blueAlto

So I thought since my email purge is taking what is now the better part of two days, and there is a possible end in sight, I would share some of the fun ones. I know, kind of a lame choice for someone who enjoys, or tells himself he does anyway, creating well thought out pieces of writing.

But is it a lame choice? The answer to that question, is not at all up to me. That, is what I love about writing and reading. The idea that a high brow, well informed and sophisticated deconstruction of 1930's British class structure, can, in subjective quality, be nothing more than a dirty looking piece of coal when placed beside something that has moved, changed, humbled, or otherwise altered a reader.

What I have found through that, is that even personal email takes on a completely different tone; especially when the recipient or the writer is no longer with us.

I found this email in David's files. It was from my friend and occasional co writer to the site, Karen, who had been recovering in hospital from unexpected, minor surgery. She wrote it to David this past July, only two months before he died. Even at the time, we were barely aware he was ill. With Karen's permission, I reprint it here.

****

By the way, David made the best lemon squares ever!

A guest post by: Karen

Hello blueAlto readers. As I have not written for the site for a while, I'll briefly introduce myself again. My name is Karen, I'm a thirty seven year old woman who has been close friends with Al since the early nineties, and has been a regular contributor and guest author to his site, both in this and the previous incarnation, for the past two years. Currently living in London, UK, where my partner Dan is on a work exchange, we are the parents of twin boys who will be two years old in December. For more info, feel free to view my about page.

First, a word about Al. He is currently out of town dealing with some family issues, and has asked me to maintain privacy around the topic. What I do feel comfortable in saying, is that currently he and his family are dealing with a serious, but not entirely unexpected family medical issue; one that requires his complete time and focus for the next few days. I will be updating the site until Wednesday, at which point Al will post on how things will go in the foreseeable future.

So, beyond the above, Al is fine, dealing with things as they come up. Of course this is stressful, but it is nothing he has not dealt with before. I would ask readers to please understand that beyond what I have outlined above, I cannot, and will not, answer questions as to the nature of what has occurred. That is up to Al to answer on no ones time line but his own. Thanks in advance for understanding and respecting that.

So, back to my little one year life derailment known as "the other half and his paramedic exchange opportunity". Life derailment is perhaps a strong term, not necessarily denoting what a fantastic time it has been thus far. Not having lived in this city since my late teens, I have relished the opportunity of returning to a place that, as far as I recall, has not changed in those fundamental ways we lovingly remember something by. In a city where the Chinese laundry on the corner is next weeks burrito stand and next months Martini Bar, that is saying something.

We have now been here a little over six weeks and we are just now settling into some semblance of a routine. The twins, being one and a half, are happy and quite content so long as "juice", "toys", "Mama", are within grabbing distance, and something they can place in their mouth, but really shouldn't, is close at hand. What can I say, I will attempt to enjoy this period while it lasts.

Dan, beyond the needs already ascribed to his children, is now feeling his groove a little with the new position. Initially awkward in the degree of learning curve required, he is now feeling at least somewhat functional in an air ambulance system and trauma program that he had no frame of reference for (completely different than the North American model) beyond his medical knowledge and skill set. It is a relief for me to see, as he is now leaving for work (and returning home), without the typical angst indicating furrowed brow.

I have been spending time catching up with my younger sister Emma, an art therapist for the London School board. She has been fawning over the boys, spoiling them rotten of course. I had forgotten that she had only seen them once before, on their first birthday. It has been wonderful to reconnect leisurely, rather than share our lives in a visit dictated by a timeline of days. True to her nature, Emma had not been exactly forthcoming with the specific details of her new relationship. Specifically, his, uhm, background. Since we had planned on staying with them in their guest room, I was initially a tad concerned. As usual, surprise, surprise.

Darren, the young man who "works for a medical non profit", is actually one of the UK's foremost plastic surgeons. Besides running a thriving practice in London, he is co founder of a non profit that provides plastics services to disfigured children in third world countries. Oh Emma, my dear sister, always the mistress of understatement! Of course with that buildup, my cynical nature came out immediately, and was just waiting for him to prove that he truly was an evil pig named Satan, with the ruination of my sisters virtue just around the next corner. Alas, he really is a great guy.

The above opinion is of course not related in any sense to our reality of "guest room" in the flat shared by Darren and Emma. I will let the pictures of our fully separate and self contained "guest room" speak for themselves. After the jump.

But tommorow, please join me on these pages when I tackle the topic of hair, and our relation to it.  Yes, it must be obvious how I am throwing everything into these posts.  But on Monday, we will have fun.  I'll be taking you for a traditional Pub lunch in London.  Be warned, however.  You will come to find that the term "traditional", takes on a slightly new meaning when referenced by yours truly.

The entrance to the main flat in central Knightsbridge.

 

Our kitchen

 

The shared rooftop deck. Pity, really, that we have to share. 

 

The real reason I am loving this experience is below. Otherwise known as:

Where Karen begins her mornings.

 

I thought today would be a good day as any to offer a few updates on the goings on of Karen, Dan and the clan as they settle into a routine in London, and the new resident who is sharing my living quarters: Abercrombie the dog.

First off, I am happy to report that Karen, Dan and the twins arrived safely in London, and have enjoyed a week just getting settled in, and spending time with Karen's younger sister, Emma, an art therapist for the London school board. Originally they had planned on staying with her sister and her fiance, but weren't sure about living in such close quarters for an entire year. Evidently, those were needles worries.

Suffice it to say they were pleasantly surprised to learn that the fiance was significantly more "resourced" than Emma had let on, and they were relieved to discover the size of the flat they were to share was, as Karen put it, "more than large".  I've seen pictures, and trust me, it is a bloody mansion! They have a fully functional separate two bedroom suite with its own entrance, kitchen, "parlour" and two bathrooms. Of course making my decision to visit, one that may see multiple occurrences over the next year.

Dan started his position with the air ambulance helicopter service last week, and it is apparently been quite the transition. While the basics of paramedic scope and practice are similar, he is finding the orientation and all the local specifics to be quite the learning curve. In many ways I miss the clinical elements of paramedic work, and this position is one I really envy. I have no doubt that after the initial "newness" wears off, Dan will be hitting his full stride and be having a ball.

Karen is planning on adding a once a week entry to the blog, writing on something local and specific to London. She has asked me to put out the word for any suggestions readers may be interested in regarding postings she could write about. So, anything you want to know about London first hand, now is the chance. Leave your suggestions in the comments.

Abercrombie, the Lab / Poodle cross is actually quite the model canine I am finding out. He is more than mannered, is quiet (relatively), and thankfully, is the latest object of Singher's undying affection. So far, so good! Though as I am finding out, walking two dogs this size has proven to be a bit of a unique challenge when doing the old poop and scoop, but I'm learning quickly.  Overall, I have to say that things are going well with two canines in the house, though I am not naive enough to think this is anything but the honeymoon period. A nice way of saying; expect a ranting update sometime soon.

by: Karen Breakspear

No sense in drawing these things out I suppose. What I am referring to is the awkward and painful experience of doing those very unpleasant but personal things that, despite the unpleasantness, still must be done. And what I have to do, both with you here today, and with others very soon, is say goodbye. Because on April 28, one from month today, Danny and the twins and I, will be relocating to London, UK for a year.

Dan, a flight paramedic for the provincial air ambulance service, and Al's former partner before he transferred to research, has applied and been accepted for an exchange program offered by the service here and the shock trauma helicopter program in London. In essence, an exchange of personal for a year, giving each medic invaluable experience in another country, culture and practice environment.

It was a decision we had significant discussion over, and both decided that this is the time, if ever. I have a year left of my leave, and the boys are not yet in school, it seemed crazy not to take the opportunity. So bite the bullet we did. Many of you may recall that London was my home until I left for Canada and university in the early nineties. Being back for a lengthy, but fixed time will allow me to spend as much time as I want with my younger sister Emma, an art therapist for the London school board, and a wonderful friend as well as sister. I will also continue occasionally penning entries for blueAlto. Only this time from across the pond.

And really, all of these things are wonderful and exciting opportunities and I am excited to be doing them. But I am also heartsick. I will have to leave a person who is very central to my life and has been for many years. Al has become, hands down, my best friend, and I am going to completely miss him. I'm not even ashamed to admit that multiple crying jags have been the norm for several days. When I think about what we have been through, together and separate in our seventeen year friendship, the truth is he factors into most, if not all of it.

The death of two very close friends of both of us, Sera and Peter, the ordeal of my robbery and assault, and subsequent trial, a serious but brief health scare for Al, the beginning of my relationship with Dan, a miscarriage, this usually great but occasionally insane blog adventure, and two life altering events for both of us. The birth of my boys, Ben and Lucas, and the unexpected death of Al's beautiful partner, and my good friend, David.

It's been a tough and event filled four years. And in that time, I have come to love, respect more than he can know, and often depend on my smart as a whip, handsome and sexy with a great smile and sick sense of humor, best friend. I am really going to miss you Allan G Rae. You are the best friend anyone could hope for. The fact that several of your friends would agree with my assertion, is not at all a small endorsement.

This is one of the first articles I penned when I began to write online with Al, almost two and a half years ago. It is also the post that I get the most email about; usually asking me to repost it. Well, you asked for it. To the uninitiated, this is simply one of the reasons that I have decided when I return to work after maternity leave, it will be in a decidedly less colorful environment. Originally titled:

Granny Can I Have Some Meth? 

While I make no excuses for being an ardent, unapologetic feminist, I am very aware that there are certain realistic limitations placed upon me professionally by virtue of being female. While certainly these are institutionalized responses, given the type of people I work with, the responses need to be expected somewhat, and then challenged on that level.

Working in the mental health / emergency crisis field, and being what is often refereed to as a "girly" female, is an identity which either works for you, or it doesn't. Because unfortunately, how that plays out is often out of your control. Though normally, you except the rest of the team to follow your lead, not resist it. But alas, I work with police officers.

The way the portrayal of police officers has been molded by the show of a less respectful name is a phenomenon that confuses me, and one that I find oddly fascinating. The few times I have actually been able to stomach sitting through an episode, has been like a blueprint for how to act like a complete jerk and end up in a violent confrontation with the local strung out meth head. That portrayal unfortunately, can often be accurate.

Welcome to my professional world. The following is my experience of this past weekend. It could be considered average in the type of call and client that I routinely see.The incidents described are accurate, though most descriptive elements have been altered somewhat.

09:03 am:

When I hear the address, I know exactly where we are going. Gerrard St. at Parliament. An area that is bordering one of the largest social housing projects in Canada, it is a frequent destination for our team, and usually involves drugs.

The specific address tells me that we are being called for one of three people. The fifteen year old, recent first time mother, who hasn't quite kicked the glue sniffing habit. Or perhaps her father, a 33 year old gay man who has a rather nasty meth habit, though he is recently out of rehab and he hadn't taken to slamming the drug yet, so there is potential hope of him staying clean.

But more than likely,  the call is for his mother, the sixty six year old grandmother with the slamming variety of meth habit. Are you seeing why junior has a less than solid chance of maintaining his sobriety?

By virtue of my role on the crisis team, anytime we are dispatched, it is because there was a 911 call which has not been identified as violent, but may have that potential. A necessarily broad variety of inclusion. Generally, I like to operate on the premise that the call needs to not only stay non violent, but perhaps can be de escalated somewhat.

But as I said, I am a "girly girl" working with cops. Cops who usually feel the need to "protect me". That's usually a really exacting recipe for the call to end with someone in handcuffs.

09:11 am:

We ring the bell at the three generational drug using home, and are greeted by the new mother holding her crying baby. I realize we are in for an interesting call. The mother, thankfully is not high. Her father however is yanking on his flaccid cock watching what looks to be one of those eighties era, "pool boy on the air mattress" gay porno films. The mullets I notice, are ghastly. Grandma, who waddles out of the kitchen in nothing but stretch, purple elastic leggings, and a  gray / beige bra that clearly was neither gray nor beige on purchase, starts in right away.

"He's back on, couldn't last two goddamn fucking days out of rehab. I told him he needs to stay clean for his grand baby. You fucking loser!" She attempts to throw her tea cosey at him, misses, and as she bends down to pick it up, out come her teeth. Turning away, I effectively conceal a smile. This woman is a prize. I rub my finger under my nose and whisper "you missed some" to grandma. How many other jobs can one say that line on almost a daily basis!

"Oh no, I'm clean, I was just trying it out to make sure it isn't bad. The neighbor's is selling it."

"Right. So why are we here"?  I have learned through experience that with these three, questioning needs to be directive with few options. Or else clearly, I'd still be there!

Two days of meth binges, (apparently since leaving the front door of rehab), strange men coming over at all hours having "nasty ass sex" with her son in front of the "sweet grand baby". But the kicker for calling 911 was that all the yelling was giving this lovely matriarch a headache. She was out of Percocet.

Before we decide this is nothing more than a dramatic and circuitous call for pain pills, I want to assess Mr. two days of meth, since if that is accurate, he may very well be experiencing some abnormal cardiac presentations.

I have to confess I have always had a bit of a soft spot for this pathetically addicted young man. He is nothing but polite, always, and he has never been violent.  Though when he is high, he will say everything he can to attempt to shock me. And really, that is all it is.

If Dale my paramedic partner on this call had been the one performing the assessment, the reflexes of the cops would never have been initiated. Instead, when I ask our young, cranked up patient if I can take his blood pressure, he smiles through his toothless mouth and says,

"How about I kick you in your sloppy, cum filled fucking cave I could drive a truck through? Huh?..

Of course he doesn't have time to finish, nor do I have time to give my usual bored, "is that all you can do", since two cops descend on him, with the Sergent saying a patronizing, "Hey now, we have a lady in the room".

"Three ladies" adds gray / beige bra lady.

"I don't know how he could have missed that" says Stuart, one of the best cops I have ever worked with.

Stuart is the one to finally say, "Guys I think it's fair to say she'll be OK if you let the boy live".

The joys of a Sunday at work.

Let me be clear; institutional misogyny and the various offshoots of, are huge issues in academic circles. And while that is a reality that is personally well known to any woman ever to enter graduate studies, the response I give to many of these nerdy windbags is offensively dismissive. Since really, their opinion deserves little else. Welcome to the first edition of Sexist Fun Wednesdays!

I direct your attention to the two teenage girls in the picture below, bottom of the page. Now people, don't let their freshly scrubbed, girl next door looks fool you. You need to be shrewd, you need to read between the lines. Because what those calculating young girls are doing, the little sluts, is nothing less than committing the atrocity which goes unchecked daily in this country. They are blatantly and with a decided fuck you edge, systematically raping the English language.

Or so says the academic nerd David Gelerenet, a fellow with the American Enterprise Institute, a far right think tank where the hoods and white sheets are replaced by polite society connection, Brooks Brothers suits, and class privilege.

We have allowed ideologues to pocket a priceless property and walk away with it. Today, as college students and full-fledged young English teachers emerge from the feminist incubator in which they have spent their whole lives, this victory of brainless ideology is on the brink of becoming institutionalized. If we mean to put things right, we can't wait much longer.

By that quote you would assume that Gelerenet's hand is uncomfortably close to the red button, though it's in the following little snippet where he does a better job than any deconstruction could hope to in identifying the  "I've been wronged by a cold hearted feminist bitch" motivation present in his vitriol. If you can stomach it, the full article is a treat unto itself. Though I was disappointed there was no comment section. No doubt because of all the screaming, horny feminists out to get a hot piece of Gelerenet ass. I know I'd be first in line.

But the real problem goes deeper. Why should I worry about feminist ideology while I write? Why should I worry about anyone's ideology? Writing is a tricky business that requires one's whole concentration, as any professional will tell you; as no doubt you know anyway. Who can afford to allow a virtual feminist to elbow her way like a noisy drunk into that inner mental circle where all your faculties (such as they are) are laboring to produce decent prose? Bargaining over the next word, shaping each phrase, netting and vetting the countless images that drift through the mind like butterflies in a summer garden, mounting some and releasing others--and keeping the trajectory and target always in mind?

Mounting some? Interesting how the dawn of what is clearly WW III has arrived in the form of a skirt that dare assert her right to be addressed by inclusive language. The nerve of that bitch.

 

When my partner Dan and I decided to have children in the spring of 2006, we realized that a vacation for just the two of us would be a long time coming. If we wanted to pick up and go, then was the time.

The picture in the header above   that was in the header above, and is now below this entry was off the coast of southern New Zealand where Dan and I went for two weeks in the summer of 2006, seven months before the twins were born. It was a fantastic holiday in every sense, and we were lucky enough to get several shots of similar quality.

Though you can thank the geography and locale for the beauty more than you can Dan or I, as I left out the shots with thumb prints on the top right corner.

 

Before getting into today's post, I offer a quick update, as well as a small tidbit.

First an update:

Al will be back to full posting on Friday, as at the moment he is part of a larger support circle for a neighbor and friend who are grieving a loss. Many of you know the particulars in this situation and there will be an update on the private site later this afternoon. I'm also pleased to confirm for you, that no, Al has not been arrested, nor has he fled the country.

I mention that, since as of eight am this morning, over fifty of you had asked the question in an email. For the record, and to keep the drama queen vibe at bay, when picking up a friends son from school, a misunderstanding occurred, and for a few short moments Al's responsibility for the child was questioned. His expected supervision was then appropriately confirmed without incident. And then they all went for ice cream! Well okay, I'm not sure if that's true, but really, it was nothing more dramatic than the above.

A Tidbit:

The conclusion to the plagiarism / gay male appropriation story is set to post in the morning on Friday. Having taken a peak I will say that the final response to the situation is both funny in a gut splitting way, and a bit more nuanced than I expected. It is definitely a thoughtful piece.

The comment thread for yesterdays article was interesting. Interesting in the sense that any discussion around the late left wing activist and feminist author Andrea Dworkin, will always contain two elements. One, there will always be misquotes. Andrea Dworkin is the most misquoted author, as well as the most misunderstood feminist author of her time. The second thing that occurs in any discussion about Dworkin and her theories, is a long, detailed and completely inappropriate analysis of her weight, looks and manner of dress.

My intention is not to continue that self defeating discussion here. Instead, we are going with much lighter fare. But first, I'm going to advance the radical concept that maybe Ms. Dworkin selected her fashion choices on what she felt at home and comfortable in, vs. what our media and consumer driven culture had told her she needed to dress up in, so she could be worthy of snagging a man.

Turning the lens back on oneself this time, what is that you wear that gives you the most confidence, or makes you feel sexy, or gives you that grounding comfort of being in your own skin? The outfit that is most quintessentially you, is what I'm looking for here.

I'll go first. If those who know me were asked to describe what they see me in most often, it would have to be something that included long, clingy but never tight skirts, usually worn with sandals, a ballet top, and more often than not, several strands of unique and interesting beads, no doubt purchased from a street vendor in Mexico or somewhere in the craft markets of Toronto. Simple, light, not a lot of fuss, but still something that isn't the female, thirty something daily uniform. That would be the "look" that is most like me.

How about you?

As Al will be tied up for a few days with some recent unexpected events, I will be your ever smiling and good natured blog hostess until his return. A somewhat out of context Julie McKoy, cruise director. Of course mentioning that seventies era TV and pop culture reference of The Love Boat, very quickly dates oneself, when expressed to ones group of nursing students. Students with a median age of no more than twenty two.

While certainly not viewing The Love Boat as a self defining element of my coming of age, hearing the late radical feminist Andrea Dworkin speak at a rally in High Park, was just that. Because one thing that she said hit me like a steam engine, and I knew that from that day forward I would never look back, or change my central identity as feminist. it was an identity that I would come to know and understand in some very deeply experienced ways.

Andrea Dworkin was a lightning rod for feminist controversy. Often espousing opinion that many viewed as suggesting intercourse is a fundamentally anti female construct that could not be separated from rape (that was not the correct interpretation of her opinions), her views were sometimes prohibitively aggressive and radical. I frequently did not, and still do not agree with many of her concepts. But it was in the following example of what she said in a description of what defines one as an anti feminist, that her words spoke to me on profound levels, and at fifteen, made complete sense.

Anti feminism is a direct expression of misogyny: it is the political defense of woman hating. This is because feminism is the liberation movement of women. Anti feminism, in any of its political coloration,holds that the social and sexual condition of women essentially (one way or another) embodies the nature of women, that the way women are treated in sex and in society is congruent with what women are, that the fundamental relationship between men and women — in sex, in reproduction, in social hierarchy — is both necessary and inevitable. Anti feminism defends the conviction that the male abuse of women, especially in sex, has an implicit logic, one that no program of social justice can or should eliminate; that because the male use of women originates in the distinct and opposite natures of each which converge what is called “sex,” women are not abused when used as women — but merely used for what they are by men, as men.

– Andrea Dworkin,

And with that passage, and the hair on my neck standing at attention because of the truth of those words, I became a feminist. How that has personally applied, and on occasion directly challenged me over the past twenty years, I will address in several future entries.

In my last entry I briefly discussed the events surrounding my personal experience with violent crime. I also touched on my decision to seek alternative justice measures for one of my attackers; the same man who I was convinced was largely responsible for preventing his partner in crime from raping me. That was a factor that weighed heavily in my decision to pursue alternate sentencing for this man. The following is a description of how that process played out in my life, the lives of those around me, and Trevor, the young man who was sentenced.

Lest anyone think that avoiding incarceration for this type of crime is a sweet deal that lets the perpetrator's off scott free, I assure you, the reality is very far from that pressumption. Meant to provide an option of rehabilitation while still serving retributive ends, the program is brutal. The following is only some of what Trevor was sentenced to during the three year sentence and two year probation. A one time slip up on any of these conditions, and he would have been sent to jail to complete the remainder of his five year sentence.

Trevor experienced ten months of house arrest, only being allowed to leave his front door once a month, supervised, for three hours to stock up on groceries. A year of community service served as a janitor in the non client areas of a women's domestic violence shelter, a fine of five thousand dollars in cash, mandatory drug and alcohol treatment, mandatory counselling and anger management, compulsory upgrading of his never completed high school diploma or GED, and successful completion of an introductory trades apprenticeship. There was one more condition. A mandatory impact encounter with his victim, where each person, perpetrator and victim, express what the crime, sentencing, and experience of the alternative justice process had been like for them.

Obviously, that last factor included me. Looking back on that now, it is interesting that at the time, I simply dismissed it as something I would deal with when the time came in five years. It was remote, it was in no way relateable, and six years ago, it was easily extractable. For the first four years after sentencing, I hardly thought of the event to come. For the year prior, I thought about it often. And for two months prior to the meeting, I thought of nothing else.

Out of all my friends who I was able to experience support and strength from, Al had been the most consistent, and the strongest. Though we had talked little about it, I realize how intense this experience must have been for him. He was the one to receive my hysterical phone call at four in the morning. He was the one who had to arrive at my apartment, seeing me half naked, bleeding, and inconsolable. And he was the one who had to spend over an hour attempting to pry my terrified and shaking dog Luby, from the closet where she had been hiding. Though he never mentioned it, I know Al struggled with those things. Not surprisingly, he was also the friend who had the most resistance to my decision regarding Trevor.

Though the one thing that stood out for me in this very strange scenario, even though he had huge problems resigning my decision around Trevor, Al never expressed that to me beyond an initial statement, albeit in no uncertain terms, that he felt it was a bad idea. It's interesting, we share a unique relationship in regards to the experience of reciprocity. For both of us, it is fundamental to our friendship. Being able to offer unstated respect, support, and most importantly, autonomy, in allowing the other to make the decisions that they know are right for them, without an interfering or medaling hand.  

So it was with his clear duality around the situation that I invited Al to the impact encounter. He accepted the invitation on the condition that if he felt he needed to express something, then that would be his decision, no matter what the content of his statement. Of course there was no way I could say no to that. Therefore, on a beautiful spring day in May of 2005, deep within the Metropolitan Toronto Police Department Headquarters, myself, Al and a court social worker, came face to face with a man who had been instrumental in the only violent crime and attempted rape I had been victim to in my entire life.

When Trevor walked in the room and met my eyes, every emotion, every fear, and every resentment I had carried since the attack came hurtling to the surface, spilling into the room in a torrent of anger, screaming, and overwhelmed energy. I surprised everyone with the outburst; though none more than myself.

Than it was Trevor's turn. Never deviating his eyes, tears flowing down his cheeks, he spoke for a full twenty minutes. What I heard was the voice of a man who was truly sorry, who never once used his deplorable background and horrible childhood as an excuse for his crime. He took full responsibility for everything that occurred, and then he offered a clearly painful and obviously guilt ridden apology to me, and to Al, who he had never seen before, for the incident that had occurred that July day three years earlier.

There are only a few moments that I can recall very viscerally from that day. One was the anger that I unleashed when I first laid eyes on Trevor. The other was when, at the end of the session, I crossed the room and embraced him, telling him that I forgive him, and asking him to please do the same for himself. That experience really was the first time I had been able to position that event of three years earlier, squarely in the past. I was very grateful for the opportunity.

Today, Trevor has successfully completed his sentence. He has also completed both AA and CMA (crystal meth anonymous), and acts as a sponsor in the AA program. He has received his GED, has graduated from a college certificate program in computers, and holds a part time job at the recreation center where Al sits on the community board. Indecently, Al was the one who hired Trevor. I think it is fair to say that whatever misgivings he had, they are now in the past.

I understand many will not view this event in the light that I chose to. And I understand that. But if that is your experience, please ask yourself this: If Trevor had been incarcerated for the five years he spent in the alternative justice program, what would his current reality be? Because one thing is clear, it would be a measurably different reality than is his today.

For those of you who have read what I contributed to Al's old site, you no doubt recall the events I write about today. Given the focus of the entry yesterday, as well as the news today from the CDC that suggest a full quarter of American women will suffer domestic violence, I thought today was an especially timely date for this entry to be revisited. 

I offer this experience to you as a cautionary tale. One that women will recognize in the form of our hindered general mobility, a point Doralong refereed to in the comments section yesterday. That is something that in our culture, is due to the ever present, yet just under the radar, threat of rape and sexual violence. These are things uniquely experienced by women. One of the things I intend with this entry, is to get you thinking about just such a dynamic. Because, as scary as it is, it happened to me.

Six years ago, on a hot July night, I remember my air conditioner was on the fritz. Therefore the door to my second story balcony was open to allow the breeze to flow through the apartment. What woke me up initially was actually my dog Luby whining from the door. Having been a pound dog, Luby was quite the nervous girl, so this was considered the norm. I recall thinking she appeared very scared as I approached her. And that, is when it all went black.

What couldn't have been more than ten minutes later, I was strapped to my four post bed, in bra, panties, and nothing else. My forehead was wet with the blood that had been caused by the vase used to strike me. At thirty two years old, I had never been attacked, sexually assaulted, or even struck violently during what until now, had been my entire life. I was still foggy, and wasn't sure what was occurring, though the two Native Canadian males in my bedroom, going through my drawers and jewelry collections, clearly were looking for some good bank.

These men would frequently pull out small plastic baggies of crystal meth, and do several lines. Mentally, I calculated my situation and weighed the options. Not only was I dealing with criminals, I was now dealing with nervous, anxious, drug users, cooked up to a point that offered a potential for just about anything. In what was one of my darkest moments of the night, the older more muscular of the two, the same one who had not stopped learning at me, approached the bed, got on top of me, cupped my breasts in his hands, and shoved his booze and cigarette tasting tongue down my throat. When he said what I quote below, deep inside of myself a tiny part of the woman I was died.

"I haven't decided whether to dirty my fucking tool with your cunt juice yet, but if I do, you better damn well make it look like you're enjoying it bitch".

I remember trying very hard to tell myself, "it is just the mechanics of sex, it doesn't mean anything, at least I'm still alive, Christ this can't be happening, why doesn't Luby fucking bite him, should I scream, hit, punch, cry....". I also recall attempting to count the number of small prints on a paisley Laura Ashley skirt that was hanging on the door. Anything to remove and abstract myself from what was about to occur.

And just before the older of the two was going to force himself into me, his partner in crime called out from the hallway:

"What was that, I think I heard something"

To this day I maintain the reason I was not brutally raped that night, was due to the second criminals specific attempt to distract him. When he met my eyes, it was with a level of clear empathy.

I know that sounds very strange, but let's face it, being tied to your bed half naked and robbed blind is not a common occurrence either. So to me, it made sense. It was shortly after the younger of the two heard his "noises" that they finished robbing me blind and left. As if to confirm what I already knew, the younger man mouthed "stay quiet until we are gone" under his breath. And I did just that.

Two hours later I had struggled out of the ropes and, head and wrists still bleeding and beginning to bruise, the full weight of the event solidified itself in my mind. I called Al at four in the morning, completely hysterical. He was amazing and calmly came right over, took me to the hospital for a cat scan, and called the police so they could come to the ER and take a statement.

Two days later was when the younger of my two attackers turned himself into police, asking for help. While he had a rap sheet a mile long, he had never in his life committed a violent crime before. He knew he was in trouble with drugs and his life was spinning out of control, fast.

So when the crown prosecutor approached me two weeks later and asked if I'd be willing to pursue alternate justice measures with the younger of the two, I surprised myself by not saying no. I sat on it, agonized about it for three days, and then I phoned the crown, telling them that for the younger of the two men, I would not seek an institutional solution to this event. I learned over the next several months, that involved owning my part in the responses of others to what many perceived as an injustice I perpetuated.

While sounding oddly co dependent, as ownership, partial or otherwise, of another feelings is just strange, in this case I had taken it on for many reasons. While my attack was carried out due in part with an end motive of financial gain, and in part out of a reaction to three days worth of crystal meth abuse, it still needs to be seen in the context of our culture. A culture that has a clear duality in how it experiences the issue of violent crime. And that duality lands squarely on the disparity of how men and women experience violent events.

In Canada in 2007. women are nine times more likely to be killed  by a partner. Women are six times more likely to experience sexual assault at the hands of an attacker than a man. Telling also, criminals are seven times more likely to see a reduced sentence if they attack a woman instead of a man. But I think the most oppressive dynamic to do with violence against women in our culture, is in the silencing of our voices by ignoring, invalidating, and denying women the right to speak our truth.

When I made a decision to pursue alternative justice measures for one of my attackers, the above was not lost on me. Far from it. Four years prior to this event, I was a twenty seven year old woman, working on her masters degree in the advanced practice program for community mental health nursing. My undergraduate degree had been women and gender studies at Trent University. For those Americans out there, Trent would be considered Canada's Berkley. So this decision was not made by someone who had just never really thought about these issues. They were made by a self described 3'rd wave, sex positive, radical feminist.

So quite simply, I had to realize that any concerns one has over my decision in this area, are fully justified. I am actually thankful, in an odd way, when a woman challenges me on this issue, since the expected cultural response would be to say how empathetic and nurturing I was. When a woman confronts me on this, as long as the daggers aren't out in full force, I always defer to her feelings on the issue first, then I calmly explain mine.

My decisions to pursue this avenue were multiple and complex, but one of the more vivid reasons I often mention, is that clear and very ironic benefit provided by having the younger man (his name was Trevor) in the room. While my other attacker was making up his mind whether or not I was hot enough for him to rape, Trevor clearly stopped that situation from progressing by "hearing a noise" in the hall, thus raising panic bells in the other attackers mind, so he would continue his focus on robbing me blind. Instead of raping me. This occurred at least three times, and as I've indicated, each time it was clear to me that the responsibility for my fate was taken on by Trevor.

The other factor that helped in my decision to avoid incarceration, was what I knew of the criminal justice system. As a mental health crisis nurse, I work on a team with both a paramedic, and a police officer. I am very familiar with all elements of the underworld of crime. From the tragic, born out of inequity and poverty, to the completely amoral sociopath, I've seen it all, and sometimes more.

Trevor had never committed a violent crime before. Through my contacts at the department, I was able to gain access to his history. This truly was a young man who had been, in many ways, a victim of the system. Please realize, I may be a liberal, but I don't toss that sentiment around lightly. Sexually abused since he was a toddler, fetal alcohol syndrome, drug addiction, were just a few of the issues. I am not attempting to play the criminal as victim card. Instead, I offer that in many ways, those were the maladaptive responses to survival by a very damaged young man.

Ironically, the final decision for me was one born out of my philosophy of feminist identity. As a feminist, I have an obligation to be critical of, and hold fully accountable, institutional responses setup to "protect me". As our culture has a history of many times doing just the opposite where women, children and other minorities are concerned. As a feminist, I hold as a common value an end to all forms of oppressive inequity placed on the minority by the dominant culture. I was convinced that by pursuing an incarceration option for a disadvantaged, uneducated, addicted young Native Canadian male, I would clearly be adding to that cycle just to satisfy my want of revenge. Which, let me tell you, was clearly present.

Today when I look at Trevor, I see a young man who was ultimately helped and given a chance. One that worked. If I had taken the option of going the other route, where would he be? In prison and punished, yes, but ultimately when we let him out, how much better off are we? Well, statistics show, we are worse.

In closing, please let me make clear that it is a high priority for myself to never infer that because I decided on this option, that must be the preferred one for another. A victim of violent crime, is a victim of violent crime. The options available to him / her are there because they need to be. And the power inherent in the ability to be a part of the direction of sentencing is one I fully support, no matter which options are chosen. 

Thank you for reading this essay. It references one of the scariest times in my life. But in the end, it also represents what I feel is one of the best things I have ever done in my thirty seven years of life.

Well he's been pestering me long enough, so I decided it was about time to actually write something, and not just repeat my usual refrain of "I'll get to it". So consider this the first entry of what Al has sarcastically named the "Not another mommy blog" files.

And by the way, he is wrong. Thankfully, this will not become another mommy blog. Though I suppose in my explanation of who I am, "mommy" would tie in to the definition, as I am the proud mother of twin boys who celebrated their first birthday December 1, 2007.

For those who know me, or those who have read my writing previously, this has sometimes been a definition that has caused them slight discomfort. As I have previously been known to answer the question of  "do I like children" with a tersely executed "yes, when they are someone else's".

Fear not. My identity as a strange combination of a third wave / sex positive / radical feminist has not been forever tarnished by the addition of leaky boobs that feed hungry, oddly shaped, little male people. If anything, this new role has put a nice emphasis on my belief that feminism is a personal philosophy, as well as a social movement with a theory base that has many forms. At its best, feminism manifests as an intensely personal combination of how women individually choose to know their female selves, and in turn honor that identity in their lives.

Still not entirely sure how my writings here will shape up, or how often I will post. At the moment I''m aiming for once a week, discussing the not so wildly divergent topics of motherhood, feminism, advanced practice nursing, my alternate identity as "Grace" to many "Wills", and random snippets of a life that attempts to integrate all of the above.

And while I work on my bio page that Al insists I have (sometimes he can be rather controlling, only child thing I suppose), here is a brief introduction to who I am.

My name is Karen. and I am:

• partner to a man so wonderful I sometimes think he must be gay.
• mother to Benjamin and his younger by a minute brother, Lucas.
• feeder and shit picker upper to Abercrombie, a Lab / Poodle (Laboodle) puppy.

Four frequently asked questions about the feminist thing:

• Third Wave: I identify as a committed feminist of the third wave, in that I believe women's concerns need to always involve race, gender, orientation and class, either directly or how they are managed ethically.
• Sex Positive: I would call myself sex positive because I don't believe that there is anything at all  that is dirty or wrong about sex. Sex, sexual culture, or sexually based images and art are not, in and of themselves, inherently anti female. I think often the way they are created, marketed, and the culture that consumes them, are what creates the negative issues that plague our sexual culture.
  
• Radical: I use good old radical feminism in the definition because radical, in classical definition, is to get at the root. In the case of sexism, the root is clear. A patriarchal culture which is set up to reward itself on the continued dominance, subjugation and sexual exploitation of women. To be frank, I don't want a place at that table. I want to throw it over, and spill its rotting contents on the floor. If that's radical, I embrace the definition.
• "Fucking Man Hater". Do I hate men? Are you kidding? Boy crazy since the playpen days, I could never hate men. However the ones who assume my lack of a penis renders me inherently less human, when compared to their shining maleness, are the ones I have no time for. To those whom it applies, they will normally find that out very quickly, with no verbal effort from me. If only looks could kill.
  

In my professional life:

• I have a BA from Trent University in women & gender studies.
• I have found that employment as a feminist theorist sucks, and pays marginally better than a career saying "do you want fries with that". Therefore I ended up going back to school and gaining a BScN in nursing from Ryerson Institute.
• I have let Al's never ending life as a student rub off on me, going back to school yet again, this time gaining my MSN  in community and mental health nursing from the University of Toronto.
• I have worked as a crisis nurse for the Toronto Police Department’s mobile crisis team. I can tell you to please put the knife down in no less than five languages.
  
• I have worked as an AIDS / HIV activist and advocate for the Toronto PWA foundation and the former ACT UP London UK, and Toronto chapters. In this area, I need to write a book. It would be a long one.
  

What you can’t tell from this short bio:

• I am in my mid thirties.
• I have a personal style that is a cross between a San Francisco bohemian in sandals and peasant skirts, and a Burberry clad London Sloan Ranger. On rare occasions I have been known to be a girly girl who’s not afraid to show some skin, toss her hair, and otherwise tease the patriarchy.
• I would be independently wealthy had my hair not realized a lifetime of Aveda products.
• There is just no way to say this delicately; apologies in advance. The first time I met Al, as well as my current partner Dan, was fifteen years ago in an elevator. One which we shared with two appropriately gussied up transvestite prostitutes. One could say it was an awkward moment when one of the prostitutes, through a little accidental gas, lost the remnants of her last professional encounter, in a sticky glob, all over the floor. To relieve the awkward moment, I asked them for drinks (Al and Dan, not the prostitutes).
• The rest as they say, is history.
  

More to come soon.

Considering that George (curiousg) got into town this evening, and I am going to be busy playing host to corrupting his virtue in gay town, I will leave you with this entry that Karen has written, and has been on my back asking me to post it. Now seems as good a time as any.

When I went  to Vancouver last spring, I asked Karen to stay at the condo and watch Singher for a few days. Because of this, she of course thinks she has the inside goods on the fact that I spoil my dog. Whatever. Here's her two part  entry, and yes it is funny. And no I don't spoil my dog!

Please pray for George. He is going to need it.

*** 

Oh the things I get myself into. I've often stayed at Al's place when he and David were away etc. but not until this time did I notice just how utterly spoiled that dog is. Just in case there is any doubt, let me share  the note that greeted myself, the twins, and my still a puppy mangy mutt when we arrived to house sit.

Hi Karen,

Thanks for taking care of the apartment while we're gone, I appreciate it. We are at my cousins where I can be reached at until Monday night. Back late on Wednesday night. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge. There's left over chicken jalapeno chili, it's amazing.

In terms of Singher, she's pretty low maintenance. Just a few considerations:

1. Be careful of the insane female cop down the hall with the bad dye job,and ugly bob. She appears harmless, with her fake little smile and whiny, squeaky voice. About a month ago Singher chased her stupid fucking cat Swikens, and "traumatized it". You'd think poor Singher brutally sodomized a new asshole into the little shit for the looks David and I get anytime we see cop lady in the hall now. I swear to God, one day her head is going to explode and she'll go completely postal.
2. Singher goes for her walk at 9 am, 5 pm, and 11 pm. Usually poops at 9 and 5, not 11.
3. When you first go out the front doors, hold on tight, as she makes a bee line for the fountain, and is fascinated with the fish. Don't be surprised if she dives in, she has on occasion.
4. You may need to go in and get her, so I'd hold the leash tight to make sure she doesn't go in.
5. Her food is under the sink. All you do is add a cup of water, let it sit for two minutes. It's dehydrated buffalo, cranberry, grapefruit, and flax seed. she normally eats at 9 am and 5 pm, after her walks. For the 5 pm meal she gets a treat for desert. Doggy ice cream is in the freezer; it's an organic soy product made for dogs. Feel free to give one to Abercrombie.
6. Bed time is whenever you go, and she will most likely be okay wherever Abercrombie decides to sleep, though with us, she usually curls around our heads on the top of the pillows. Be warned!
7. Before bed we normally wind her down by playing one of her favorite videos, either Benji, or the documentary on wild horses. If she gets anxious and starts to whine, don't worry, she does that all the time. She'll be totally engrossed, and after half an hour she'll go right to sleep.
8. Anything else, feel free to call.

Thanks Karen, this really helped us out. See you Wednesday.

Al

Day 2 

I suppose I shouldn't complain, Singher is a great dog, and she was actually fine. And yes, it only took Singher two viewings of the horse documentary, and Benji to fall fast asleep. Well, not exactly Benji; it was For The Love Of Benji: Americas favorite dog goes to Greece. What a riveting, entertaining cinematic undertaking that must have been. As per Al's note, the whining began almost immediately and didn't end until the still photograph of Benji faded to black at the end of the movie.

Not to be left out, Abercrombie my Lab / Poodle cross, perfected his whining, cocking of the head, and feigned interest, all in some attempt to impress his older canine fantasy. However it was to no avail. Abercrombie may be cute, but he's no competition for that mutt Benji. Though the best part of our animal themed movie nights, was that the boys couldn't go to sleep with the two expressive canines. Therefore I had my hands full with cranky little twin male people, both mornings.

As much as I complain, I suppose I really must thank Singher. As when the dogs were playing around the fountain, that infamous bunny that loves to terrorize Singher darts past. As expected, Al's dog of course follows with a torrent of "I'm tougher than you bunny" barks. And much to my surprise and delight, so does Abercrombie! I bet you're thinking "surprise and delight from a dog barking, you don't get out much do you Karen"?

Yes I do happen to get out thank you, but I was ecstatic because it was the first time I ever heard my four month old puppy bark. Not sure if it was a hearing issue, or stunted development, but Dan and I were beginning to worry about the lack of vocalization. I can say after a day and a half of Abrercrombie "finding his voice", there's nothing to be worried about.