The Dashing Chronicles: Hate is so attractive
- Winston McLean | August 07, 2014
Broken Brothers and Sisters and Bingo-Winged Bigots
You may have come to this edition of the Chronicles expecting more about men's health. You are about to be disappointed. I got something I got to get off my chest.
So I am stopped at a red light on one of Saskatchewan's most beautiful cities - and, no, it's not Cupar - when crossing the street are two of the brothers.
Their skin is darkened from far too many hours in the sun, clothes wrinkled from having been slept in the night before, though smoothed out, all traces of leaves and dust brushed away though a hint remains.
Their faces glisten too much, perhaps from too much of the cheaper brand of refreshments they drank, perhaps to help them celebrate waking this side of the ground for at least one more day. I don't know.
The lad in front held his head up and a hint of a weary smile was on his face, as though there was hope ahead, perhaps around the corner where a family member or friend could lend a hand. Maybe even a place to stay.
The fella bringing up the rear was taller, thinner. The head he carried was much lower, and though I could not see his eyes I knew the asphalt stones he stared into were giving him no answers. It was the look of defeat.
I knew at once these young men were lost. Not in the geographic sense, but at the emotional and spiritual level. They were no danger to anyone except to their own livers. In fact, the sense that swept over me was that these were decent enough guys who were quietly desperate, having been displaced, misplaced and forgotten.
Had circumstances been different, one of these kind blokes could had it in him to have found the cure to cancer. Or written a better story line for Star Wars Part I - The Phantom Menace. Or he could have raised the next P.K. Subban.
My mind, being the way it is, immediately swung over to why they landed here, drifting on the streets nearby the river.
To my mind the story would begin somewhere with their parents or grandparents or ancestors, the residential schools, or some other crushing government policy.
Other possible reasons drifted through my skull when the attention of my brain thingy is drawn to the woman in the car next to me. The venom on her face. Wow!
Fully decked out in her judgement ready bright green blouse this woman of at least fifty is clenching the steering wheel with all the might her flabby arms could muster.
Her bingo-winged arms were shaking so much I thought she might take flight. Was it my imagination? Was there spit oozing out of the corner of her mouth?
Hate. It is so attractive.
I brought this vision to the attention of some of the finer members of Dirk's Board when one of the bigger members mentioned an interesting fact.
To this day, in pursuit of the self-righteous goal of assimilation, government makes it easy for Indians to migrate from reserves to the city centres. However, if things do not go according to plan, there is little to no help to get home.
What are the results? Young men, and young women, are enticed by the lure of an easier, vibrant life in the city, only to find themselves trapped. Displaced, misplaced and forgotten.
There are side-benefits to this plan.
For as long as the situation persists and is reinforced by, for example, broken brothers and sisters haunting the streets, then righteous people can have someone to blame for the ills of this country. And still others, like the Harpies, can get more votes and build their empires.
If you can demonize a person or a community, it becomes easier to do unspeakable things to them to make yourself feel better.
I am mildly surprised the harpy in the car next to me didn't plow her vehicle over the brothers crossing the street.
Dirk says, She wanted me to whisper dirty things in her ear. I said, "Kitchen, bathroom, floors, ...."