Happy Birthday to Me

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

I put my phone on my desk, face down and sighed. It was my birthday, and the government couldn’t help themselves—they had to ruin it.

*****

I walked over to the white board, and wrote, “Today is my 60th birthday. Do you know what that means?”

My class of about sixty second-year Ethics and Logic students looked at me blankly, or refused to make eye-contact, their gazes falling to their desktops or devices. They knew what my sixtieth birthday meant, but didn’t want to talk about it. It was kind of like when someone you know is dying. Nobody likes talking about immanent mortality. And to to my students, turning sixty was akin to a death sentence So, I waited. Finally a hand went up near the back of the room.

“Yes,” I said, pointing to the woman, older than most of the class by at least a decade.

“It means that you have to report to testing within a week,” she said. “If you don’t, you can be fined, jailed, lose your job, and/or denied health benefits.”

“Correct.” Some of the students’ gazes had returned to mine. “So, that means that I will be away from school next Friday, so there will be no class. I have posted your assignment online.” I tried to look relaxed. But the prospect of testing was a heavy weight. I pasted a smile on my face.

“Your assignment is to write a minimum one-thousand word paper on ageing in our society, and discuss the role of the Department of Ageing and Dying—also known as D.A.D., on people my age. One third of the paper will be on why testing is a good thing for society. The second third of the paper will be on why testing is detrimental to society. And, the last third will be your personal opinion on D.A.D. and testing. Take any stand you wish—pro or con. You can be one hundred percent for or against D.A.D. and testing, or some where along the sliding scale of pro to con, but by the end of the paper, I need to know where you stand. No ambiguous papers. I need to know how you feel, and what you believe, ethically. Make sure to source your paper, and reference using APA style. Any questions?”

A few hands shot up. I pointed to a male student in the middle of the lecture hall.

“What’s your stance one D.A.D. and testing?”

I smiled. “Ah, I see.” I said nodding my head. “My opinion doesn’t matter. I want well-written and supported arguments. Asked on your beliefs. For that reason, I’m not going to share my personal opinion—I don’t want confirmation bias to be a deciding factor in your perspective. And—” I started pacing across the stage, “—believe me, if you write a good paper, even if it is diametrically divergent from my personal perspective, your mark will reflect your skill level. My role here is not to indoctrinate you, but to teach you to consider all arguments and decide based on your own beliefs.”

I pointed to another hand near the back.

“Uhh … what about the government?”

I stopped pacing and my face became serious. “Right. The government.” I paused and returned to my lectern. “I do not share my students’ work with anyone. Not other professors, not the administration, not the provost, and certainly not with any branch of the government. Your work is between you and me.” I paused. “I believe in academic freedom. Wholeheartedly. With my soul. That is why I am an ethics professor—to facilitate learning and exploration in my students. If we can’t explore alternative perspectives, how can we ever provide an educated point-of-view on any topic?”

There were a few head nods of understanding. But, sadly, most of the students were blank-faced, showing no emotion. They had been told their entire lives that Big Brother was everywhere—all seeing and all knowing. And they knew—either through personal experience, or through the propaganda machine that provided stories to all the news platforms, that the government knew everything, and there was no place to hide. And if you broke the rules, justice would be harsh and swift.

“That is why, if you are unsure of the security of online submissions, I will gladly accept hardcopy work. The due date is one week from today.” I looked around the class. “Any more questions?”

A hand went up on the left-hand side of the room. “What if we don’t do the assignment? What percent of our mark is it worth?”

It was a legitimate question. They were young, starting out their lives. Having negative government focus on any one of them could result in a life made difficult. They could be denied a job, or refused services, or their paperwork for anything could get lost—grad school, housing, driver’s licence, health card—if the government felt they were colouring outside the lines. The police would be there every time there was a minor infraction—jaywalking, speeding, curfew, unlawful gathering—and they would be fined or imprisoned. So, I could understand their reluctance.

“The paper’s worth ten percent of your final mark. But if you don’t feel comfortable doing the assignment, you can get me an annotated bibliography, twenty sources total, ten for pro testing and D.A.D., and ten against testing and D.A.D.. Thirty word synopsis of each article. No sources over five years old. Again, APA format.”

The anti D.A.D. perspective could be difficult since testing and D.A.D. had been in place for five years, and the government had scrubbed most articles that presented a point-of-view different from the government’s new ageing laws. But there were still academic papers and opinion pieces floating around out there in cyberspace to be found.

“Any other questions?” I looked around. No hands went up. There would be other questions, but they would probably contact me one-on-one, in case the censorship dogs flagged any “inappropriate” questions sent to me via text or e-mail.

“Okay, so that’s it for today. Make sure you get whichever assignment you choose to do submitted to me one week from today. Twenty percent penalty per day for late assignments. Thanks everyone.”

The students started shuffling out the exits. A few students lingered, asking questions that, for the most part, had been answered in class. The last person was the woman who volunteered the answer about the relevance of my birthday.

“Thank you for volunteering an answer today. D.A.D. and testing is a pretty controversial topic. I appreciate you speaking up.”

She smiled. “I know first-hand about D.A.D. and testing. My sister had Down syndrome.”

My heart dropped. The special needs sectors of the population had been hit extremely hard by the new Department of Aging and Dying health legislation.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, holding her gaze. “It must have been extremely hard on your family.”

“It was. We loved Carrie. She was sweet and gentle, and fun.” She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.

“I know how brutal the government is with people who have special needs. What about the rest of your family?”

She looked away, remembering, a grimace crossing her face. “Our entire family had to go through extensive genetic testing, and it was strongly suggested that our entire family be sterilized. It was presented as an ultimatum—undergo sterilization or lose your health benefits.” She shook her head. “I already had two kids and I had no intention of having more, so while invasive and morally bankrupt, I had the procedure. But my brother wasn’t in a committed relationship five years ago. Against his will he underwent the procedure. Both of my parents were sterilized as well. My two children have to undergo testing every five years. Barring any breakthroughs in research, they have until they are eighteen before they have to make a decision about their own fertility.”

I was stunned. “I didn’t think Down syndrome was hereditary.”

“It’s not. But the scientists at D.A.D. don’t want to take any chances that the science is wrong. They don’t want any more ‘defectives’ running lose” She shook her head, angry. “Carrie was the only child in either family that had Down syndrome—ever. My parents were able to go back to the the 1890s in their family research to prove that there was no genetic link. That didn’t matter. Sterilization for everyone, sleep for Carrie.” She used air quotes around the word sleep.

Sleep was the euphemism people tended to use to describe a person the government had “removed from the population.” It uncomfortably reminded me of when I had to have an old dog of mine put down. The vet called it putting Rambo “to sleep.” In the government literature, “medically assisted suicide” was the phrase used, but most people found it too off-putting.

“Thank you for sharing your family’s story. I appreciate your candor.”

“But, that’s not the reason that I wanted to speak with you, Dr. Peterson. There was a guy two rows in front of me, four seats to the right. He was filming the lecture—well not the entire lecture, just after you put your message on the white board. I thought you should know.”

I wasn’t surprised. The topic was controversial. We made electronic copies of the lectures available to students who wanted them. Every class was recorded, as much for our protection as for the students’ protection. We were also required, by law, to have copies available of any lecture for government review, in case there were complaints, which sometimes happened. But, students were not allowed to film because there was the potential for audio and visual manipulation.

“Damn,” I said. Sighing, I thought for a moment. Best case scenario, he wanted it because he was a firm believer in academic freedoms, and wanted to share an example of academic freedom. Worst case, he would forward it to D.A.D.and the Minister of Universities and Colleges, and I would be sanctioned for not toeing the government line. The results could be anything from having to submit a formal apology to losing my job and going to jail. I sighed. A problem for future Inez.

Before I got to my office, I received a text that the president of the university, Dr. Ford, wanted to see me in his office immediately. I sighed. They really worked fast when they wanted to.

I knocked on his door, and entered.

“Professor Peterson. Good of you to come so quickly.”

I thought about the text message from his admin: “President’s office, ASAP!” There wasn’t much room for ambiguity in its urgency.

“Please sit,” he said pointing towards one of the two chairs in front of his desk. I sat. “I just received a call from the Ministry of Colleges and Universities. Apparently, there’s been a complaint about your class.”

I sat quietly, not saying anything. He continued. “The Ministry has concerns regarding your topic. They have focussed on two main issues. The first, that you shared personal information that was outside the scope of the curriculum. And second, you assigned a paper calling for the students to provide a critique of the work of the Department of Ageing and Dying is doing, in particular testing.”

I continued to sit there, saying nothing.

“Is that true?” Dr. Ford asked.

“Yes.”

“And you realize that, as an educator, you are expected to follow the government mandates regarding anti-government rhetoric?”

Now I was getting angry. “I wasn’t speaking against the government. What I was asking the class to do was discuss the issue of testing, and present their own perspective on the ethics of the Ageing and Dying protocols.”

“Yes, but you didn’t support the government initiatives to the students,” he said, leaning towards me across his big shiny desk.

“That’s right,” I said, “But neither did I criticize them. I want the students to think for themselves and come up with their own perspective on the work of D.A.D.” I looked at him, unblinking. “Isn’t that what we are supposed to be doing in academia? Teaching our students to think for themselves?” I said, leaning in towards him, mirroring his slightly aggressive posture. He leaned back in his chair quickly, not wanting me to get too close to me, in case my liberal ideals were contagious.

“Be that as it may, Dr. Peterson” he said, steepling his fingers under his chin. “The Department of Ageing and Dying has requested that you attend a disciplinary hearing next Friday. I’ve had my assistant email you the details.” He paused. “We can’t have our instructors—”

“Professors—” I corrected.

“—professors seen as anti-government agitators. It hurts the university when it comes to funding and enrolment.”

I stared to laugh. “Anti-government agitator? Have you seen the recording of my class? The one the university records and keeps in the archives?”

He shook his head. “Actually, I have not. When the Ministry contacted me, I hadn’t had the opportunity. But it was described to me, and I’m afraid I have to agree with the Ministry. Until this matter is resolved, you are relieved of your teaching duties. As well, we would prefer you not attend the campus at all until the Ministry makes its determinations.” He reached for a file folder on his desk, and without looking at me, said, “Thank you. That will be all.”

I was disgusted by his acquiescence to his governmental overlords. He’d hung me out to dry without taking the time to review the recording.

Sycophant!

I got up and left the office, the implications of the meeting resonating in my brain. Well, good thing I’d made my own copy of today’s class, and downloaded it onto the zip drive on my keychain. And, haha, the joke was on them—I was already going to be at the Ministry on Friday for testing.

Testing. More specifically, age-related testing. The reason I was suspended.

The brain trust at D.A.D. would measure my mental acuity, my physical prowess, and do psychological testing. Blood would be drawn. CT scans and X-rays would be taken. I would be interviewed by a team of specialists—specialists in what, I did not know. They would collate all my information and compare my scores to the averages for women my age.

If I was above average, then I was good to go. But below average—that’s where the problems started. The next steps would be determining how far below average I was, and what my prognosis would be. Reduced physical performance was less urgent than declining mental performance. Mental decline was almost an assured death sentence. Unless you were wealthy enough to have your own private caregiver and were not a drain on society’s resources. That was what testing was all about—money. Old people were expensive to keep alive, so they opted not to. If they deemed you a financial burden, you were scheduled for medically assisted suicide.

Funny thing—the government called it assisted suicide. It was definitely NOT suicide. Why not call it what it really was—euthanasia—legal murder.

When I got home, James, my husband was already home—not a good sign.

“They called me,” he said. “D.A.D. and the university. What the hell, Inez! What were you thinking?” He started pacing the kitchen. “I thought that we agreed to keep a low profile.”

“It’s my birthday today.”

He stopped pacing and turned towards me. “Shit! I forgot.”

I shrugged. He always forgot my birthday, mainly because I never mentioned it..

“Oh no!” He looked at me. “You got the email, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“Damn!” he said. “When do you go in?’

“Friday.”

He came in for a hug. “We could run,” he said.

I leaned back and looked at him. “Why? Then you’d be in trouble with the government.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It does matter! Do you want to spend the last years of your life in a federal detention camp?”

“But you’re—”

“I know what I am.”

“You could disappear, alone.”

I shook my head. “Then I’d spend the rest of my life alone and running from the government. No thanks. I’ll just report to the Ministry on Friday, and see what happens.

“But the CT scan,” he said. “They’ll know.”

“They will,” I said.

We stood there hugging each other. The situation was dire. Work problems aside, I had end-stage brain cancer, and I was going to die very soon. Now it was a race to see what got me first—the disease, or the government. I was hoping it would be the disease.