Blindfolded justice under the law must prevail

Lying on the pavement in the English town of Sunderland as seven or eight lads provided “a kicking,” that fetal position came naturally, protecting the vital organs, as the unborn do, as witnessed on those ultrasound photos, beloved of parents-to-be.

Wrong place, wrong time, that was all. It wasn’t personal and no real damage done, thanks to that instinctive, protective posturing. Such were the joys of teenage life in 1970s Britain.

Years later, I was in Atlanta, Ga. The only white face in a wealthy Black neighbourhood, part of a cultural exchange program, set up by U.S. President Jimmy Carter. It was called Georgians and Geordies (as those from my birthplace are called).

It was my first U.S. trip.

I’d never seen such wealth. A massive house, with a backyard swimming pool and a basement poolroom, for heaven’s sakes, plus several air-conditioned, fancy cars. My mom had just got her first fridge.

But, best of all, was the return from college of two beautiful, young daughters. So, one evening the three of us kiddies trekked off to Six Flags Over Georgia for some fairground fun.

This was 1978 in the southern United States, a white man happily holding hands with two Black girls while strolling through an amusement park. The kicking in that bus depot wasn’t nice, but this would prove mindless violence can be preferable to sheer hatred.

It was so humid and tense our clenched hands dripped with combined sweat as we clung to each other amid the vicious comments and ugly stares. But we’d be damned to let go. I would have died for those lovely, steadfast girls that night. They deserved so much better than that.

Being a white man, that was the closest I’ve come to experiencing real racism. Not violence, but unadulterated hate for no other reason than skin colour. Apparently, I was a traitor to some clan I’d never asked to join.

It flooded back this past week. How could it not, with the riots in the U.S. and major marches by mostly young people here in Calgary?

Good for them, I thought. They should march more often. Maybe they would if they figured out what our politicians and central bankers are handing them with diminished futures and unimaginable debt.

Yet, there’s unease. Not because marchers disobeyed that social distancing stuff, but because city/provincial officials deemed doing so was OK. Then the prime minister actually joined such crowds last weekend.

Hold on. So the law isn’t the same for everyone? And somehow that’s a recipe for defeating racism? It seems more an original cause.

Because, of all the bulwarks against tyranny, that we’re equal under the law remains the strongest. So let people march. You allow it for one, then do so for all. To let officialdom cherry-pick the cause deemed worthy of some free pass risks more than quieting cries of Black lives mattering. Because, in the end, it’s the individual who matters: more than any collective race, creed, sex, religion or political party.

Not even how we die — that’s simply the inevitable fall. But how we stand. So, when one bravely marches, it clears the path for everyone.

Social distancing, cluster at home orders and all such official decrees are now dusted. How can they be otherwise?

How can tickets be issued at a funeral if more than the sanctioned numbers of mourners attend? Or any Gay Pride march prevented? Or any rearranged Way of the Cross gathering banned? Or some mass demonstration against higher taxes held outside city hall?

Who picks what proceeds? Doing so threatens the acquired freedom many died for down the ages: equality before the law. Because racism itself arises from a premise one person is superior for no other reason than skin colour. In response, we must attest — what passes for one goes for all.

Justice, eyes covered, is all we seek. Our politicians should not play peekaboo with that blindfold.

Chris Nelson is a regular columnist for the Calgary Herald.