Just when you think you've heard it all . . .

"It has been months and the accuser has yet to publicly come forward to face our son. Instead she chose only to read a victim impact statement in the courtroom like a coward. Embarrassing our son before his friends and family. She refuses to put a name and a face to her story for the world to see. Why? She is terrified that the world will See her for who she truly is. A liar. She is terrified what may be unearthed if someone were to dig deep enough into her relationship history. She is terrified that the world will find out she is a co-conspirator in labeling our son a criminal. A co-conspirator in keeping him from achieving his dreams."

                                           -Brock's family




It's astonishing that Brock's family would post this on Facebook. (A part of me asks if it's even real.) A victim writes a brilliant impact statement and reads it in court, and the rapist's family has the audacity to call her a "coward"? She wants the dignity of maintaining some small measure of privacy after being so violated (during the assault, in the hours afterwards, and in the trial itself), and they accuse her of hiding? Even more unbelievable, they accuse her of the crime of embarrassing Brock in front of his friends and family?

Let's say, hypothetically, that the victim had consensual sex with 1,000 men prior to the rape (which I'm certain she did not, though it's irrelevant). Would she really be eager (as this illustration suggests) to be penetrated by a stranger while unconscious behind a dumpster? Does a woman's sexual history strip her of her right to choose who her next sexual partner will be, or to turn someone away? At what point does a woman become fair game? (10 partners or more? 20? 25?)

It's astonishing that a family could have so little empathy, so little understanding of trauma, so little respect for any human being who would dare become a victim of their dear son's sexual appetite. Poor Brock.

And yet, in a pathetic way, Brock is to be pitied. What chance did he really have to become a decent human being given his family of origin?

Things that Make You Go, "Huh?"

These days, parents shy away from reading the original fairy tales, as they're much too Grimm (groan). Horrible puns aside, many of us do tend to shelter our children. We control their consumption of media. We advocate for them at school. We're involved, and we feel good about that. After all, the world is a far more menacing than the one we grew up in.

Sometimes, though, I have to question these assumptions. Was the world really that safe in my day? And is our desire to protect our children from most harmful influences really that helpful? Looking back, there were some strange things that somehow just . . . were. No one tried to change them, or analyze them, or control them.

Let me give you a few examples:

1) Our Performance of "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" (elementary school)

We had the voices of angels, and Mrs. Green was a fine music teacher indeed. One day she introduced us to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" by the Beatles.

For those unfamiliar with the story within the song, our dear protagonist Maxwell invites Joan, an intellectual girl with a knack for science, to the movies. She accepts. When she opens the door, undoubtedly all dolled up, she becomes a murder victim. At this point in the song, our elementary school voices rang loud and true:

                                             "Bang bang Maxwell's silver hammer
                                              Came down upon her head!
                                              Bang bang Maxwell's silver hammer
                                              Made sure that she was dead."

Maxwell's next victim is a school teacher--one who has the audacity to insist he behave and who punishes him by insisting he write lines. Once again we sang the chorus with gusto. Then we told the tale of Maxwell's final victim, the judge who attempts to put an end to his murderous ways.

It all seemed just fine to me . . . except for that niggling sense that perhaps this song was a slightly unsuitable selection for a school concert. We were actually singing about murder, and our parents were sitting there listening! This was dangerous stuff--and strangely enthralling. I hadn't even hit puberty and yet was walking on the wild side.

So how is it that these days, even the word "Christmas" is deemed too offensive to use in some schools?


2) Those Unedited School Plays (elementary school)

Now, my parents didn't drink: my brothers and I thought it scandalous when we discovered our father sipping a cold beer on a scalding summer day. I have no recollection of witnessing anyone in a state of inebriation. So how I so effortlessly and convincingly played the drunk in our school plays baffles me. What could possibly have inspired me? Even more baffling is the fact that I was freely permitted to do so; in fact, it became the routine I was known for.

We were allowed, in music and drama class, to create our own plays, on any topic that inspired us. I recall no limits being set upon us whatsoever. We'd then perform our creations at school assemblies. I had four best friends, and we'd come up with those long, rambling, nonsensical plays that only children can invent. Inevitably, I'd play the drunk. My greatest moment came with a drunken fall off the stage. It was pure art! My mother was appalled, and tried to get past Nicole Paxton's mother (a devote Mormon), who was questioning what I was witnessing at home.

It all seemed fabulous to me at the time: I got to fall off the stage! After pretending to drink too many beers, which never happened, especially at home. It was thrilling!

However, I now ponder why there was no editing of content or form whatsoever. I have only fond memories of Mrs. Green . . . but . . . hmmmmmm.


3) Those Other Oddities (elementary school)

Other things strike me as odd now. There was a grade two teacher in the school who was utterly terrifying. I remember sitting at a desk in Social Studies as she talked--or yelled, rather--about Maslow's Pyramid of Human Needs.

"What are the basic things we need?" she shouted. Every student was struck dumb with fear. I sat clinging to my desk, praying she wouldn't notice me.

"Um. Food?" someone finally ventured. We all held our breath. No one else could speak, which only further enraged our teacher.

"So, you're running around naked with no roof over your head whatsoever? And you can't figure out what you need?!?"

Looking back, I wonder why it never occurred to me to mention this teacher to my parents. The problem would eventually solve itself when this already unhappy woman became a victim of an unspeakable crime. I don't think she taught after that. As a child, I read the papers outlining the graphic details of the grisly murders of her family members and thought, "Wow. I knew her." And that was the end of that.

One of the best teachers ever (a truly gifted and passionate man) had the peculiar habit of sticking textbooks and rulers and even his hands down the front of his pants while he taught. Objects would stay there for long stretches of time. This behaviour, too, was just a given, and we actually looked forward to seeing what might end up in that most peculiar of storage places. Younger students had something to look forward to: our teacher's habit was a rite of passage, just like Miss Buckton's St. Bernards. It was just the way it was: we didn't know any different.

And somehow, it made life more interesting, more colourful, and our education a tad richer. The eccentrics in our life are not quickly forgotten: they're like signposts in the journey through life.


4) The Smart Science Teacher (junior high)

Now, you have to give Mr. Finnegan the credit he deserves. He drew a reasonable salary (I know, because I asked him how much he made), and yet did the least amount of work he could manage to get away with. We spent hours--hours--illustrating title pages for each science unit. It was busy work, utterly meaningless, and we would all inevitably receive the same grade we'd received on every other title page. (I believe that my little brother still resents Mr. Finnegan for this waste of so many hours of his fleeting youth.)

Mr. Finnegan's greatest achievement was the awarding of bonus marks. It was really just a subtle mockery of the keeners in the class. Bake him cupcakes? Bonus marks! Wash the classroom sinks? Bonus marks! Tania Stafinski, my competitor, actually took his lab coat home to wash it. When she used too much bleach, she had to replace it. Mr. Finnegan just smiled and awarded her those bonus marks that would make no difference to her career whatsoever. Or maybe it was those marks that set her on the path to a brilliant career in science. Who knows?

While today's parent might complain that the creation of title pages isn't the same as learning actual science, I did learn some valuable lessons. One, it's easy to be duped by the glitter of those elusive bonus marks. At the end of the day, however, nobody cares what mark I got in Science 9. Two, teachers can be as lazy as students, and still receive adequate financial remuneration. Finally, I can never recover the time I lost to colouring intricate title pages. This is a lesson that I will carry close to my heart for all of my days.


5) High School Oddities

I once carried a dagger (that I got on a missions trip to Africa) to school once to ward off bullies. Did I feel justified? Certainly. Did anyone notice? Luckily not. Nor did the gym teacher observe my bully repeatedly throwing basketballs at my head. Or trying to take me out during the roller skating unit.

Did we both survive? Yup.

No one noticed my friend Julie and I escaping art class either. We were doing virtuous things--selling my clay horse head to a shop in the nearby mall, and returning close to the end of class. I also made prank phone calls during class, using the class phone no less, and no one noticed. Those were truly the good old days.

And not a soul (as far as I know) made a complaint about Mr. Werely, the volatile physics teacher who took out the classroom thermostat with a ruler and blamed it on "vandals" (my older brother witnessed this monumental event). When I went on vacation for a week with my family, the teacher called me "that idiot whose parents are making sure she'll fail her provincial exam." I received a mark of 87%, hardly a fail. And while today's parents would be shocked by the referral to their son or daughter as "an idiot," I wasn't insulted: I appreciated Mr. Werely's blunt honesty and wanted to prove him wrong. And I left his class loving physics--arguably one of my weakest subjects next to math.


During my illustrious education, I enjoyed many memorable experiences. I tied my sixth grade Student Teacher's shoelaces together during carpet time. I painted a toilet in the bathroom and sprinted out of the school to escape an irate janitor. My friends and I molded fake fecal matter out of clay in art (to the horror of other students using the restroom). Cindy Amthor and I used spit to shine up those desks in grade 8, after being given a detention for trying to glue someone to a desk (he had made rude comments about my developing body). Shirley Wong and I hammered the tools into their incorrect spaces in Shop. We all melted countless pens in Chemistry. What else are Bunsen burners for?

We were kids, and we did stupid things. Similarly, the adults around us did their own thing too, perplexing as some of their actions were. They did things that would raise anyone's eyebrows these days. They said things that were downright offensive. And somehow, it all came out in the wash. Through some miracle I grew up into a rather conservative adult who is now trying to prevent my children from doing what I did.

And isn't that what's it's all about? Well . . . who knows?

The Joys of Taking Things Out of Context

My brother, my parents, and I recently reflected on a beautiful story from our collective past. Ah, nostalgia.

 

The year was 1996. My uniform that year was a red plaid shirt from the Gap, a blue tank top, and jean shorts. I hung out with Rebecca Hanson and a pale vegetarian known as Kathryn Andrea Taxbock, and we all admired Eddie Vedder ("Edward," as we called him). Rebecca, in particular, had a soft spot for Nine Inch Nails.

 

We were young. We were bold. We went to concerts and moshed in mosh pits and prepared for these events by ensuring we were properly hydrated. (Yes, we kept juice boxes in the trunk of my blue Delta '88. Kathy and I met some boys in the parking lot prior to a Beastie Boys concert. They were hydrating themselves with vodka, and we just shook our heads. Their eyes, in turn, widened when they saw our practical and nutritious juice boxes—and we knew then that we were mere imposters in the realm of the cool.)

 

At any rate, at that age I was sensitive about my music. And so when an annoying parent wrote in to the Herald lamenting a Nine Inch Nails CD, I responded with an equally irate Letter to the Editor:

 

Re: “Alternative filth,” Herald Letters, March 22.

  

Recently, my 49-year-old father purchased his first cassette tape called Songs of Love and Life by Roger Whittaker. After listening to the first track, Flip Flap, I was compelled to read the horrific lyrics cryptically enclosed. I had no choice but to immediately smash and burn my father’s entire collection of cassettes, not to mention his eight-track cassette player.

 

Why are adults permitted to purchase such filth? How can a father, whose ideals and morals shape those of his malleable children, have access to music — and I use the term loosely — that transcends the boundaries of musical taste in its nauseating sentimentality. The song Sugar My Tea, for example, has shocking implications when taken out of context, and the blasphemous song “Swaggy” needs no further explanation.

 

I delivered the charred remains of this abomination to the music store’s manager, who shook his head in disgust and pity, then wept. My mother tells me that there are others who listen to this detestable putridity. I cannot understand what our society has come to.

 

Carmen Wittmeier , Calgary."

 

My mother had Bible Study the day this letter was published, and she was horrified to discover her daughter's name in the paper, along with a huge photo of Roger Whittaker. I, in turn, was beaming. Then it got even better.

 

An elderly lady with a raspy voice phoned me up and said, "Are you Carmen Wittmeier? The Carmen Wittmeier who was in the newpaper?"

 

"Yes," said I, not sure where this was leading. Was I now famous? She then proceeded to ask me if I had actually destroyed my father's property. I assured her I had not—that I was actually a responsible young lady who volunteered on a regular basis and was conscientious in terms of my studies. Generally speaking, I respected my elders, though I liked to decorate my grandmother with tinsel at Christmas.

 

"Oh good," she said. "I just want to understand the youth of today."

 

But the sweet, sweet icing on the cake came later when I was approached by my English professor Harry Vandervlist, who was admired (and rightfully so) by every heterosexual female who took his class. He was so literary, so clever, so witty, so handsome, and yet so down-to-earth and approachable: naturally, I never said a word in class. So it was unusual to have Professor Vandervlist pull me aside.

 

"I read your letter," he said. I was concerned: would I still get an A in the course? I had nearly perfect attendance—though not always for academic reasons. But he didn't know that.

 

"It was a great letter. You're absolutely right," he said. For a second time that week, I was beaming (though this time it was subtly on the inside). 

 

Anyway, last night my family and I were chuckling over the letter (which my mom now thinks is hilarious . . . now that I've turned into a law-abiding citizen). We looked up my brother's blog from 2009, which tells the story: Sugar My Tea?.

 

Our favourite part of the whole thing was the side-splitting comment some random blog reader made about me on my brother's website:

 

"How do you get from Nine Inch Nails, aka Trent Reznor to Roger Whittaker. And just what does she [your sister] find objectionable about his music? I’ve listened to and enjoyed a lot of it without hearing anything improper.

What I find truly appalling [is] your sister’s assumption that she has the right to pass judgment on another adult’s choices, and vandalize his property because SHE didn’t like it.
And what possible excuse could she offer for destroying his eight-track cassette player!?

New World in the Morning is beautiful, uplifting and thought provoking.
And thanks for tipping me off to Swaggy, which is a lovely piece of whistling, with no lyrics.
I have to conclude that if your sister) finds anything FILTHY in Roger Whittaker’s music, it is because she has a FILTHY mind.

To the pure, all things are pure."

 

As if in an afterthought, he added the following: "By the way, parts of the Bible (look at the Song of Solomon) have shocking implications when taken out of context.

Ready to start burning Bibles?

Or could you learn to simply not take things out of context?"

Is my mind filthy? I think not. But I do know that life is sweet. Kind of like sugar in one's tea . . .

Brock Is Not Alone

So much is circulating around the Stanford rapist--the star swimmer who blamed the "party culture" for his vicious assault on an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. His own father, of course, earned his time in the spotlight by verbally reducing his son's crime to a mere "20 minutes of action" that should not overshadow 20 years of comparative non-violence.

Our outrage is justified. We feel overwhelming empathy for the woman--Brock's brave, eloquent victim. But some troubling questions emerge. Aside from having no moral guidance whatsoever in his home, what other factors made Brock the way he is? It's possible--probable, even--that the young man fed upon a steady diet of pornography. And if that's the case, where should we draw the line between the violence hidden behind a dumpster and the violence quietly committed behind a computer screen?

Just recently I noticed (when my own access cut out) that a neighbour's internet link was called "BangBus." Huh, I thought. That can't be good. But it's clearly a term significant enough to this individual to merit honouring their internet access with that name.

So I googled it. "Bang Bus" (as I understand it) is reality pornography with a supposedly "humorous" twist. Victims (typically adult sex workers) are picked up by the bus, persuaded to have hard core sex (which is filmed), and then dumped off without pay at the wrong location (or left "half-naked" and "covered with cum," to use the description of one gleeful reviewer). Fortunately, only "fat, used-up, coke-shooting skanks" are used in the production of this material, as another reviewer of the site so eloquently puts it.

So how much difference is there between Brock and those who frequent this site for their entertainment? Isn't the mentality--the sense of entitlement--behind both actions pretty much the same? Sure, Brock's victim didn't give her "consent" because she was unconscious and unaware of what had transpired, at least until she uncovered the details of her assault in a newspaper. Victims of Bang Bus, in contrast, were expecting to be paid for their degradation and the assault on their human worth. But even if they did consent and were paid (if the scenes were, in fact, staged), does that make the whole premise of the website acceptable?

Really, is one victim more important than another? Is it a crime to denigrate one woman, and to label another fair game because she's "a used-up, coke-shooting skank" or a prostitute? Is assaulting a woman vicariously by viewing and celebrating her victimization really that much better than taking her behind a dumpster and brutally assaulting her? Aren't both of these actions rooted in a terribly destructive, corrosive impulse?        

I'll end with Dan Allender's short talk, "How Destructive Is Pornography to a Man?" Allender doesn't mince words, or accept excuses. "All pornography," he says, "moves toward more and greater demeaning of the face of a woman . . . The goal of pornography is not mere arousal. It is degradation. It is having power over, and being able to destroy the beauty in the other."