Two weeks ago I watched part of Polytechnique with my 12 year old daughter. This is the third time I have watched the film and I was once again struck by how strongly the film and the memory of the events on Dec. 6, 1989 affect me. At various times, both my daughter and I had tears in our eyes. Mine because of the almost physical sadness and anger (I cry when I am angry...just an FYI to those that need to know.) I experience when remembering that night and so many other nights for so many women; painfully aware that possibly one day my own daughters may experience something so horrible, simply because of their gender. My daughter’s possibly because she saw my tears and was afraid, but more likely she was struck by how terrified these young women, not much older than herself must have felt…I guess I should have asked her.
While watching, it also occurred to me how little young women know of these events. My daughter knows the basics, she has been spoon fed the Montreal Massacre information just as I spoon feed her and her little sister chocolate cake every IWD. First we eat chocolate cake...then we politicize. I asked my daughter if they address the issue at school at all? Apparently in past years the day has come and gone, maybe this year it will bear mention.
As we watched the film, we went through the events of that tragic Dec 6th, now 22 years ago and I tried to answer each curious "Why?" the best I could. Why did he separate the women from the men? Why didn't anyone do anything? Is that a machine gun? What school? Why is it filmed in black and white? And so on. I was surprised how difficult it was to answer her questions and realized that it has been a long time since I have talked about... really talked about that night. In fact, it has been a long time since I've talked, really talked about violence against women, particularly to my daughters. I guess I just assumed that they would somehow know that their loud, brash, opinionated mother is like this as a response, her own way of dealing with the damaged, the abused, the silenced, the murdered...but perhaps they don't. Don't get me wrong, they know it's never their fault, not to keep secrets and they know to fight, to maime to get away at all costs; but I think I need to start the conversation again, first with myself and then with them.
So although angry, (that’s right angry not sad), I wasn’t really surprised this morning when I read my local paper and discovered that not one word was mentioned about the Montreal Massacre. That although there was room for a story on how “Art collectors go bananas over monkey’s artwork”, there apparently wasn’t any space available to mention the 14 women that were killed on Dec. 6th, 1989 by École Polytechnique.
Lepine wasNorway shooter Anders Behring Breivik used when he killed 69 people this past summer...just sayin.
The death of women, so easy to forget, so common place, once the sound bite is gone so is the interest. Women die daily at the hands of partners, loved ones, those who are supposed to protect them and perfect strangers. Women are killed alone and in groups, at home and in public, during peace time and wars. They are killed because they are feminists or because they brought perceived shame to their families or maybe just because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time or Native, such as many of the women who have gone missing (and almost nothing has been done about it)along the Highway of Tears in BC.
"First we mourn and then we work for change"
