For Your Own Good

Do you hate it when someone tells you that something that you really don’t want to happen, or to have, is for your own good? So do I. And I will tell you why. Because whenever someone tells you that you can bet the house that the good they are speaking of is their own, and your health and welfare and over all well-being don’t have one blessed thing to do with it. Case in point, the women of Saudi Arabia have launched their first effort since 1990 to try and secure the right to drive an automobile. Saudi Arabia is a patriarchal country that makes my Irish Catholic (wait strike the Irish part because the Irish are notoriously matriarchal) upbringing look profoundly feminist. The Saudis strictly interpret the whole “woman in her place (two steps behind I am told) thing”, and women are forbidden to drive based on this skewed point of view. All women. Muslim or not. A woman is a woman is just a sperm receptacle in Saudi Arabia. Saudi men see this, or so they say, as a safety issue. Women and children are safer being driven by men. However, drivers there, whether they are public taxi drivers or private chauffeurs, tend to be foreigners who are, according to Saudi women, notorious for harassing the women and children they are transporting. Which brings me back to my original point. The “good” part of “for your own good” is not about protecting someone. It’s about maintaining something, usually control, and in the case of Saudi Arabian women it is about maintaining control of them by restricting their movement.

But it’s not just Islamic men. The male gender just about anywhere, sometimes aided and abetted by some of the dumbest females I try my best to avoid, spend a good deal of time and energy coming up with ways to protect women from themselves. In my native country of the United States this kind of paternalism takes the shape of groups who oppose reproductive rights from access to abortions to contraceptives. Even with Roe V. Wade, access to abortion, even in the case of medical emergencies has never been so sparse and the ability to purchase legally prescribed contraception from the birth control pill to emergency day after contraception like Plan B is equally in danger. And it’s for our own good. Adult women in the United States must be protected from the “dangers” of these things. The only danger however is to the status quo. As fewer and fewer women have litters of children and more and more put off having children all sorts of things are occurring that is changing the playing field. Most notably is that more women are on playing fields that traditionally they couldn’t access before. The bottom line is that there is no better way to control women than to deny them the right to regulate their own reproductive systems. Being eternally knocked up is better than foot-binding for keeping women in their place.

But it’s not just whole genders that are kept in line. Governments use the “for our good” line to perpetrate all manner of suppressive acts. The Bush Administration, with the blessing of Republican congressional representatives suspended Habeas Corpus to protect Americans from terrorists even while it allows them to imprison “dissident” citizens without warning, without cause, without trial and seemingly without end. In Canada the government of Quebec is attempting to suppress its Islamic population by forcing its women to unveil before being allowed to vote. This is similar to the recent Indiana law in the U.S. requiring photo I.D. for all voters. It is to prevent fraud but the only fraud is that of governments who hide their true motives behind their concern “for the good of the people”.

In the workplace, this hypocrisy takes the shape of wellness programs for employees. Recently back home the government decided to allow employers to charge higher payroll deductions to employees with high cholesterol, over the limit BMI’s or to people who smoke. It is for the good of the employees they say, but the bottom line of the companies and their shareholders is the primary motivation.

For my own good I have been sold a lot of what I now recognize as self-serving crap over the course of my life. It is a shame that I listened to so much of it and more of a shame that I actually followed some of the advice at different times. We are the arbiters of our own good. Skepticism should always be the approach of choice when someone approaches you, or imposes on you, anything that is supposedly good for you.


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Happy Anniversary, Baby.

Although I was recently reminded that I have been widowed for less than two years and only married again for about five minutes, I want to take a moment to recognize my wonderful husband, Rob, and be grateful for our life together and bask in the glow of our love and happiness for all the world (a small world indeed as there are but a few loyal readers here) to see.

While it’s true that this is just the third month of our damn long time together, and just ten months since we met, all journeys have to begin somewhere. And, every new beginning, to borrow a line from the group Semisonic, comes from some other beginnings end.

Happy Anniversary, my lover. Je t’aime.

Homeroom Mom

I volunteered to help make apple pie with Katy’s kindergarten class today. There are nineteen kids in her room on days when the all day children are there. There were four adults. The teacher, her husband who took the day off to help out, another mother and myself. We weren’t greatly out-numbered and yet when Katy and I got home after not quite three hours of non-stop apple related and pie-making activities, I was ready for bed. This full time mom gig is not for the out of shape, the sleep deprived or those short on patience. Of which, I can be any or all of the above depending on the day or the week or the time of the month.

It is full moon. The time of the month when children, animals and people inclined towards being a pain in the butt crank the volume up to eleven. If I were teaching, I would have known it was full moon when I walked into the school building today, but my old supervisor was right about how little time it takes to forget nearly everything you ever learned about kids and their ways. Still, I can be forgiven. I was not an elementary teacher. Certainly my only experience with five year olds consists of nephews, nieces and the children of friends. And now, of course, my own little girl. Kindergartners do not have the pack mentality of their older academic brethren. They do not look for weakness. They do not misbehave for effect. But what they lack in cunning they make up for in energy.

The activity was a good one and I found myself missing my old profession quite a bit. There was nothing like teaching a great lesson to a receptive audience. Nothing like imparting knowledge and seeing the lights come on. Katy’s teacher is very good at keeping things moving and teaching to the moment. Kids are actively engaged and even the little ones who you can tell are going to become more and more difficult to manage and engage over time were tuned in and on task.

Katy was so proud to have me there. The last two years in Montessori I was seldom able to get off work for field trips and was never able to volunteer in the classroom. Her former school was made up of primarily two parent families. Single parent needs weren’t considered when it came to planning much of anything. Now that I have the time, I am seeing just how much of an advantage children with a stay at home parent has.

Tomorrow there is a field trip to the nearby park to look at trees and leaves and all the signs of the fall and coming winter. Katy is thrilled that I will be coming along even if it does mean she will miss riding the bus home for a second day. Nice to know I am more important than riding the yellow school bus. I expect to be dead ass tired again tomorrow afternoon, but it is a good kind of tired.

My First Fiction Submission

The Edmonton Journal is sponsoring a writing contest for the next eight weeks. The author, Thomas Wharton, will write the first and last chapters and readers are invited to continue the story by submitting chapters they have written. The first installment of what may end up a published novel, Murder on the North Saskatchewan, appeared in the Saturday edition with subsequent chapters to be published on the following Saturdays until the story is completed. Submissions have to be in by Tuesday of each week and writers are allowed to win at least twice, but not in a row. I don’t write mysteries, or at least I haven’t since I was in fifth grade. I don’t even like to read crime/detective style stories anymore which is odd because I was a huge fan of The Hardy Boys, Encyclopedia Brown in grade school and then Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen as I got older. But, the chance to be published was too big a siren call to pass up, and I admit the $500 prize moved me a bit too.

I started the second chapter Saturday night and thought about it on and off during the day on Sunday while we were in the city to visit the zoo and run errands. Rob very helpfully drove me around the area where the first chapter takes place because as a newcomer here its hard for me to write convincingly about the setting. Last night I spent a couple of hours hammering out my first draft only to find it was 143 words too long. Word counts can be maddening but there is nothing like have to lose a few dozen sentences to force a writer to get to the point without losing the substance.

So, below is my second chapter of Murder on the North Saskatchewan. You can use the link to read the first chapter before reading it. Let me know what you think. I emailed it this morning and I am very excited!

Murder on the North Saskatchewan - Chapter Two

"I'm a professional investigator," Emmy corrected him and immediately felt stupid for doing so because apparently her surveillance hadn't gone unobserved.
Bert chuckled, "Feisty. I like that in a girl dick."
Emmy didn't know whether to be insulted or merely disdainful of his Albertan redneck sexism. Flashing him a cool eye of contempt, she squirted her wayward quarry square in the face. He staggered gamely backward a few stiff steps before toppling straight back onto the parking lot pavement. Emmy quickly shoved the pepper spray into her bag and scrambled to assist him,lying flat on his back with arms and legs flailing. Fleetingly Emmy noted how much he looked like the turtle Chelsea had when she was eight that never could stay right side up and met an untimely end in the garbage disposal.
As Emmy bent down to help Bert, he awkwardly rolled onto all fours and crawled away from her outstretched arms.
"Get away from me," he snarled, rubbing at his eyes.
"Oh, don't do that," she cautioned him too late as the rubbing elicited a string of expletives.
She glanced about the near empty parking lot, not for help but to make sure that no one was watching. By the time the EPS had finished taking statements from the passengers, even the news reporters from the various local stations had packed up and left. The only evidence of the night's events were the police tape cordoning off the riverboat, and a banner proclaiming the ill-fated opening of the casino boat's maiden voyage. Guiltily Emmy tentatively approached the now partially righted Bert, sitting on the nearby curb he had crawled to, back held at a painful angle and using the hem of his shirt to dab ineffectively at his eyes. He looked up when he sensed her nearing. Even in the dim light coming from the streetlamps on 98th Ave, Emmy could see that his eyes were as red as the sunset earlier that evening. He held up a large, powerful looking hand to halt her approach. Though it was clear that he was greatly hampered by the apparent injury to his back, it was also obvious to her that he was a very strong man. Biceps bulged perceptively. Despite his receding hairline, slightly graying close cropped beard, and gimped back, he was a still a young man.
"Don't come any closer," he told her through gritted teeth. "I have had about all I care to take from anyone in the employ of the late, and sure to be unlamented, Brian Fulton."
"I was hired by Ixion Construction," Emmy corrected him, puzzled by his assumption that the murdered man had employed her.
Bert laughed. "You are green."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Didn't they teach you in correspondence school to check the background of your employer before taking a job? Just to cover your pretty little bum?"
Emmy flushed. "It was an Internet course. Through MacEwan if you must know. Very reputable." But even as she spoke she was remembering something that Jack had told her. "Everyone is a suspect, Em. A good investigator gathers facts because there ain't no such thing as a completely innocent party. They all have motives and things to hide. Even the victims."
"I thought as much," Bert grunted. "Not that I owe you a thing. Especially after the pepper bath. But Fulton was a silent partner in Ixion. His ex's cousin may own it on paper, but he fronted the cash."
Emmy stored the information for further rumination and asked, "So you came here tonight to confront him?"
Bert shook his head. "I came here tonight to remind ole Bullrider of a few facts."
"Facts?"
"That are none of your business, lady," he retorted and with a mighty heave pushed himself up onto his feet.
Even though she was standing a good ninety centimeters from him she still took an involuntarily step back. Bert Gombrick was tall and quite imposing. Emmy entertained just the briefest thought about whether or not he looked as good unclothed as he did in dark blue jeans and white button down shirt before regaining her composure. Defiantly stood her ground, meeting this angry blood-shot pale blue eyes with her own stormy grays.
"I'll tell the police what I saw."
He smiled grimly. "Go ahead."
"You wouldn't care? I saw you arguing with Fulton shortly before he turned up....and over the paddle wheel of his own boat."
"I'd care. It would be inconvenient, but I have nothing to hide. I was off that boat before it left the dock, and I can prove it."
Emmy couldn't tell if he was bluffing. Jack had always told her that a good liar "feels more fair than foul...to borrow from Tolkien....the less likely to be mistaken for an angel, the more likely you can believe them."
As she was thinking, Bert limped by her towards his truck. She silently watched him leave. After he disappeared towards the legislature, she climbed into the van. She didn't feel quite the failure she had. He may have known all about her, but it wasn't because he'd spotted her. He'd been told. And that didn't make any sense at all. "When something doesn't make sense, go back to the beginning." That was Jack's motto, and despite the fact that Jack was a prize-winning boob, Emmy knew that she was being played. She was supposed to be on the Edmonton Queen tonight. Just like Bert Gombrick was supposed to know he was being tailed by a private investigator working for Brian Fulton. The question was, why? Emmy pulled out of the lot and headed for the High Level Bridge. Since the divorce she and Chelsea had been staying in a tiny rented house near the University of Alberta. Tomorrow she would start at the beginning, Ixion Construction and Steven Hollis, the man who had hired her. Tonight, she needed a shower and a beer.