Poles Apart

by Terry Fallis

  “She still has her sense of humour, though,” Mom noted. “She had your father on the ropes earlier tonight. It was hilarious. I like that old bird.”

  “That’s what she does. As her books says, she’s the funny one,” I said. “Is everything okay at the company, Mom? You haven’t seemed quite as frenetic these days. And I haven’t seen the ever-efficient Nathan around much either. Is everything cool?”

  “The company is just fine. We’re on track. The digging has started. That’s what’s been so consuming. Now that the shovels are in the ground, we just have to build the damn thing,” Mom said. “Oh, and I turned Nathan in for a newer model. Barclay, I think it is, starts next week.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes. I told Mom and Dad what we had planned for the next day. Then Dad ended the call as the dinner gong sounded in the background. He hates to miss dinner.

  I was just lying there thinking about what was about to go down in the morning when my cellphone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Young Everett, it’s Beverley.”

  “Hi, Beverley. I was going to call you, but Dad said you’d gone to bed early, not feeling well. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little tired, and just a touch out of sorts. But I wanted an update. Did you see Shelley?”

  “Sure did. And she’s everything you said she was.”

  “And did she propose what I thought she’d propose?”

  “Yep. Pretty close. We’re on tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “Perfect. Early enough to get the noon newscasts, right?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And how do you feel?”

  “Strangely serene. It’s like the grown-ups have taken over and if I do my part without passing out, all will be well.”

  “Good,” she replied. “And don’t give a thought to Mason Bennington. I think what you’re doing tomorrow will put you out of his reach. The world will be watching.”

  “I hope you’re right. But I think I’m going to have to move out of my apartment anyway, on principle, much as I like it.”

  “Oh, by the way, I should be finished my little guest post for the blog later tonight or in the morning. I’ll send it to you then.”

  “Hey, that’s great! You decided to write it. I’m thrilled. Readers will be thrilled, too, I know.”

  “You might wait till you read it before elevating expectations to an unreasonably high level.”

  “No need. I already know.”

  Media started showing up at 9:30, a full half-hour before show time. That was a good sign. The NOW media relations team had been burning up the phone lines since 8 a.m., driving attendance. It seemed to be working. The big sprawling NOW boardroom had been turned into a media briefing room. The board table had been moved out, and rows of chairs moved in. Risers were placed at both ends of the room. At the front, a skirted table was positioned on the risers with two chairs and two microphones. Behind the table, mounted on the wall was a very large high-definition TV monitor bearing the NOW logo, the date, and the start time of the media briefing. In the best of all worlds, the risers at the rear of the room would soon be occupied by videographers from various news organizations. I wandered around with not much to do. I had already rehearsed what I was going to say in front of my hotel bathroom mirror. None of the reporters filing in, as 10 a.m. approached, paid me any attention. No one knew who I was.

  I leaned against the wall off to the side but toward the front of the room. I was dressed in what I guess is called business casual. I wore black pants, black shoes, a dark blue button-down-collared dress shirt, and a dark blue blazer/sports jacket. I thought I wouldn’t look out of place in a Madison Avenue advertising agency. By 9:55, there were twelve reporters in their seats, and five cameras were stationed on the riser along the back of the room. I noticed that one of the cameras was from the Candace show. The reporters were chatting with one another, wondering why they were there. The media advisory had not been explicit about the story, but counted on a sense of mystery to enhance the draw. It seemed to have worked.

  Shelley walked into the room, nodded once at me, and made her way to the table at the front. Her name and title appeared on the TV monitor. As she sat down with no notes or paperwork of any kind, the room fell silent.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming in response to an invitation that I know was not just short on notice, but short on details, too. For those of you who might not know, I’m Shelley Hunter, president of the National Organization for Women.

  “As you might imagine, we are very interested in any new developments that bear on the fight for gender equality in this country. We’re interested when issues arise that set the movement back, like the growing popularity of Mason Bennington’s chain of XY clubs that simply exploit women in a more exclusive and expensive setting. And of course, we’re excited when something new breaks on the scene that helps advance the cause of women’s equality. For instance, in the last several weeks, an anonymous blog, Eve of Equality, has captured the attention and the minds of hundreds of thousands of readers around the world. Candace Sharpe promoted the blog on her show, and the media and the Internet took care of the rest.”

  The screen behind Shelley now featured the home page of the EofE blog.

  “This morning, after long and careful consideration, the anonymous writer behind Eve of Equality, for reasons that will be shared shortly, has decided to come forward.”

  Now that Shelley was too far down the road to turn back, I used my cellphone to publish the rather incendiary blog post I’d finalized the day before. There was no way back now.

  “I’m pleased now to introduce the gifted writer, thoughtful advocate, and committed feminist who created and writes the Eve of Equality blog, Mr. Everett Kane.”

  Because it was a media briefing, there was no applause that you might expect to hear after such an introduction. Reporters generally don’t clap. With the room so quiet, it was much easier to hear the sudden intake of breath from the reporters, when she said my rather gender-specific name. It wasn’t Kelly, or Kerry, or Alex, or Avery, you know, where it could go either way. No. It was Everett. I pushed myself off the wall where I’d been leaning, made my way to the front table, shook hands with Shelley, and sat down next to her. I didn’t fall, trip, burp, or toss my cookies on the way up. My hair looked okay. Nothing was hanging out of my nose – at least not that anyone mentioned. So I managed to plant my ass in the chair at the front of the room without embarrassing myself, though there was still plenty of time left for that. I was nervous – very nervous – yet, at the same time, I also felt a certain calm fall upon me like a blanket. I took a deep breath as I looked out at the assembled journalists. I had no notes but had rehearsed what I wanted to say about thirty-six times that morning until it sounded spontaneous, conversational, even casual.

  “Good morning. I’m Everett Kane. I created the Eve of Equality blog several weeks ago and have written every word in every post. My goal with the blog was simply to make a modest contribution to the ongoing fight for gender equality, something I’ve been interested in since my feminist awakening many years ago in the national student movement. I also decided the blog would be anonymous. I didn’t think a man credibly could, or publicly should, be in the vanguard of the women’s movement. It just didn’t seem right to me. But I did believe there was room in the online world for a feminist blog that offered real substance, reason, and advocacy, but was leavened with humour. And that’s what I’ve tried to write. We don’t seem to appreciate the power of humour in social movements, and I wanted to explore that. The blog was shaped by many conversations I had with the feminist icon Beverley Tanner, whom I was blessed to meet and come to know recently. She remains very funny and very committed to the cause.

  “While many readers likely assumed I was a woman, I think a close reading of the blog will reveal that I did not intentionally mislead or misdirect in my writing. I just never commented on my own gender
. I hope those who might feel that I was not entirely honest will appreciate the dilemma I faced when my humble little blog suddenly became a very big deal.

  “The way I see it, we’re here this morning for two reasons. Firstly, Candace Sharpe somehow stumbled on my blog and promoted it on her talk show. This changed my life in an instant, driving hundreds of thousands of visitors to Eve of Equality, many of whom then subscribed and kept coming back. Overnight, it became one of the most popular feminist sites on the Internet. Secondly, we’re here because of a post I wrote early on about Mason Bennington and his chain of high-end ‘gentlemen’s clubs’ known simply as XY. Mr. Bennington didn’t like what I’d written and launched an all-out effort to identify the writer behind the Eve of Equality blog. In keeping with Mason Bennington’s business practices, he relied on money and muscle, a potent and proven combination, to discover that I was the creator of the blog and the author of the particular post he really didn’t like.

  “Just before sitting down in this chair, I posted a more detailed overview of my dealings with Mason Bennington. I need to be careful about what I say, but I’m here today in response to what any fair-minded observer would call threats, perhaps even blackmail.

  “I did not want my identity as the creator of the Eve of Equality blog to be revealed, and I worked very hard to protect my anonymity. Unfortunately, with Mr. Bennington threatening to blow my cover, control over that secret was no longer in my hands alone. So here we are. Despite what has happened, I intend to continue to write the blog, though for obvious reasons, the focus will shift to the critical role enlightened men must play in the continuing fight for gender equality. I strongly support NOW’S efforts and hope that we can work together more in the future.

  “Finally, my sincere thanks to Shelley Hunter and the great staff here at NOW for helping me through this.”

  I sat back from the microphone.

  “Thank you, Everett,” Shelley said. “And now we’ll open the floor for questions.”

  Leslie Bandler walked to the podium beside the table at the front of the room to manage the Q and A, directing questions as appropriate to Shelley or to me. It all worked quite well.

  “Judy Franklin, CNN. Everett, are you saying that Mason Bennington found out you were the writer behind the blog?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. He threatened to reveal that I was the blogger behind Eve of Equality, unless I wrote a post retracting my earlier essay about him and singing his praises. I wasn’t prepared to do that but believed he would make good on his threat. So it seemed the news was going to get out, one way or another. We decided to preempt him and announce it this morning.”

  “Won’t he just deny your allegations? Isn’t it just your word against his?”

  “He might deny it, but what he doesn’t know, at least until now, is that I have an audio recording of our confrontation where he threatened me,” I said, holding up my cellphone.

  “Can we hear it?” another reporter asked.

  “I’m afraid I cannot share it publicly. But for my own security, there are multiple copies of the MP3 file, including one here at NOW. I’m not expecting to hear from Mason Bennington again, and I certainly hope not to. But having this audio recording gives me some protection, if I ever need it.”

  “Connie Abrahams, ABC News. Are you scared? Bennington has a well-earned reputation as someone you don’t want to mess with.”

  “Scared might not quite capture it fully. I’d describe it as a few white knuckles short of terrified. But I think this is the right thing to do under the circumstances. It’s not comfortable. But we think it’s the right call at the right time.”

  “Tom Grinaldi, NPR News. What’s a young man doing fighting for feminism? It seems a little odd, and a little, I don’t know, counter to your own interests, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t see it that way. I think we’ll all benefit as a society when equality is finally achieved. There were plenty of white folks involved in the civil rights movement. There are plenty of straight people fighting for gay marriages. These are movements that can only succeed if more than the constituency directly affected get engaged. I don’t think it’s odd at all to want women to have the same rights and opportunities as men.”

  “Follow-up, please,” the NPR reporter said. “What has all this cost you? And I don’t mean financially.”

  “I try not to think too much about the costs. Social movements all require sacrifices. But remember, I’m a charter member of society’s most privileged demographic. I’m a white man. And for my entire life so far, I’ve enjoyed all the benefits that naturally accrue to white men. So I don’t think I’ve given up much to write my anonymous feminist essays. I do regret that the nature of the Eve of Equality blog meant that I couldn’t be quite as forthcoming about it with, um, certain friends as I would like to have been. So I guess there’s been a minor cost associated with that. But really, my paltry challenges are dwarfed by the obstacles women face in this country, and in every other country, day in and day out.”

  I paused.

  “Okay, I know that sounded a little preachy. But strange as it may seem, that’s actually how I feel about it all. I can’t really help it.”

  It went on like this for quite a while. Shelley bailed me out a few times and kept the session moving. By 10:45 all the journalists had left so they could file their stories. I followed Shelley back into her office. She sat on the couch and I dropped into a chair across from her.

  “I thought that went rather well,” she said.

  “Well, my standards are quite low right now. I’d consider anything better than falling on my face and responding to reporters’ questions in monosyllabic grunts as success. So I’m quite pleased with how it all unfolded.”

  “You did well for someone who isn’t used to this kind of thing,” she said. “I think the coverage will be positive and plentiful. I also think you need to be careful when you get back to Orlando. I don’t think Mason Bennington will be very happy with you. I’m going to phone a friend in Orlando and call in a favour or two, that might help keep you safe.”

  “I’m not sure what that really means, but I’m grateful. I’m very much in favour of being safe.”

  “Now that the newser is over, I want to plant a seed. Something for you to think about.”

  I nodded but said nothing.

  “We’ve been wrestling for years with how to bring men into the movement in a thoughtful and productive way. We’ve been searching for a Director of Men’s Programs for about six months now and have come up empty. I think we need to go down this path if NOW is to remain relevant.”

  “I like the idea of integrating men’s programming into the work of NOW, provided it’s always in the service of gender equality and not just a way to make men feel better about the power they’ll – er – we’ll be losing,” I replied.

  “My, you are certainly earnest about all of this.”

  “Kind of you to say, but ‘earnest’ isn’t the adjective I usually hear.”

  “I like ‘earnest.’ I like it a lot,” she said. “So would you be interested in applying for the role here at NOW, the Director of Men’s Programs position?”

  CHAPTER 15

  As Shelley had predicted, the coverage was positive and plentiful. It started with several stories on the noon newscasts, was sustained all afternoon by frequent radio hits and plenty of online pieces, and finished strong with multiple supper hour and nightly newscast segments. I still didn’t know why it was considered news. Clearly it was a relatively slow news day. If the pregnant giraffe at the Washington Zoo had given birth that day, I doubt we’d have had any local coverage at all. But what do I know?

  Mason Bennington was almost certainly inundated with interview requests but seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. Not a peep from him was heard. Most of the stories simply noted that he did not respond to interview requests or was unavailable for comment. The EofE blog, Twitter stream, and Gmail account were floode
d with supportive messages. A few comments did arrive suggesting I’d hoodwinked my audience by not owning up to the male genitalia I’d carried around with me for my entire life. But the negative shots were minuscule in number relative to the positive reactions.

  After lunch with Shelley at a small Italian restaurant nearby, where she talked a lot about the Men’s Programs position, I returned to the NOW offices to say thanks and goodbye to the team who made the media briefing happen on such short notice. Then I hopped in a cab and headed back to the airport for my 5:30 flight. Unfortunately, a front of thunderstorms rolled in just as we were taxiing out to our runway. The pilot was trying to get off the ground before the lightning started striking the ground. She wasn’t quite successful. So we taxied back to the gate and sat for three hours as the rain pelted the plane. Several people had recognized me in the airport from the media coverage but, thankfully, no one on the plane gave me a second glance.

  It was nearly midnight when I finally made it back to the apartment. As I approached the building, I saw a police officer standing near my separate entrance. A cruiser was parked not too far away. That was strange. I saw no yellow tape cordoning off the area, so I figured it wasn’t too serious. The nightly community rally was underway, but its intensity and energy seemed to have waned. Very few cars were pulling up to the front doors of XY.

  “Is everything all right, officer?” I asked as I slipped my key into the front door.

  “Are you Everett Kane?”

  “I am. Why?”

  “I’ve been asked to secure your apartment and stay close for the next little while.”

  “Really? You’re kidding. How come?”

  “I don’t really know the full story, but I’ve been led to believe you made somebody very angry. I’m just here to make sure you stay safe.”

  “But how did you know about it? Who gave the order?” I asked.

  “My lieutenant got a call from a buddy on the force in DC. And here I am.”