Let it be said

Watching the calendar slip by, one taps the coil of memories. One memory in particular sways me. Wise men state sublimely that cleansing the soul brings rewards. And people live long after death when someone states their names.

I have two names. They are names I want you ...reader, to retain.

The first name is Darlene Moses. The second name is Howard Desmoulin. As a favor, burn them into those memory cells so they may live long after I am gone. They had very short lives. And it wasn't their fault. It was an accident of time. It was an accident of place of birth. Serendipity served them poorly.

I use only their names in this article. It is not for secrecy or fear of triggering any legal retaliation. Rather holding consistent with the theme, other names will not be used because they do not deserve to be memorialized by repetition of those names.

You see Darlene and Howard were victims of racism. Racism indirectly killed them. They died together in a car. Carbon monoxide ended their lives on a cold winter's night.

I first met them both in my first stint in grade nine. Darlene appeared a mousy girl, a large round face and glasses. She was extremely studious, hard working, attentive and quiet. In the street speak of the time, she had brains.

Darlene had wonderful hand writing. I once managed to read one of the papers she wrote. It was fantastic. Hardly any of the familiar red marks on it. But the teacher had only given her a “C” on it. Clearly the essay excelled mine and I had earned a B+. It disturbed.

Howard came from the same community as Darlene. Meeting him in PE class, the Phys Ed teacher decided that we were ideal wrestling (Olympic style) partners. Training together gave us a mutual respect.

Both appeared to have a difficult time in school. Some classes they shone. In others they failed. It was a problem that all teens from that community had. The high school faculty claimed that it was because of the bus ride they had every day.

A problem with an essay assignment kept me waiting by the faculty lounge. The door was open and I parked the butt against the wall. Teachers streamed in and out. Students weren't allowed in. Naturally the only teacher I wanted was absent. But all faculty came here before going to class. It was the best place to wait.

Conversation streamed out from the lounge. The business teacher rolled in like a politician on an election campaign, walking by me without attention, I couldn't vote. At that point, I didn't care for the guy. He wormed his influence to a good gig. Business was introduced as a specialty. He also got himself onto the promotions committee. So much for my progress.

The scuttlebutt was that a couple of his pets were invited to the teach's house and there he proudly showed nude photos of his wife. His wife was another high school teacher. She was a looker for a really old woman in her thirties.

This high school was located in what would be called a rural backwater area. Most of the teachers of that period came there not because of the excitement of Northern Ontario living. Rather the reason was that they couldn't be hired anywhere else. They all were fresh out of teaching schools. They all were planning a short experience resume stay. We were in their eyes, uncultured country bumpkins. The business teacher held to that attitude.

Business teacher's voice was clear and a few decibels above the rest. For the most part one ignores the comments of going golfing, fishing and going to the camp or cottage. One comment came stinging through the cacophony, “I will never pass an Indian!”

It was the biz teacher. “Not a chance. I don't care what kind of topic they hand in. They won't get past me...”

I held my breath. Moments passed. Nary a contrary word. None of the other faculty stood up to oppose this comment. Darlene and Howard were screwed.