On the east side of the street, a vendor sells straw hats, Canadian flags and popcorn. He catches the eyes of the twins as he twists a plastic bag closed and hands it to a young couple. His glance is solemn and serious. Is it apologetic? Disgusted? It is unclear.
Farther south, a father carries his toddler on his hip and points at the twins. His older child jumps in front of him, begging for a better look at the procession.
On the west side of the street a pair of women sandwich a Boot and take selfies. All three make the peace sign before taking several photos. “Yay!” the women exclaim.
Behind them a man sits atop a newspaper box. He watches the twins pass. His arms bookend his fat belly. When the twins make eye contact with him, he mouths the word “Sorry” before descending from the box and disappearing among the masses.
The media continue to follow the sisters north on Yonge, both Adea and Amana seemingly calm, their faces neutral. The crowd begins to chant.
“REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN!” Liv can feel the breath of the crowd pushing against her chest with each unified word punctuated with cartoonish war cries. “REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN!”
Adea squeezes Amana’s hand and gestures with her chin to look up. Boots pace along the edge of each building rooftop. Guns point at the twins’ heads. Helicopters circle the sky. The twins interlace fingers to join their now sweaty palms and continue their graceful procession.
As they approach Yonge-Dundas Square, they see risers full of international delegates in their finery waiting, watching, with translators by their sides. A sea of more than three thousand white spectators in their straw hats parts, and the twins slowly ascend a wide ramp to the concrete stage, which has two large speakers on either side.
Liv reaches her hand out to stop the twins momentarily as Prime Minister Dunphy begins his speech. He is even more handsome in person than he is on television, although slightly thinner in build under his charcoal-grey suit. His charismatic smile flashes at the audience of delegates, and they can’t help but smile back. Beside him stands Charles, smirking at Liv. Liv smiles back and stands guard over the twins. A quiet descends upon the crowd.
“Good afternoon, my fellow Canadians.” Cheers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs. One year ago today, I stood on Parliament Hill doubting everything we were celebrating. We faced some of the greatest challenges our country has faced since its inception. Widespread floods followed by drought and wildfires left countless Canadians homeless and businesses out of commission. Leading a nation forward while its citizens were on their knees begging for mercy was no easy feat. But I was determined to lead nonetheless.” Dunphy chokes up. He takes out a tissue and dabs at tears that do not exist. Cameras click. He continues. “In the wake of such turmoil, difficult decisions were made during difficult times, including the Two Nations, One Vision campaign, which, along with our neighbours in the United States of America, worked to rid our lands of terror and tyranny. I can tell you that despite the madness of those times, the Government of Canada never stopped believing in the power of democracy and the power of its people!” Cheers. “Here in Toronto, the pilot program, the Renovation, has created jobs and has helped feed families across the nation. The founding of seven strategically placed workhouses in this great city has transformed the manufacturing industry into a local operation, made for Canadians by Canadians. On these compounds live flourishing, healthy communities of Others who are given free housing and shelter. Within walking distance of each workhouse are schools, ensuring the next generation of Others will receive an in-depth education in the skills they need to succeed in the future. It is with Canadians in mind that we assert the Government of Canada’s constitutional authority to expand this vital project as a federal initiative. It is with great excitement that we announce that on this day, on this nation’s birthday, we launch Renovations in Vancouver, Calgary, Montreal and Halifax. From sea to sea, this nation will see the glory of hard work, of unity and peace. This time in our lives is a time of great transformation, here in Canada and around the world. From climate change to the rise of extreme politics, we must fight against the forces that have the potential to pull us apart. The Renovation will help us weather these changes the way Canadians always do when faced with adversity: by pulling together!”
The crowd of straw hats lets out a thunderous cheer. Liv steps aside to stage right as the cheers die down. Adea and Amana step onto the stage and make eye contact with Dunphy. Silence. The twins, still holding hands, bow ceremoniously, spreading the enormous tulle of their conjoined skirts into a pool of pink at the feet of the prime minister. He grins. The crowd roars. Submission.
“Adea and Amana. Internationally renowned heroines of the LGBTQ2S and Black community, it is with great honour that we welcome you to the stage to share with the world the beauty of change, the beauty of the Renovation.” Cheers. The twins proceed to the microphone, and the prime minister takes his seat among his entourage. Charles and the rest of the Boots cross to stage right where Liv stands. The delegates watch with bated breath. A media scrum pools at the foot of the stage. Reporters point their recording devices towards the twins and adjust their headphones for this momentous occasion.
When the sisters, still holding hands, assume their position, they see that two transparent teleprompters have been placed on either side of them, projecting the speech that Charles has prescribed them.
Amana starts as per the scrolling script: “Good afternoon, Summit of Nations.” Her voice is even. Calm. Smooth. The audience is completely silent. “My name is Amana.”
“And my name is Adea.”
“We are here today to not only welcome the world to our wondrous nation, but to celebrate its birthday.” Thunderous applause.
Adea continues. “This milestone is marked with revolutionary change helmed by our esteemed prime minister.” The prime minister waves back at the twins, offers a small wave to the delegates and the crowd. A flash of that charismatic smile.
Amana reads, “Since its inception only seven months ago, the Renovation has created thousands of jobs across Toronto in manufacturing and distribution. In addition to making goods for Canadians by Canadians, all workers are entitled to housing for themselves and for their hardworking families. All Others like me and my sister have been put to task, living the creed of the Renovation: Through our work, our nation prospers. Through our unity, we end conflict. Through our leader, we find peace. Through order, we find tranquility.” Applause. Inquisitive looks from the media scrum, waiting.
Liv takes a tube of lip balm from her pocket, applies it and looks straight at the twins. The twins nod. They reposition themselves away from the teleprompters.
Adea continues, this time with conviction in her voice. “Perhaps this may all seem familiar to you. But they are lies. Because what our prime minister calls jobs, what he may call ‘housing,’ others call forced labour camps.” A collective gasp across the crowd of spectators.
Charles stands. Liv steps close and points a gun into his back, hidden from the crowd. He stops. “Remember, Charles, the world is watching.” Liv flashes a look at the prime minister, who glares back at her with surprised contempt. The crowd waits, frozen.
“People of the world, international media, know this. What you are seeing is a ruse! And my and my sister’s presence here is simply subterfuge to distract you from a greater tragedy! A continued tragic story spanning back to the genocide of this land’s Indigenous people. We are not free! We are among millions of Others who have been forced into camps or into hiding! We must liberate our fellow citizens from this tyranny. At this very moment, every workhouse in the city is being destroyed. The Renovation must be stopped!” The microphone is abruptly disconnected, and Amana’s speech can no longer be heard.
The spectators raise their voices in a collective uproar. The media scrum around the base of the stage goes into a
frenzy, microphones pointing at the twins, hoping to catch audio.
We emerge from the tulle of the twins’ conjoined skirts. Three of us at first. Firuzeh lets out a loud yelp. Hearing the signal, five more emerge from behind the speakers. From under the stage, another twenty. Us Others. Holding guns. A round of shots is fired, and one of the Boots is flung from the top of a building to his death. We look up and see a Boot who has pushed another Boot to his death. He removes his helmet and lets out a yelp to reveal himself as an ally. We look around and see several like him, stepping to the side and turning on their own as part of the Resistance. They each remove their helmets so that we can identify our allies. Yelps of identification. The delegates and prime minister hit the deck. Screams among the crowd.
We follow our plan. Firuzeh and I each disarm a Boot. Deflect end of rifle with left palm. Punch with right fist to the chin or kick to stomach. Butt of the gun to the face. Take the weapon. Bahadur, given their height, struggles a bit. I hold my breath, wondering if they have it in them to do as we were taught. Bahadur finally delivers a kick to the Boot’s stomach and manages to disarm him. They hold the rifle in the air and scream away the fear, their eyes focused and their body full of adrenalin. As instructed, we holster our Glocks and shoulder our newly acquired rifles. I look through the scope at Liv speaking to Charles onstage, her gun aimed now at the back of his head.
“Stand down!” Charles hesitates. “Tell your men to stand down, Charles. NOW!” Charles debates this in his head, whether to obey Liv. His arms up. His masculinity fragile. He looks around confused and enraged as he sees Boots pointing guns at their fellow officers in resistance. “Every camera is on us right now, and at least half of your men have turned against you, Charles. Do it!”
Charles sees Prime Minister Dunphy, his security ushering him from the stage. Delegates balled up on the ground, screaming. Liv steps back slightly and shoots. The bullet rips through Charles’s ear. “Stand down or I won’t miss next time.”
Cameras shift from the twins to the mess of artillery pointing in various directions. Holding the bloody mess at the side of his head, as if the blood is music he does not want to hear, Charles gives a signal and the remaining Boots reluctantly stand down. Through the scope of my gun, I can see Charles making one last attempt to reach for his own weapon, and again Liv shoots. She does not miss.
“Good boy,” she says to the corpse beneath her. Looking at me, she nods.
We Others proceed to move about the crowd, taking the Boots’ weapons, the guns still warm from their hands. We act as we were trained to, assessing danger at every level, every angle.
Two Others in wheelchairs—one with a frayed denim vest and the other with a series of piercings in their* ears—move swiftly among the fallen. They bulldoze past screaming spectators who move to the side at the last second, seeing the unapologetic determination in their eyes.
Denim Vest approaches a fallen Boot, still twitching and bleeding from a towering fall. They lean over to dislodge the rifle. After a few earnest pulls, Denim Vest punches the air with rifle in hand, yelping at their acquisition. They continue their work of disarming the bloodied and still bodies of Boots.
The Other with piercings launches several multicoloured smoke bombs, wheeling their chair in larger and larger circles to force the crowd to clear the way, bulldozing anyone who dares to block their path. They signal for us to move forward as planned, and we obey their orders.
The rest of the Others gather in a circle around the twins. Some of us wear our runaway clothes. These clothes we wore before we disappeared, now weathered and stained. Some still have their heads shaved. Some have mouths that end in frowning scars. We rush towards our circle. All of us have the look of terror in our eyes. One disarmed Boot attempts to infiltrate our circle and another Boot shoots him in the neck. He collapses. The shooter removes his helmet and yelps to identify himself as an ally. More screams.
“Fucking n_ _ _ _ _s!” One spectator throws a can of cola at my feet. My face gets hot at the sensation of the brown liquid pooling at my shoes. I feel my arms go still.
“Get to work, towel head!”
“Go to hell!”
“Die, you tranny whores!”
Debris begins to fly from every direction. The sounds of bullets whizzing through the air. My arms. My arms. They can’t move. I look at Bahadur, their grip loose on their rifle. Their arms are droopy, succumbing to the humiliation.
“REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN! REH! NOH! VAY! SHUN!”
Onstage, Beck appears on top of one of the speakers and hollers out a high-pitched call to the audience. I witness a slight pause. A split second. A fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a moment where he doubts himself. Wonders if he is doing the right thing. It is the slightest shade of shame for betraying those like him. And then it lapses. He breathes in, he shakes his hands free, then, with the power of the flames he once set on that protest site years ago, he lights within himself the rage needed to let his voice be heard.
“WHEN I DO NOT ACT, I AM COMPLICIT!” Beck says while simultaneously raising his rifle above his head horizontally with an end in each hand. He takes a deep breath here, steps forward with a lunge and moves in a downward motion with his rifle. Another fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a moment where he wonders who will join him. Suddenly, I see dozens of other white folks taking a step forward, executing the same gestures, with or without weapons. Some are in the crowd. Some are in the audience of delegates. Some are Boots.
They continue in unison. Their words filling my heart. Liv joins in, Charles’s blood pooling at her feet.
When I do not act, I am complicit!
When I know wrong is happening, I act!
When the oppressed tell me I am wrong, I open my heart and change!
When change is led by the oppressed, I move aside and uplift!
Raise arms, step forward, lunge back, kneel. Finally, just as Hanna suggested, Beck leads the allies in covering their mouths, touching their hearts and pointing towards us like a spotlight, this gathering of Others. When their phrase of movement is over, the white allies move through the incredulous crowds and encircle us Others. They join hands to create a barricade. Firuzeh looks at me and nods. We move forward as planned, slowly, as a unified body. Allies on the outskirts. Others within, protecting each other. We slowly proceed toward Yonge Street in silence. Spectators angrily glare at us as we move past a sea of straw hats.
I abide by Beck’s instructions and prepare myself to begin saying our names. Prepare to say mine loud and clear so that the media will know we are real people who have survived a real genocide. My heart races, forming the words in my heart and allowing them to travel up my esophagus, piece by piece.
“Queen Kay.” I see the memory of you, my beautiful Evan, standing before me. Your image is pixelated by every word I have written in every Whisper Letter I have sent. Standing at your side is your mother, who clasps hands with you and smiles at me in wonder.
“Look at me,” says Mrs. King, the blue of her cataracts flashing at me like a beacon. “Be as big as you want to be.”
I feel the words exit my lips, as planned. I hear my voice loud and proud, echoing off the storefronts, knowing that in every workhouse in the city, there are Others saying the same thing while evacuating the premises. Through the smoke, under falling brick, over barbed wire fences; from the Don Valley to Ward’s Island, from Scarborough to the Junction, people are saying their names. A declaration. We are kites, prayers flying in the sky, knowing freedom.
“MY NAME IS KAY! I AM THE SON OF GABBY NOPUENTE AND KEITH WATSON SMITH! AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!” I say it loud enough that the media scrum shifts its focus to me. Microphones. Flashing cameras.
Bahadur looks at me, tears welling in their eyes, then looks forward with bravery. “MY NAME IS BAHADUR TALEBI! I AM THE CHILD OF FATIMA TALEBI. AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!”
We continue north on Yonge Street. The media following us. The circle
of allies unbreakable. The twins holding hands, crying. Each one of us calling out our names. Perhaps for the last time. Perhaps so that the world will know we existed. We call out our names.
“MY NAME IS ISABEL RODRIGUEZ! I AM THE DAUGHTER OF MARIA AND ISADORO RODRIGUEZ. AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!”
“MY NAME IS ALAN SCOTT! I AM THE CHILD OF VIRGINIA SCOTT. AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!”
“MY NAME IS FIRUZEH PASDAR!” Firuzeh’s voice shakes, overwhelmed with emotion. “I AM THE DAUGHTER OF AYESHA AND MOSTAFA PASDAR.” She swallows again. “AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!”
“MY NAME IS GRACE CARDINAL. I AM THE GRANDDAUGHTER OF ELEANOR THUNDERCLOUD. AND WE ALL DESERVE TO LIVE!”
“MY NAME IS BENJAMIN HUXLEY! I AM THE GRANDSON OF TEDDY COOMBS. AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!”
“MY NAME IS MARTHA GREER! I AM THE MOTHER OF ANTHONY AND JESSICA GREER, WHEREVER THEY ARE. WE ALL DESERVE TO LIVE!” Sobs.
“MY NAME IS ARTHUR YEBUGA! SON OF REGGIE AND SARAH YEBUGA. AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!”
“MY NAME IS GILBERT LEFRANCOIS! CHILD OF LOUIS AND MAUDE LEFRANCOIS! AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!”
“MY NAME IS ZAHRA MOHAMMED! MOTHER OF MY BABY ALI, WHEREVER HE IS. WE ALL DESERVE TO LIVE!”
“MY NAME IS CHASE KWAN! SON OF ELIZABETH AND RICKY KWAN. AND I DESERVE TO LIVE!”
We march to the horizon of asphalt, heat mirages snaking into the air, not knowing what awaits us. We march in our runaway clothes, our hiding clothes, our disappearing clothes, our working clothes. We march to the sound of our own names. We march for those who cannot march. Some of us without our families. All of us older. All of us surviving. We march north on Yonge Street calling out our names to the sky.
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