Originally published as a column on CFJC Today Kamloops and Armchair Mayor News on October 23, 2017.
If you are even somewhat present in social media, you have likely come across the hashtag campaign #MeToo, spurred by the recent accusations of sexual harassment and assault against famous movie producer Harvey Weinstein. A lot of women came forward to tell their own stories of encountering the media mogul and, headline after headline, the ugliness kept flowing. It has also spilled in Canada, with the recent sexual allegations against the Just for Laughs founder, Gilbert Rozon.
These are not cases of entertainment industry sensationalism; sexual harassment happens around us and victims are most often left to address it alone, ashamed, and fearful of speaking up. The campaign drew many of us into the conversation about sexual harassment, and the trauma it inflicts. Trouble is, life is one fast flowing river and the momentum becomes yesterday’s news, though the impact was real and palpable at the time. Blame it on information overload, but let’s not leave it at that.
Exiting this one story too soon carries serious consequences. The story of sexual harassment is one that surfaces occasionally and when it does it triggers painful memories for those who suffered through it. It is fair to remark that sexual harassment does not only happen to women, though three times as many women are affected compared to the number of men.
Male-dominated professions are often the environment where these stories surface, but that is not the only place where they happen. While the argument about whether a woman can do a man’s job is what many bring forth as an explanation for the unwanted attention women get in certain workplaces, assessing one’s abilities should be based on whether they can perform the said task or not, rather than become grounds for sexual harassment.
If we care not to look sideways when a story of sexual harassment happens, we have the chance to rewrite and redesign societal norms that have been endorsing victim-blaming while often allowing the aggressor to find escape routes from prosecution, allowing the dust of forgetfulness to settle for mostly everyone except for those who suffered through it. To be fair, we have come a long way already, but we have a good length to go still until everyone, female or male, can be safe from sexual harassment no matter their job or life circumstances.
Another side of this ugly reality of everyday life is the presence of bystanders. Often conditioned by fear of losing a job, or angering a powerful person, bystanders add one more layer of wrongness to the process, their lack of proper and rightful action ultimately taking away the victim’s right to justice and further access to resources that can prevent long-term trauma.
The heartbreaking story of Amanda Todd, the 15-year-old girl from Port Coquitlam who committed suicide five years ago on October 10, after being severely and relentlessly sexually harassed online is still haunting me and many others. Immediately prior to her death, and many times before that, she tried to speak up and make her pain visible to others. Unfortunately, that did not happen soon enough, though many were aware of her story.
This is a pervasive and shameful societal sin, if you will, the isolation of the victim through the silence of by-standers or, even worse, the blaming of the victim by joining the chorus that mercilessly sings the most wrong tune of all: ‘She must’ve done something to provoke it…’
Most of us can admit that we know enough to do better as a society. Where do we start getting rid of all this dark and painful ugliness? As with many other things, one way to go is to start our children right, by education them about what the whole bullying process (sexual harassment is after all a sick manifestation of power over someone) and everyone involved: the bully, the bullied and those who see but choose to remain silent, or worse, side with the aggressor. Healthy boundaries are everyone’s right to have and everyone’s duty to respect.
Teaching our children to respect the opposite sex takes more than just words though. We ought to model what we preach, standing up when needed, carrying a continuous dialogue that helps keep the issue in the open rather than making it a dark secret hidden in some corner. Let’s not forget that our children hear more than we care to admit these days, disturbing stories of sexual harassment included. It makes sense that parents explain these terms and further explain what respectful behaviour is about.
Educating children can take us to a better future, but what about now? There are a few things to address, and sooner than later: the widespread presence of pornography (secretly accepted by many, yet rarely talked about honestly and with the intention of preventing sexual abuse which the industry often portrays as entertaining,) the need to provide women and men with a safe place to relate of any sexual misconduct that makes them feel threatened in any way at their workplace or any other walk of life, and the great power to do good we all have by refusing to be bystanders.
It’s a big subject and, granted, an uncomfortable one for many, but it is one worth tackling, because now we know enough to not allow it to happen anymore. Because the trauma it leaves behind is often lifelong and even claiming people’s lives, unfortunately. It’s a matter of better choices and honour. We’re capable of both. A hashtag such as #MeToo should not only be an indication of a widespread issue of sexual harassment and abuse, but should be made into a collective promise of doing better as a society.
Saturday was a cold, wet, and slightly dreary day, though rain was such precious commodity during the summer that I cannot get myself to dislike it, no matter how much I miss the sun. On our way to the farmer’s market, my oldest son and I bumped into Vaughn Warren, who was as enthusiastic as ever about the time capsule that was about to be attached to the new Freemont Block sign he was recently commissioned to restore. Come by the Makerspace between 3 and 5 today, he said, so you can sign a postcard for the time capsule.
One of the simplest and profound joys of every day is stepping outside in early morning to hike with my dog. I will call it overwhelming gratefulness because that is the best way to describe how perfect a dusty trail that separates meadows of dry, yellow grasses, climbs into a sky so blue it defies the very definition of the colour blue itself. It makes gratefulness for the smallest things even more of a daily concept I should heed before I do anything else.
There’s this curious phenomenon that happens to many of our family’s out-of-town guests when they come for a visit: they fall in love with Kamloops. Sure, for most of the year, hills are dry, though the wild west appeal is certainly present and charming. The summer of 2017 was painfully smoky for long enough to scare away visitors and make us all feel shortchanged when the leaves started turning.
I sit at the top of the stairs with a plateful of Italian plums after working in the garden. The harvest so far includes four squashes of variable sizes, one gigantic zucchini, a bucket of red and orange tomatoes, and a bowl of shelled beans, red and white. The red ones are plumper, according to lil’ boy, whom I half-buried in a dry pile of bean bushes for the purpose of shelling.
I pulled out bunches of overgrown red and golden dry grasses, disturbing the marigolds and causing a storm of fragrance to clutch to my nose. Their smell is strongly pushing its way into my memory, stomping on everything, leaving but my dad’s slender figure, crouched over weeds and marigolds in our garden. He would work and tell stories, or joke about this or that, or answer many of my many questions about the garden.
I sit at the top of the stairs realizing, plum after plum, that I ache for those times of gardening with my parents. My sister is the only other keeper of these precious times… I sit and remember, plum by plum. It’s no use to get teary but I do. I miss fall gardening with faint smells of leaf smoke from the piles everyone gathered at the end of September.
It’s a progression of sorts, I know that much. Summer to fall to winter and spring again. This is where you get to try again next season. People transition to memories and to more memories. That is the part that leads to the inelegance of my gaze, all teary and bending under the weight of all that cannot be again. It’s the part I process by sitting at the top of our back stairs, looking over the dry hills poking into the blue, and, eating plum after plum, dusty hands and all, I make peace, once again, with the fall, the garden where my parents visit only as memories and my stubbornness to let go.
The afternoon air hugs me warm and fragrant. I walk through short, stubby grass back to the garden. There are still the thick, dark kale bushes to care for and a whole bunch of green tomatoes to ripen. There’s the rosemary and lavender bushes; they will survive the winter. As for marigolds… I’ll plant some again next spring.
If your summer fun includes going to the beach, on the shores of either the South or North Thompson Rivers, you likely noticed the receding water line over the last few weeks, more so on the first. From one day to the next, the river grows thinner and shallower.