Consequences

Harrison’s Corners is a cluster of homes at an intersection of roads that go nowhere in particular—save for maybe St. Andrews West, where Simon Fraser—the explorer of BC fame—settled and was buried after his rambling days were done.

My buddies’ homes were scattered along roughly two kilometres of County Road 18, straddling the Corners. My house was on the eastern end. At any time of year, a gaggle of 12 and 13- year-olds could reliably be found roaming back and forth on our 10-speeds, singing badly at the top of our lungs, weaving carelessly in and out lanes on the nearly deserted roads. Just hackin’ around.

There was this one house just west of the Corners. It was lined with tall, mature spruce trees. So tall, so mature, and so densely planted, you could not see the house behind it from the roadway. A bad dog lived there. A fierce and mean beast. The fear was present every time I passed, even when the dog didn’t appear.

My fear was confirmed regularly enough. Suddenly from the gap in the spruce, a big black and grey ball of fury hurtled out the driveway—snarling and snapping even as it drew near. Ready for the encounter, I was already moving at a good clip. But when I saw the dog, adrenalin kicked in, my butt lifted out of the saddle, and I pedalled desperately. I was sure that I would be torn to bits if I let up, even a little. At times, the animal came close enough to see pure, white-hot hostility in its black eyes and pearl-white snarl.

I hated that dog. And I hated the invisible neighbours who allowed this dog to terrorize passersby. I was nipped a few times. Nothing serious. But it was the constant fear when I passed by that I remember hating— never knowing what the next encounter would bring. Yet, there would always be a next encounter. There was nothing I could do about that.

My 12-year-old brain dreamed about the terrible end I would bring upon this beast. But the less murderous part of my brain learned to accept the fear. And pedal faster.

Fifty years later, I still feel a seething hatred for that dog welling up when I think about that spruce-lined yard.

I was reminded of this cold, dark feeling this week. A TikTok video appeared on my Twitter thread. It featured a large man, 6 foot, two-ish, 250 pounds, weathered ball cap, woolly beard, wife-beater shirt and sagging jeans. He approaches a woman working behind a counter, demanding to know where Chrystia Freeland is. (The locale was the City Hall in Grande Prairie, Alberta. Freeland grew up in Peace River, about 200 km away. She was in town to talk to farmers and businesses about the shortage of skilled labour.)

The big man is hostile. Menacing. Potentially dangerous. Then his partner (with the camera) spots the Deputy Prime Minister striding through the lobby about 20 feet away. Freeland is with three other women. The big man swings around and yells out her name. She stops to greet the caller. Instantly she recognizes this man as a threat, then proceeds into the elevator. She has seen this posture, this fury, this snarl before.

The man unleashes a tirade of profanities and abuse upon the Deputy Prime Minister before the elevator door closes. The big man is ushered out of the building, all bravado and false courage. He and his colleagues celebrate his brutish and ugly behaviour before someone has the good sense to shut off the camera.

There must be consequences. We cannot simply move on from this.

I am a devout proponent of free speech. Words aren’t violence. But violence is violence. Intimidation in the form of an angry 6-foot brute is violence, especially when he is barking at a woman working behind a counter. Yelling obscenities while chasing women into an elevator is threatening behaviour. It must have consequences.

No one—not the woman behind the counter in Grande Prairie’s City Hall, not the Deputy Prime Minister, nor the three women retreating into the elevator with her—should be made to feel this fear. Ever. Yet, it is clear from their expressions that they have seen this before. Too many times.

And, of course, women bear the brunt of this behaviour more than men—yet we have all known fear. We know how it feels, how it tastes. We know it diminishes us, that it nurtures terrible revenge fantasies. We have all encountered the irrational, loathsome beast—whether in encounters in traffic to the vicious mutt in the house behind the spruce trees.

Yet, we cannot reduce this episode to a “teaching” opportunity. Or a sweeping public debate about the scourge of social media. This thug in Grande Prairie and his accomplices understood what they were doing. They knew his physical mass, hostile demeanour, and snarling behaviour was threatening. They counted on it. They celebrated it.

There must be consequences. Or we will see more of it.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca