The Conservative? continued…

On the national front, the Conservative attack on the Liberals was in full swing. Several weeks into the election, the story of the Minister and her assistant continued to have legs. It was curious to me this age-old morality issue had importance in the Canadian political landscape. Elsewhere in the world a story like this one would have quickly been labelled ‘fake news’ and forgotten by voters who refused to listen to media which doesn’t align with their particular polarity.

Not so in Canada.

The Liberal spin machine struggled with this sex scandal and this gave us an edge. Everywhere the Prime Minister went he took questions about integrity. Unable to control the narrative, the Liberal Party organizers desperately tried to regain control with one bold announcement after another but media stuck to its guns and continued to hammer away.

Conservatives took full advantage. We had the space to talk policy and offer our vision of the future. We talked about tax cuts and increased support to middle class families and higher support for children. Since we had not formed government for two terms we had the high ground on the issues of values and integrity.

I stayed away from scoring cheap points. I could care less who the cabinet minister slept with. She should be judged for her work. Her and her assistant were consenting adults and their privacy should be respected, even if it was in a car parked on Parliament Hill.

We announced a new initiative every day for seven days. This proved to be a very effective strategy. The Liberals had to defend themselves on the integrity front, and also respond to a new Conservative policy every day. This two-pronged attack kept them on their heels.

The mainstream press also warmed to us. I wanted to believe this favourable coverage was based on the facts: our policy announcements were all very moderate and reasonable. There were no proclamations full of fire and brimstone attacking immigrants or women’s rights to choose. Conservatives supported same sex unions. Even our call for a tax cut was well received.

Yes, I would like to believe the media were currently supporting us because of these good, reasonable statements of what the Conservative Party stood for. However, I had been around long enough to see this drama played out before. With seven years in government the Liberal run was getting long and this created an appetite for change. The people wanted it and so did the media. It was change for change’s sake. Governments are more often voted out than in.

Pundits spoke favourably of our progressive tax relief policy. They used our language which sounded positive and nurturing. Even the CBC got on board.

As the support for Conservative tax relief grew, the Liberals began to feel the pressure. In a bold move, the Liberal spin machine tried to combat our popular tax relief policies by reducing it to dollars and cents. During a national media announcement, the Liberal Prime Minister scoffed at the Conservative Party’s promise to cut taxes. He mocked it as only enough money to spend once a week on a couple of beers and a bag of peanuts. He went on to say the Liberal Party would not give Canadians money to buy trivial things like beer and peanuts. They would keep it and do great things with it.

These comments did not go over well. He was correct in pointing out our tax cut did not amount to much more than a few dollars a week. However, the message came across that Canadians cannot be trusted with their own money.

Beer and peanuts may not be much, but it turned out, Canadians like beer and peanuts. People from coast to coast to coast were angry. We want more beer and peanuts! became the battle cry directed to the newly labelled self-righteous, entitled elites who were running the country. A common message, amplified by the mainstream media, spread like a prairie grass fire across the country. The message was simple but very effective: You can keep your civil society aid to developing countries, and your democracy building initiatives, and your expanded multi-cultural festivals, Canadian’s have had enough! We want beer and peanuts!! In two poorly crafted sentences, a Canadian populist movement was born.

The sentiment was simple and to the point. It was distilled to: we, the Canadian people, want the right to spend our own money on whatever the hell we choose, even if it is beer and peanuts! This is the point the Liberal spin machine missed in their hastily crafted, desperate attempt to counter our proposal to let Canadians have a tax break.

Conservative or not, no one likes to be told they can’t be trusted with their own pay cheque.

On top of these problems for the Liberals, there was the stalled economy. In the last couple of years, economic growth had stalled and unemployment was on the rise. The Canadian economy was in trouble and slipping into recession.

With less money to spend, it was easy for Conservatives to get out in front of the tax relief parade. While the tax relief offered was modest, we were the only party that talked about it.

Back to the local campaign, Frank and I took a break for lunch after a busy morning. We had received lots of positive feedback on the doorsteps of Dartmouth and Cole Harbour and I had warmed up to our new volunteer. I did however lose my tolerance for his dirty sweat pants, stained shirt, and filthy thrift store sneakers. I decided then to find him some other clothes to wear.

Dot had called to let us know the office was open and she was cleared by the hospital staff and the police forensics lab. She had been right. The white powder was icing sugar. On the phone, Dot and I shared a huge sigh of relief and had a quick laugh about this whole debacle. I decided to never doubt ‘the Dot’ ever again. She promised to have the office back to full capacity before we finished lunch.

With the good news from Dot, Frank and I went for lunch at the Ship Victory. It was a quiet spot most of the time, with the exception of the story told by the lovely grandmother I had met a few days ago.

Inside the windowless tavern, it took some time to adjust to the lack of natural light. The place reeked of cigarette smoke. Patrons did not embrace healthy lifestyles. Drinks in hand, they sat and stood in front of banks of video lottery machines. The players fidgeted and fed bills to the silent machines. The terminals were no longer able to whistle and beep since provincial regulations restricted the mechanical bells and whistles a few years ago in an effort to make gambling less appealing.

My Libertarian bent was tested to the limits with video lottery terminals; Working all these years with people on the margins of society I decided some people really don’t know what is best for themselves. The machines should be pulled out of places like this tavern. If people want to gamble on slot machines they can go to a casino.

Frank and I sat down at a table away from the machines. We ordered diet Cokes and read the menu. Frank was hungry. Despite my years of public library service working with every kind of person in this town, including all of the marginalized ones, I realized I had no clue what goes on inside a Halifax city homeless shelter. My prejudiced view of these places was that they were full of broken folks: the alcoholics, the drug addicts, the mentally ill, and the very lazy. Frank changed my view. My inflated sense of self-worth did not stand up to Frank’s tale. His story underscored how thin the veneer of our personal situation can be. Like Frank, most of us are two pay cheques and a broken heart away from living on the street.

“Get whatever you want. You earned it,” I said.

Without missing a beat, Frank ordered a full rack of ribs with: French fries, salad, and two pieces of garlic bread with cheese. I asked for a toasted bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich on multi-grain bread with a side bowl of chicken noodle soup. Our orders taken, we sat back and sipped the diet Cokes. I resisted the urge to take my phone out of my pocket.

Frank talked more about the unfortunate circumstances that brought him to Atlantic Canada. He told me about growing up on the west coast. He was the son of a First Nations tribal chief who fished commercially north of Vancouver on the same boat Frank’s grandfather had used. The family was wealthy because his father was a hard-working man who worked a traditional and lucrative fishery. He provided a lovely four-bedroom house for his family and provided all the material benefits. Frank and his family had it all. But there was more going on.

Frank’s father was a hard-drinking man who beat his children. Frank became used to the beatings. Growing up, he thought such behaviour was normal. This view was reinforced as he would see similar behaviour from other families in his community. During discussions while playing in the safe community space behind the school, he and his friends shared stories of their parents being physically tough. They were so casual about the subject they laughed when they showed, like badges of honour, the bruises. There were no dark secrets to hide or shame to endure. They believed it was a tough world and taking a few licks from the adults in your life was part of it.

This changed one day when his older sister came to him in tears. She was eighteen, he was sixteen, and she had been his one true friend growing up. She had been more a mother than a sister to him. She had tried to protect him from the harsh reality they both had been born into. She would shield him as best she could from the fighting and abuse. They frequently became collateral damage in the constant friction that happened in the house. His sister would take beatings from the old man without complaint. Like him, she had been raised to believe physical abuse was just part of growing up. As she grew older, the abuse directed to her began to change. Frank remembered the day she told him their father had come into her bed at night. Stunned, he was not sure what to do but he decided he had to do something.

One long week later, his sister took her life and left him alone. They found her hanging from a tree behind the house on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It was the same tree she and Frank had climbed thousands of times when they were young before the sins of their elders were forced upon them. His sister did not leave a note, make a video, or confide in a friend who would tell her tale after the sad deed was done. Her only attempt to reach out to anyone was to Frank.

The day his sister died she went for a walk in the park near their house. Frank had woken up when he heard her go out. He thought he should get up and talk her in to running away but he was too exhausted from this difficult week. Instead, he tossed in his bed and fell back to sleep.

About an hour later his mobile phone beeped. It was a text message. It was from his sister. He opened the text and stared at it trying to make sense of what it meant. It was one character, an emoji. It was a heart broken in two pieces with an uneven line like it had been ripped apart. The message was a clear indication to him she was not in a good way. How could she be? How could anyone be in her situation? He was agitated and angry with himself. He wished he had gotten out of bed and gone with her to the park. She had needed him.

The full gravity of her message crashed down on him a few hours later when a neighbour found her body hanging from a tree behind the house. The image of which was then forever in his mind. He, too, was damaged beyond repair. It was as if that tree cracked in two under the weight of her tiny body and crushed him. The dreary despair of it was completely unbearable for his adolescent brain. He was so overwhelmed with grief and hopelessness. He decided he had two choices: kill the son of a bitch, or run.

The next day he packed a small bag and hitch hiked east. He did not tell anyone he left. He just disappeared. He told me he wanted me to know the full story because I had been good to him. He also wanted me to know he came from good aboriginal roots and he was proud of his heritage. While unfortunate circumstances had conspired against him, his people and society were not to blame. Blame belonged to one person, the sociopathic predator he had the misfortune to have as a father.

Left speechless, I thought how lucky I was to have such a stable and uneventful, upbringing with two loving parents. As a kid, the worst trauma I endured was losing our family’s first pet. My problems were nothing. He was the personification of rock bottom.

Mercifully, my mobile phone rang.

“Hello,” I said.

“Mr. Candidate,” replied a voice rough like car tires on a gravel road.

“Dot, are you back in the office?”, I ask with a surprised tone.

“Of course, I am. We have work to do. Speaking of that, Al wants you back in twenty minutes,” she responded.

“What’s up?”

“Kathleen wants a meeting, and what Kathleen wants Kathleen gets apparently. I just met the woman and already I can’t stand her! Also, the media wants to talk about the new attack on your life,” she replied matter-of-factly.