The following is inspired by true events.
All mistakes are mine. The most serious one being the decision to run for political office in the first place.
Through fiction we will find truth.
The Conservative?
Walking to work with its promise of a new day is one of my life’s simple pleasures. Even when the weather in Halifax, which is often cruel and unpredictable, tried to dampen my mood I looked forward to the opportunities working in a public library brought to urban, woke, socially responsible professionals like myself. Until, one day when it all changed. My life was turned upside down with the subtlety of a cyclone hitting a beach hut.
On that particular day, I walked up Spring Garden Road past the restaurants, boutiques, and coffee shops. I greeted by name the three folks parked on the corners asking for change. I thumbed through my social media updates without giving much attention to my path. I had walked this route so often, I could do it blind.
With the main entrance to Halifax’s Central Library not yet in sight, I could hear the coordinated chants of people protesting. As I got closer to the corner of Spring Garden and Queen Streets, I saw the source. There was a gaggle of balaclava wearing people shaking printed placards at anyone who walked by. They shouted complaints at the library I hadn’t heard before. My usual experience getting to work was to find people happy to see staff let them inside. Not this particular day. The mob’s angry chants were clearly not meant to be complimentary or friendly.
“Stop the fascists!”
“No Nazis!”
“Don’t let the pig in!”
One of my early mentors Dr. Norman Horrocks said good public libraries invite everyone, all of time. If the public library is to serve its role as the community’s living room, it needs to be an open public space that welcomes everyone. I wondered if he had these folks in mind when he pontificated that point to us at library school? As I navigated through the crowd toward the door, one of the masked protesters pointed at me and shouted—somewhat muffled through his cloth-covered face, “That’s him! It’s his fault! He set it all up!”
He pulled his mask down just long enough for me to see his face before he spat in my direction. Thankfully he had the same weak control of his saliva as he did on his emotions. I was able to make it into the building without being spat on.
Appalled, I closed the door quickly like I’ve just found a safe zone during an episode of “The Walking Dead”. Sharing the same relief as a character from the show, I inhaled deeply and looked at the circling, chanting crew. They moved in unison on the other side of the glass unable to get in. Jesus Christ—How in the hell did we get here?
This current mess started six weeks ago when I received a call from a book publicist, Ava Ferrar, Chief Publicist for Penguin Random House. Her job is to make sure her company sells books, and in this digital age she is one of the best people I know at making the printed word relevant and important in an increasingly electronic world of information where the ephemeral entertainment of quick and tasty bytes and bits often overwhelm reason and thoughtful argument. In short, she cuts through the noise of the information age to tell a good story.
Ava and I have collaborated for years to mutual benefit so when she called me to ask me to book a debate between two authors I was interested.
“So, who do you have Ava?”
“Troy, I should warn you first this is going to be huge,” she replied.
“Huge? Why?” I asked.
“Penguin Random House is taking a new direction with our public events. We want to bring the diversity of opinion as well as the unbridled passion we find everywhere in social media back to the analog public forum where it started.”
“New Direction? Like the boy band? If that is your company’s definition of edginess then I think Halifax Public Libraries can handle it,” I quipped.
“Very funny,” she replied
“Ok, shoot. Frame it for me. Who do you have?” I asked.
She paused for theatrical punctuation in her usual way when she wanted my attention.
“Do you know Bhat Mahenji?” she asked.
Bhat Mahenji is a Buddhist monk who left Vietnam in the 70’s. He ended up in Vancouver at the University of British Columbia to study religion before he set up his own temple near Whistler. Since then, he has built up a spectacular retreat popular with the rich and famous who pay fifteen hundred dollars a day to hear his lessons of living with humility and compassion. Most recently, he has been writing about the spiritual benefits of globalization. His latest book ‘Peace and Power: Building Bridges Not Walls’ is number seven on the New York Times Bestsellers List and number one on the Globe and Mail’s list.
“Sure. His book is on fire,” I replied.
While I was speaking to her I did a quick check on the number of holds the title had in our catalogue, one hundred and sixty-eight and trending upward.
“We currently have one hundred and sixty-eight holds,” I said like I had the number on the top of my head. “He would be great. We would love to have him.”
“Excellent! You got him. But wait, there is more…”
“More? What more do we need? He is a superstar,” I asked.
“Ok, this is our new direction. It is called our Divergent Series,” she said.
“Divergent Series…like a spin off from the Hunger Games?”
“No, divergent like the Webster’s definition, tending to be different or developing in different directions. We bring together two very different points of view in a public forum and let them speak. Our goal is to open minds and grow thought and provide an opportunity for public debate on hot issues in a safe environment without barriers,” she explained.
“Sounds good. I like it. You have my attention so far. So, who is Yoda debating?” I asked.
“Are you familiar with Elizabeth Mann?” she asked.
I was speechless. This time the pause was not theatrical and any drama was all my doing.
“Troy? Are you still there?”
“Elizabeth Mann? Are you kidding? Author of Soccer Mom Fatwa? She is a nut bar!”
“She might be a nut bar but her book is currently number two on the New York Times list and number nine on the Globe’s. She draws a crowd.”
Draws a crowd? That was the understatement of the morning. Elizabeth Mann wrote the book “Soccer Mom Fatwa” based on her experiences during the Boston City Marathon bombing in 2013. She had come out to cheer on her daughter who was running the forty-kilometer race for the first time. Both she and her daughter were only a couple hundred meters from the finish line when the bombs exploded, and while neither she or her daughter were hurt physically by the explosion, the ensuing chaos had a huge impact on both of them. Since then, Elizabeth Mann has transformed from a live and let live soccer Mom into a pistol carrying community activist. Her Christian background took on a fundamentalist bent and she began campaigning for closing the borders of the United States to anyone who didn’t share these values. In 2016 she was named in a fatwa by a little-known Iranian mufti who stated Elizabeth now had a price on her head for her crimes against Islam.
“Wow Ava, I don’t know… I like provocative programming in public libraries but this one may be too much for us.”
“Come on Troy, what are you worried about?”
“How about the death threats against her? We can’t afford the kind of security to protect her.”
Ava laughed loudly.
‘What the hell is so funny about someone having a price on her head?” I asked.
“That shit is nothing but internet fantasy chatter generated by angry losers living in their parent’s basements. They can’t organize their own meals let alone an assault on someone’s life. Since her book has come out there has not been one credible security threat directed toward her. She has spoken in every American city on her book tour. Austin Texas alone likely has more guns than Canada has people, and nothing happened. All bullshit.”
With this line of argument, Ava sold me. I would not have hesitated to host Salman Rushdie for a reading so I should extend the same open arms to a soccer mom from suburban Boston. What could go wrong I thought?
After running the gauntlet of chanting walking dead protesters, I entered my office with the heavy weight of sober second thought carried on my back like a bag of bricks. Lynn, my assistant, was not her normal happy sarcastic self. It was our normal routine to exchange pleasantries and a comment on the weather or recent developments in municipal, provincial, or federal politics. There was none of this today. In her hand, she held a single sheet of paper.
“You need to see this,” she said gravely.
I took the sheet of paper from her with trepidation. It was a hand-written note. It said:
Dear Mr. Myers,
We the Collective formally known as By Any Means Society (BAMS) hereby give notice to Halifax Public Library that BAMS takes great exception to your decision to give a public platform to the hate speech of Elizabeth Mann. Her, racist, xenophobic ideas have no place in this revered public institution so we herewith announce to you our intention to disrupt her presentation. We will loudly exercise our right to free speech during this event so that people do not have to tolerate her poisonous ideas. We will be respectful during the time you have given to Bhat Mahenji with whom we have no complaint, but we promise to disrupt every second of Ms. Mann’s time. We strongly suggest that Halifax Public Libraries cancel today’s event in order to prevent her the opportunity to spread her hateful ideas that are not for the common good. If you choose to ignore our request and test our resolve, we promise to bring complete disruption and chaos to your event.
I held the letter in my hand and looked at Lynn for a hint of humour, hoping that this handwritten note was her attempt to lighten the heavy mood that had descended on today’s event.
“Is this a joke?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
“It was in the office when I came in. Someone slid it under the door,” she replied.
“Under the door? Wow.”
“Wow, is right. What do you want to do? Should we call the police?” she asked.
Shaking off my initial shock at the threatening language I began to feel angry.
“Who the hell are BAMS? Please tell me this is a joke.”
“Sorry boss. It is real and the group has identified Halifax Public Libraries as its first international target. We should consider ourselves special,” replied Lynn.
I ignored her last comment.
“Too soon boss?” she asked.
“Too soon,” I replied
“So, what do you want to do?” she asked.
I took a deep breath and looked back to the letter in my hand. I read the small, tight uniform text again. My agitation grew.
“The show goes on,” I said with a blend of anger and fear.
She smiled enthusiastically as my mobile phone began to buzz.
“Troy, what the hell is going on?”
It was Judy Short, our Chief Librarian and Chief Executive Officer, my boss. She had not been keen on hosting this event to begin with and I quickly detected from her tone that her tepid approval of the idea had deteriorated further since then.
“Jesus, I had to come in the back entrance to the library! It is a public Library for God’s sake and I work here and I had to sneak in the back way like I am Harvey Weinstein at a yoga studio!” she said.
“Sorry about that Judy. Given the nature of the program and the speakers, well one of the speakers anyway, we did anticipate a bit of protest,” I replied.
“A bit of protest? There are one hundred people circling in front of the main entrance!”
“Judy, it is a bit of bluster with no bite. I made it in. They are just making a statement – a peaceful one – about free speech. Everything will be fine. I have it under control.” I left out the part about the idiot who tried to spit in my face.
“I wish I was as confident in your last statement as you are. I think you should cancel it.. Just make sure this doesn’t turn into a circus!”
With that, she hung up. I stared stupidly at my phone for a moment until Lynn interrupted me.
“You didn’t tell her about the letter,” said Lynn. “She is going to be pissed if something happens.”
“Nothing is going to happen Lynn. We are dealing with college kids who have been fired up by some wacked out, far left leaning sociology professor who gets her students to perform acts of public protest for course credit. By the time this program starts today the lazy ones, which is most of them, will have lost interest and gone home to smoke weed and play X-Box. The earnest ones will have to go tend to their community garden plots so that their heirloom tomatoes don’t wither and die.” I responded.
“Troy, this is a threat. We should take it seriously. We should call the police and let them know,” she said.
“No Lynn, a call to the cops will get the program getting cancelled. The bad guys win if we do that. The show will go on.”
“Ok, you are the boss. It is your funeral,” she said with a shrug.
Two hours later, I was standing in the wings of the Paul O’Regan Hall, our largest program space, with our two speakers. While polar opposites, they got along well. Both commented on the lovely architecture of the library and what a great city Halifax is. With just the three of us enjoying polite conversation behind the curtain of our green room on the right wing of the main stage, it was easy to forget about the earlier chaos and the threatening letter.
With five minutes to the start of the program, the hall’s five hundred seats were almost full. The group of protesters, with the signs, was still outside of the main entrance walking in circles. So much for my prediction they would lose interest. A CBC news truck had pulled up and a lone journalist was shooting video of the protesters on her phone attached to a selfie stick. The mob moved collectively so she could capture the scene with video.
Forgetting about the circus outside, I found myself enjoying the company of the library’s special guests. The respectful tone and temperament for each other reinforced my belief in healthy, civilized public discourse and debate. It reminded me why I loved public libraries. On the outside, you may think a saffron robed monk and an angry bear soccer Mom may not have much in common but these two people were good to each other.
With two minutes to noon, the show was about to go on. I gave my guests a two-minute warning and made my way to the podium. I was pleased to see every seat in the house was occupied. I took my place in front of the podium, took a deep breath held it for a moment and then exhaled slowly.
“Good morning everyone. My name is…”
Before I could finish the sentence, two people jumped up from the front row and started to blow compressed air horns, the kind boaters use when they are in distress. The noise makers held high on both sides of me would blast every time I would speak. I was in shock. I shouted in the microphone for these people to sit down but I could not be heard over the blasts of the air horns.
I moved away from the podium and glared. I told them to sit down or I would call security. They looked at me with moronic grins. They continued to stand with their horns in the air. Seeing this struggle with the two protesters, Bhat and Elizabeth came quickly to the podium. At the same time, the gaggle of balaclava wearing protesters marched in the hall waving their uniformly printed signs and blowing more horns.
I knew I had to do something. I had booked this event. These two fine people were my guests. I was in charge. With this thought in mind, I came down from the stage and confronted the two jerks with the annoying horns, but every time I opened my mouth to speak I was blasted by a compressed air horn. The conflict resolution training I took every year through our human resources department left little in my toolbox to deal with this situation. Remaining calm was getting increasingly more difficult to do with each blast of the air horn.
.
Troy Myers 