oak. The chandeliers are like those you might see in the ballroom of an old mansion. I find a quiet place to read an article about the life and ideas of Simone de Beauvoir. I love the sound of the creaking wooden floorboards. I can almost imagine the sounds of generations of women studying to improve their lives, working to make a better world. I’m excited to be a student here. I can still write well. I can listen to people in distress. Social work is something I can do despite my disability. I believe words can improve my life. I believe words can change the world.

A classmate rushes in the front door and storms up the stairs. When she sees me, she asks “Madeleine what are you doing?” I think about it for a moment, maybe she doesn’t remember the elevator is not ready yet and I can’t access the cafeteria in the basement or the lounges on the other floors. I say, “I’m reading an article.” She is out of breath like she’s been running, and says “No, no. Aren’t you afraid?” I am taken by surprise. I say, “Well no, should I be?” I can see she is in distress. She says, “Yes! There has been a shooting over the mountain at the Polytechnic. So many people are dead and wounded!” She rushes off in a panic, searching for someone else to share her terror with. My first thought is disbelief. This is impossible! Canadians don’t have guns! Irrational thoughts. It is time to get home. I gather up my reading and I balance it on my lap. I wheel to the back of the building where there’s an accessible door leading to the inner campus. The driver of the adapted bus is already there. He is relieved to see me and says so, even though the shooting is at a different university, in a different part of the city.

 He drives me home. I live south of St Catherine Street, on Guy Street down the hill in Little Burgundy. I have a little adapted apartment where I live alone, my first place of my own. When I get in, I turn on the television to catch up on the headlines. The headline says “Shootings at Montreal University. At least 10 dead, many wounded”. I watch the report. I see the flashing lights of police cars, ambulances. I see the yellow tape of a crime scene. A body is being taken out on a gurney. You can just make out the shape of a young person’s body under the sheet. Young students are interviewed, weeping in shock. Family members push for news, for evidence, for answers. Wow, I think, just over the mountain. I turn off the television. I close my blinds so no one can shoot me through the window.

My brother Ian visits a few days later. We have supper together but he is agitated, upset, pressing for my opinion. He is angry at how the media is dealing with the assassinations. “Mark Levine is just one madman”, he says, “but now articles are coming out saying the murders are a symptom of a misogynistic society”. It’s too horrible for my brother to bear and he does not want to feel guilty for the work of one bad guy. The evidence piles up, though. Witnesses say that Levine was making a statement, fighting feminism, left a letter. He targeted women, fourteen in all before he turned the gun on himself. He was angry at the places these women had taken in traditionally male-dominated programs, programs he could not get into because he hadn’t done the work. All over the world, women are oppressed, paid less than men for equal work, are victims of violence, often by the hands of the men who say they love them.

 My brother and I grew up in a bubble. I understand how he feels. My brother is one of the good guys. He’s kind and gentle, smart and respectful. He was brought up by my Dad who is kind and gentle, smart and caring. They want the world to change.

And as for me? I meet Jean-Pierre at a Thanksgiving dinner party. I know he’s different, the moment I meet him. His pink Miami Vice t-shirt and the care he gives to his twin toddlers is proof enough for me. He laughs and tells me his friends call him “un homme rose”, not just because the color of his shirt but because he does the work of both mother and father. He feels a part of a changing society, where judges have begun giving custody to fathers, deeming them to be the better parent. I am different too and we marry and spend our lives together raising children. We raise our three boys differently. They all do housework, they cook, they clean, they change diapers, they listen, they care, they are respectful. And the two girls? They are independent, smart and tough and do not need a man, unless they want one. Maybe that’s the way to change the world, through our words and our example, one respectful human at a time.

It’s 2016 and a comic book villain has been elected president of the United States. In his own words, he can grab them by the pussy, they’ll let you do it. In horror, the world looks on at the Pandora’s Box that has been opened. The ugliness reveals wounded masculine egos threatened by female intelligence, women who study hard, work hard. Daily events leave a bad taste in my mouth. Every woman’s nasty boyfriend has become president and taken the role of the most powerful man in the world but there is hope. Memories left festering for too long bubble up to the surface: abusive boyfriends, uncomfortable behaviors of male teachers, bad choices, shame. They boil up like hot lava or pus. A communal outcry can be heard: Me too! Me too! The memories become clearer. Stories are written, are told, and retold. Never again.

I continue writing stories. I still believe that words will improve my life. I believe that words, well used, can change the world.

Madeleine Holden