Sign-by-Side

Reflections on Solidarity and Vulnerability At The London Sexual Assault Trial

*THIS POST FEATURES REFLECTIONS THAT MIGHT BE UPSETTING FOR SOME READERS. TAKE GOOD CARE AS YOU READ—AND THANK YOU FOR READING xo.

Her body is like a meat pear. For months we lay side-by-side or across from one another in the heated yoga room, where I casually dismiss it as nothing remarkable. Sort of plump, chipped toe nail polish, greying hair pulled into a low pony tail, broad white face with large brown eyes. But last night in our Pilates class she reveals core strength so enduring I want to follow her around like a puppy dog.

Something else remarkable happens in class last night. As we rock up to a seated position after doing a zillion c-curve things, I spot him in the mirror, just ahead of me and to the left. A young shirtless man with wavy brown hair. Is it him? One of the faces I’ve seen over and over again in the newspapers, in my phone feeds, and walking up the stairs to the Courthouse.

A flutter of panic corsets itself around my heart. No, it’s not him. It can’t be. He would never come to a public place when he’s on trial for sexual assault alongside four other juniour hockey players. Has he even done yoga before? The scary and silly thoughts—like, would he find me hot?- slowly make their way down the panic drain as I arch my back and let out an audible exhale in cat position.

***

For seven mornings I stood holding a cardboard sign in front of the courthouse. It felt like a righteous duty and within a day or two I adapted to my new morning rhythms, which were defined by where I would park, what time I’d leave home, and how my stomach would surge as I rounded the corner on Queens Ave when the front of the courthouse came into view. First there were only a handful of us- all women and a couple of kids. Then, there were more, including men and famous activists, too.

I took notes.

They walk by us, heads held high with a look so blank it’s haunting. That’s more than media training, it’s fear. It’s sorrow, it’s anger. Hair slicked back and pants so short we can see cute socks. One of them has shoes that glitter like fresh asphalt in the sun. He walks in another galaxy, you see, where his large frame, family connections, and talent allow him to skate into a lucrative contract. Traded to another team like a slave –evaluated for money and future stardom—this man, all five of them, in fact, learn to be men from other men who might hurt them, scream at them, teach them defensive strategy, press pills into their palms to dull the pain, and pop the victory champagne.

One of them always wears ear pods and arrives alone, striding quickly along the far wall of the courthouse. The other men have lawyers and family with them, maybe a girlfriend or two. The women all have long hair that cascades down their thin blazered backs, waves bouncing in the grey light of early Spring. A few of them look drawn and angry underneath their made up faces.

Then there’s the media, a dedicated crew of male camera people, reporters from outlets across Canada repping English and French publications, tiny women dressed in black and always wearing running shoes. They laugh and sometimes sit in the cars to pass the time until the men arrive, and we take our places on the sidewalk.

Pulling to a stop at a red light on the way to yoga it hits me that these men are in the same city as me. They’re not just faces on my Instagram scroll. Where do they stay? What are they doing right now? Do they talk to one another? Do they pray? Workout? What does their future look like to them?

And then the woman at the middle of it—known to us only as EM. Seven years ago, she stumbled out of the same hotel I drank my last drink in in 2012. No one asked me if I was ok that night, and just like her I was alone. Women are so often alone. So many of us have run into the dark streets in those early hours that always seem to be eerily quiet, just the odd taxi cab or shift worker driving by. We hide in the skin of the moon and often keep our secrets from one another.

She is changing sides and stepping from her lunar hiding place into the bristly white heat of the sun. The day, the power, the truth as she knows it. We all know what they did was wrong, and so do they, which is why there are five legal teams interrogating one woman. One woman who we have flocked to and surrounded with love like a pack of bison protecting an albino calf. We are that calf- a little white bathtub in the brown sea of socially acceptable and celebrated male violence.

We need to unwrap our old memories or new shames from the pockets of those soiled jeans and the shirts we’ll ever wear again. We need to let their shame hang from the trees and the dorm rooms in university campuses across this country, and the world. Thank you, E.M. We are with you.