Poles Apart

by Terry Fallis

  “Hi, I’m Everett Kane. An honour to meet you, and very good of you to see me on such short notice,” I began.

  “Shelley Hunter. My pleasure. I’m glad I was in town. I’ve been on the road a bit lately. Anyway, you come with the blessings of Beverley Tanner, one of my favourite forebears, one of my heroes. I’m sorry her health is a little fragile.”

  “Yes, but her spirit and mind are as vibrant as ever. I feel very fortunate to have met her, and now to count her among my friends. In a way, we’ve become co-conspirators in a little initiative of mine.”

  “Please, have a seat,” she said, waving me into a chair before her large desk. “Coffee? Water?”

  “Neither, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Well, now that we’re settled, how can I help you?”

  “Did Beverley give you any indication as to what I wanted to see you about?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

  “None. Despite my best efforts to pry it out of her, she was insistent that you were the only one to enlighten me. So I have no idea what this is all about, just that someone I respect greatly has asked that I meet with you.”

  “That’s what I thought. Okay, then. Well, here goes,” I said, taking in and then releasing a big breath. “Are you familiar with a relatively new feminist blog known as Eve of Equality?”

  “Are you kidding? I think there are very few feminists in the world with high-speed Internet connections who do not know about that particular blog. I read it religiously. It’s great stuff.”

  Then she seemed to catch herself.

  “Wait. Are you about to tell me that Beverley Tanner is the author of that blog? It makes perfect sense now.”

  She looked up and shook her head as if she should have guessed long ago.

  “Um, no, that’s not it. What I was about to tell you is something slightly more difficult to believe. I was about to say that … okay, here we go … that, um, I am actually the author of the blog. I guess you could say that Eve of Equality is short for Everett of Equality,” I said, letting it hang there for a moment, between us. I wanted to give her a chance to mull it over. She didn’t mull for long.

  “Look, Mr. Kane, you’re the fourth person this week and the second man to claim to be the author of the Eve of Equality blog.”

  “You’re kidding? Others have come forward? That’s outrageous. I’m offended. I’m sure Beverley would be offended, too. I can assure you that while others may claim to have written those posts, I’m the only one who has.”

  “Well, it sure helps that you’ve arrived here bearing Bev Tanner’s stamp of approval, but I’m afraid I can’t just accept your word on it, especially when she said nothing to me about the blog.”

  “Okay. I get that. I can understand your skepticism, given that I’m, you know, a man, and all. And that, as a species, we do have some baggage when it comes to equality issues.”

  “A little baggage, yes,” she replied.

  “Right. I know it seems a little far-fetched. But bear with me and I’ll try to make my case. Would you mind if I used your computer for just a moment?” I asked. “You can watch everything I do.”

  She thought about it for a moment and then rotated her laptop so I could reach it, but we both could still see it. I immediately called up the blog and logged into the back end of WordPress, revealing all the posts and the comment moderation mechanism.

  “Okay. So you’ve gotten into the blog. How do I know you haven’t just hacked your way in? It’s happened before. Other sites have been compromised. Maybe you’re an ace hacker?”

  “Believe me, I’m not nearly geeky enough to hack into anything more complicated than a wet paper bag. Maybe this will help.”

  I proceeded to log into the EofE Gmail account and Twitter stream. It was unlikely that I could have hacked into all of these relatively secure platforms. Then I moved back into WordPress and showed her the draft post waiting to be finished and posted. I turned the screen toward her and described the draft post in considerable detail, including phrasing I could remember as I’d agonized over portions of it.

  She sat looking at the screen, nodding her head slowly. The pause between us lengthened almost to the point of discomfort.

  “Okay, I’m starting to feel more comfortable that you are who you say you are, but I’m not sure we’re quite there yet. Where did this all start and what else can you do to establish your feminist bona fides?”

  “Well, it started at university in Ontario. I’m Canadian. Well, I have dual citizenship. It started when I was active in the national student movement. As you probably know, there’s a strong feminist strand in the student movement.”

  I thought for a moment, and it paid off. I then turned back to her keyboard and typed in the URL for the Globe and Mail archives.

  “As I’m sure you know, this is Canada’s national newspaper,” I said as I navigated through the archives, using the site’s search engine and filters.

  I soon found what I was looking for and clicked on it. A photo opened on the screen from an International Women’s Day rally on Parliament Hill in Ottawa from all those years ago when I’d been heavily involved with the Canadian Federation of Students. There I was, on the riser, in front of the microphone, my fist in the air, my mouth open in the midst of exhorting my brothers and sisters. I was surrounded by fellow activists, all of them women.

  “There I am at the annual Women’s Day demo calling out the government on reproductive rights.”

  “It sure looks like you,” she said.

  “I’m glad you think so. I was afraid you’d ask me to recreate that demented expression on my face to convince you. It’s really not a good look.”

  “I know that look. I’ve been to my fair share of demos. Just looks like passion, to me,” she said, looking from the photo, to me, and then back again. “You haven’t changed that much.”

  “Well, it wasn’t all that long ago.”

  I then opened a new window and worked Google to pull up a few more photos and an article about me in the Sudbury Star from around the same time. It was a story about a women’s issues workshop for men I had just led at Laurentian University. The guy in the photo did not have his face scrunched up in rage, so it looked quite a bit like me, only younger. I think Shelley was impressed. But I had one more card to play.

  I opened my Google Adsense account on her laptop and scrolled through to my revenue summary page for the Eve of Equality blog. Again, only the blog owner could gain access to this very secure site.

  “Because the blog has been so popular, thanks largely to Candace Sharpe’s lightning strike, I’m earning more money from online ads than I’ve ever earned as a freelance writer.” I moved the cursor so that it was directly under the big dollar amount paid out for the previous month.

  “You might have seen my post a while back when I announced there would be a modest level of advertising on the EofE site to help offset the not inconsiderable and still-growing hosting fees.”

  “I do remember that. And I also remember what else was written in that post,” she noted.

  “Right. You mean my pledge to donate half the Google Adsense revenue to NOW.”

  She nodded. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and extracted a cheque I’d already written for the first month’s donation. It was not a small cheque. I handed it to her.

  “I didn’t have time to certify the cheque,” I explained. “I don’t even have a bank down here in the U.S. yet, so it’s on my Canadian account. But if you deposit it, I guarantee the cheque will clear.”

  “Holy Hannah,” she gasped. “Well, I must say, this is very generous, but …”

  “Ms. Hunter …”

  “Shelley, please,” she said.

  “Shelley, this contribution and the donations I’ve pledged in the future are not tied to any help you may be able to offer after I explain my current dilemma. If nothing comes of our conversation this morning, the cheques will still arrive for however long the blog continues to generate
ad revenue.”

  “Again, that’s very generous,” she said. “Okay, so let’s assume that I now believe I’m sitting in front of the youngish man who just happens to be the anonymous creator of one of the most popular feminist blogs on earth – and I’d say I’m feeling pretty secure about that now, based on what you’ve shown me – just what exactly is your so-called dilemma, and how can we help? As you can imagine, we’d sure like you to continue blogging. We don’t come across many men holding your views, let alone promoting them so effectively to such a large audience.”

  I told her my tale of woe. I spoke for the next nineteen minutes straight, without interruption. I was getting better at telling the story. I took her through the whole thing, from the time I’d arrived in Orlando to help with Dad’s recovery, right up to that moment sitting in her corner office at NOW. I covered it all. I left nothing out. I probably told her far more than I needed to, including my short-lived relationship – if you could call it that – with Megan Cook. I spilled everything. It felt quite cathartic to have the whole adventure rush from me like a whitewater torrent, even if it was before a complete stranger.

  We sat in silence for a few seconds again when I’d finally stopped talking. She was shaking her head slowly as she processed my little odyssey.

  “Mr. Kane …”

  “Everett, please. My father is Mr. Kane, and it doesn’t even suit him.”

  “Everett, I’m flabbergasted. I don’t know what to say. That is one extraordinary story. Did you call the police?”

  “I thought about it. I even reached for the phone a few times. But in the end, it just felt like it would degenerate into a simple case of my word against Bennington’s. And I didn’t think that would get me very far.”

  “Probably not,” she agreed. “Tell me again why it’s so important for you to remain anonymous as the blog’s author?”

  “Well, it might be a moot point now, but I just don’t think it’s right for a man to be at the pointy end of the women’s movement. It’s not a man’s place.”

  “Why? We need men on board if we’re ever going to achieve real equality and not just legislated equality.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s what Beverley says, too. But men run everything else in the world. That’s the whole problem. Men should not have a prominent role in the women’s movement. It should always only be supportive, ancillary, secondary. Besides, when it comes out that a man is – that I am – the Eve in Eve of Equality, the driving message in the blog posts will be lost.”

  “Maybe for a short time. But that can be managed. And while I understand your point about a man on the front lines of the women’s movement – believe me, I do – I think that can be managed, too. When it becomes known that you write the blog, you could shift your focus to that all-important space where men and the women’s movement come together – and they must come together. You can then write freely as a man committed to gender equality, concentrating on what supportive men can do to serve the cause. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You mean I could shift gears on the blog to embrace my membership in the male species, begin to write for men, but still focus on gender equality.”

  “Precisely. So there’s no longer any masquerade, pretence or obfuscation. Then it’s all above board, but still staunchly feminist.”

  I turned this over in my mind. It might just resolve my central concern, provided we survived the initial revelation and transition.

  “But I now seem to have tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands, of subscribers to the blog, and I suspect that all but a handful are women. Won’t they feel betrayed, or at least offended, when they discover the truth? Won’t a lot of them just stop reading?” I asked.

  “Some might. But if we, and I mean we, handle it all skillfully and sensitively, I bet your readers would understand, and many would stay on board.”

  “Hmmmm. I just wish I knew how this was all going to play out,” I sighed.

  Shelley seemed to be getting into it now. She was leaning forward, moving her hands about as she spoke, a plan formulating.

  “Everett, this is a tremendous communications opportunity. There’s still plenty of media speculation about who is behind your blog. We have the chance here to control the message and turn this into a big win-win.”

  “That’s just what Beverley told me you’d say,” I admitted. “But how?”

  “Look, if we take Mason Bennington at his word, one way or another, in the next few days, you are going to be outed as the author of the Eve of Equality blog. Your cover will be blown, right?”

  “Right. I guess.”

  “Then let’s take the initiative away from him. Let’s not put him in charge of how that happens.”

  Shelley Hunter’s strategy was still in its formative stages as she laid it out for me. It evolved as we kicked it around. We refined it. With my blessing, she called in her communications director, Leslie Bandler, and some of her team to help with the logistics. A phone call was made to the NOW research team. Fifteen minutes later, a young woman stuck her head in the door and handed Leslie a couple of pages. She scanned them before speaking.

  “Okay, the media speculation about the identity of the blogger behind Eve of Equality has been gathering strength for the last three weeks, and it’s not going away. It’s not front page, but it’s still quite prominent. This analysis suggests that Candace Sharpe has been the most significant driver, not just on her program, but through all her social media channels, as well. Stories speculating about who the anonymous blogger might be have appeared in seven major print dailies, on twenty-six radio stations, on twenty-one regional TV stations, and on four national TV network news or talk shows, including Good Morning America and The Today Show. Finally, there’s considerable speculation on Facebook and Twitter as to the identity of the EofE blogger. There’s even a hashtag, #WhoisEofE?”

  Wow. I’d seen a few stories when grazing on the Internet, but I was not aware that so many mainstream media outlets were interested in this, interested in me. It seemed that the mystery behind who writes the blog might be a more important factor in the media’s fascination with the blog than the posts themselves. That was fine with me, as long as it pushed people to the site.

  After the others had left to put the wheels in motion, I turned to Shelley.

  “Can I just ask, why are you doing this? You could have just sent me on my way. What’s in it for you?”

  “Well, it’s not unadulterated altruism, if that’s what you mean,” she replied. “Beyond the fact that I do happen to think this is good for NOW, and it’s definitely good for the cause, I also have a longer-term agenda and there’s an idea crystallizing in my frazzled brain. Besides, linking NOW with a hugely popular feminist blog will help our numbers, too. Oh yeah, and you’re Bev Tanner’s friend.”

  I nodded. She didn’t offer any more by way of explanation and I didn’t push it.

  By 4 p.m., the plan was in place. We all had our marching orders. We all knew what we were doing. As a group, we agreed that it was already too late to do anything that day. Better to keep our powder dry until tomorrow morning. We’d execute the strategy then. The NOW communications team would need to burn at least a little midnight oil, but it would all get done. They’d been there before and knew what they were doing. Finally, Shelley and I discussed what I planned to say the next day, and we both took advice from NOW’S in-house attorney to make sure our words wouldn’t get us into any legal hot water. Mason Bennington was born to be litigious. I also asked the lawyer to review the blog post I’d already written and was poised to post the next day.

  I realized that the plan we’d developed was pretty close to the one Beverley had forecast. And she was right. Shelley was an unstoppable force.

  I managed to find a room at the Renaissance on 9th Street NW, not too far away from NOW. After an early steak in the restaurant, I sprawled on the bed, reached for the phone, and called my dad.

  “Dad, it’s Ev.”

&nb
sp; “Son! Hang on. Your mother’s here, too. I’m going to put you on the speaker if I can figure out how to do th—”

  I called back.

  “Hi, Dad. I’m back.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I got it this ti—”

  I called back.

  I heard the audio change as he somehow managed to switch to speaker-phone mode.

  “Sorry about that,” Dad said. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Hi, honey. I’m here, too.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “How was Washington?”

  “Well, no need for the past tense, I’m still here and will be until tomorrow.”

  “Is that good news?” Mom asked.

  “We’re going to find out tomorrow,” I said. “How’s everything in Orlando?”

  “Everything is just peachy,” Dad said. “In fact, we got some news of our own, today. Look’s like they’re springing me on Saturday. I’m getting out of this joint. I’m going home.”

  “Hey! Congratulations, Dad. That’s great news!”

  “Yeah, well, try telling that to Kenny Chevy,” Mom piped up. “He’s been moping around since the news broke this morning.”

  “That’s no different from how Kenny acts every day, Mom,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, he’s dialed it down another notch, now,” Mom explained. “He’s going to miss your father. No one else knows enough about cars to go anywhere near him. It’s going to be ugly when your father moves out.”

  “What about Beverley? Is she around?”

  “She turned in early,” Dad replied. “She hasn’t been feeling too shit hot today. I think she might be coming down with something.”