“Boys will be boys,” I would always hear my mother say in response to yet another fight that happened at school, even when it wasn’t the boys fighting. That is one of the most common phrases I hear from parents. Yet April 20, 1999 brought a marked change in many parents’ opinions; on that day, twelve people were brutally murdered, and another twenty-four wounded before the assailants committed suicide in what was soon to be known as the Columbine High School massacre. After the events of that day, parents began to believe that it was no longer a matter of “boys will be boys,” but was instead a concern that needed to be addressed. Nearly eight years later, things have not changed; fights continue to occur in schools, bullying is as much an issue today as it was then, and the issue of drugs has only increased. Now, as a mother myself, I find myself concerned about the failure of the education system to adapt a zero tolerance policy in regards to youth violence. While many schools will inform parents that they will not tolerate violence, the truth is that they can and do tolerate it, and often look the other way.

Youth violence can be defined as any intentional physical, sexual, emotional or psychological assault on another person (or persons) by one or more young people aged 12 to 19 years. Zero tolerance towards youth violence of any kind in schools means that violence would not be accepted as the norm, and would instead be punished heavily upon the first offence; this includes bullying, taunting, teasing, and fighting, as well as drug usage, which is known to lead to violence. Students must be held accountable for their own actions and recognize that their misbehaviour is a result of conscious choices, not the result of disadvantage, discrimination or peer pressure. There must be clearly defined consequences for violence and other misconduct in order to provide for a safe environment for everyone to feel safe in the education system.

Currently, youth violence is an issue that is glossed over, and over-looked by many individuals in the education system. This allows for more violence and misconduct to occur than what could be considered safe.  Gangs and drug usage are one of the most common concerns in high schools today, both of which lead to violent situations. According to the Edmonton Police Service “there is a growing concern about gangs in schools. Gang-related problems have escalated, and schools are now in the position of deterring gangs and gang-related activity for the safety of themselves and the students.” (Edmonton Police Services) Gangs are known for creating, and thriving in, violent situations. They are also behind much of the drug-related issues in many high schools. Drug usage is an issue for many students, especially for those who feel pressured into doing the harder drugs such as crystal methamphetamine, a drug which is known to cause a psychological effect on users, commonly provoking them towards violence.

While it is difficult to determine the exact extent of youth violence in Canadian high schools, we see that every year one in ten youths comes into contact with the police for violations of the Criminal Code or other federal statutes. While ten percent may not appear to be a great deal, we must take into account that the average number of students in a classroom ranges from twenty to thirty students. As well, in the past eight years, we have seen a dramatic increase in youth violence, and homicide rates.

A zero tolerance policy towards youth violence would prevent a great deal of the violence that occurs in high schools, and allows corrective action to take place in the event that violent events do occur. If students expect there to be no tolerance for any violent actions they intentionally take, whether physical, sexual, emotional or psychological, they would be less likely to take action and instead think things over before making a decision as to what action they would take.

“If I knew I wouldn’t have been able to get away with [getting into fights] then I wouldn’t have done it. The teachers never cared,” said Stephen Guldbrandsen when asked about his violent past in school. Suspended only once for fighting, he had a reputation as one of the more violent young men at M. E. LaZerte Composite High School, and was a football player on the Junior team, where that reputation helped him. As a father of one now, he is more than willing to admit that a zero tolerance policy towards youth violence is a requirement in today’s schools. “The peer pressure to do drugs affected my judgement, and probably was what brought out that violence. [Teachers] really should have watched out for the drugs,” he adds.

With teachers and various educational staff looking the other way in regards to youth violence and other forms of misconduct we are sending a message that this is allowed, even acceptable behaviour, when in fact, it is not. “Boys will be boys,” is not a valid excuse for the violence we see in today’s schools. Youth violence is a growing trend that needs to be remedied, and the best way in which to correct this behaviour is to stop it at the first indication of trouble. The moment we allow it to proceed unchecked we are giving our consent and our blessing; this is not acceptable. Instead, we should be operating under a zero tolerance policy, wherein bullies, students who fight, and students who push drugs upon others are held accountable for their actions.

Bibliography

Edmonton Police Services. 28 January 2007 .

Guldbrandsen, Stephen. Interview. Laureen Guldbrandsen. 23 January 2007.

Statistics Canada, Canadian Centre for Justice Statistics. "Canadian Crime Statistics." Juristat, 16(10) (1995): 14-15.

As children we are taught that “sticks and stones” can break bones, but that names cannot hurt us; we are raised to believe that names have no real emotional value, not to complain when we are called names. And then we are told that the opposite is the truth. These same children are taught that to call a black man a “nigger” is wrong and hurtful, to call an Asian woman a “chink” is cruel, and to never call a Native American “primitives” or “savages.” This name-calling that we, as children, were taught meant nothing has grown to have a huge impact in the world as we grow older. With that impact we begin to learn about being “politically correct,” and our thoughts and speech shift accordingly. But how much is too much? Is there a point where we must step back and begin to name things as we see them, or do we persist in using euphemisms to name groups, cultures, and people?

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet” (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet act II, sc. ii) Shakespeare was wrong when he stated that a name is not what matters, but what it is inside that affects us. The names that we call one another, or ourselves can affect our way of thinking about ourselves. If a young teenager consistently hears herself called “fatty” she is more likely to perceive herself as being fat, whereas that same girl constantly called “beautiful” is more likely to have a higher self-image.

Names matter to people, and while what is inside does count, the names we are called can affect our perception of ourselves and others. The name “nigger” is an example of how much a single word can impact our reality. Gloria Naylor writes of how that word can have many different meanings depending on who it is that speaks it, and to whom they are speaking. A young black woman may call her boyfriend “my nigger” without anyone batting an eye, yet a young white child calling the black girl a “nigger” will be reprimanded immediately, and with good cause. After all, it’s not a very PC word to use, and one of the worst racial slurs known to the English language.

If a name we give ourselves, or are called can affect one individual so much then when we look at a name for an entire group of people we see how it can either create social cohesion, or can tear apart a community. Biased language has allowed bigots and tyrants in the past to control others by removing their humanity, and reducing them to mere property or objects; making them below the rest of us. For example, Maggio says that calling Asians by racial slurs “made it easier to kill them.” (Maggio 506) When we de-humanize another person we make it all right to behave in a manner in which we would not normally act; for example, the slavery of many black men and women only a mere couple hundred years ago.

However, many groups are making a concerted effort to reclaim many words that have been commonly used as slurs. Lillian Faderman specifically references a group of young gays and lesbians in New York, in the 1960s and 1970s, who made an effort to reclaim the word “queer” by calling themselves the Queer Nation. “There are now enclaves of the Queer Nation all over the country.” (Faderman 545) By choosing to reclaim a name that is fraught with emotional tension and making it their own they have not only given themselves a newly remade word to title themselves with, they have also created the opportunity to become a closer knit community of people. Another group that has begun the act of reclaiming a title is Wiccans, reclaiming the word “witch,” commonly used as a derogatory insult towards women in general. They find pride in a word that causes a political stir, and are willing to work hard to re-shape the word to define what many Wiccans perceive to be the new witches–caring, loving, and peaceful.

Where Maggio strives for the political correctness, with its euphemisms that veils meaning in flowery phrases, that is proliferate in today’s society, Michiko Kakutani believes there is a spread of “sloppy, abstract language.” (Kakutani 519) Euphemisms, and the kinder ways of phrasing things do nothing to help those groups which are named by them. By making light of the situation in the way we speak of it, we are detracting from the seriousness, and as such making life more difficult for these same persons. For example, because someone is “poor,” and we refuse to acknowledge them as such, instead referring to them as “the economically marginalized,” they are less likely to receive the support and assistance that they require in order to survive in today’s world.

Suppressing and hiding politically charged words and phrases do not prevent harm from being done; instead, it cloaks the harm, secreting it behind a mask of political correctness. Names can bind us together; we are humans, mankind, citizens and people. They can tear us apart; there are Jews, Chinks, Redskins, Niggers, Rednecks, and Whites… They can be reclaimed, like queer, and witch. Names can build the self-esteem or they can shatter it. Names have proven that they have the ability to harm as well as heal, and that old childhood rhyme can be safely set to the side and forgotten. Sticks and stones can break bones, but names have more power than can be known. However, if we persist in hiding behind the euphemisms that clog modern speech we add to their strength to do harm, and detract from their ability to heal. Naming ourselves and others allows us a way to connect, and bond with one another.

Works Cited

Faderman, Lillian. “Queer.” in Exploring Language, Gary Goshgarian edition. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004

Kakutani, Michiko. “The Word Police.” in Exploring Language, Gary Goshgarian edition. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004

Maggio, Rosalie. “Bias-Free Language: Some Guidelines.” in Exploring Language, Gary Goshgarian edition. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004

Naylor, Gloria. “”Nigger”: The Meaning of a Word.” in Exploring Language, Gary Goshgarian edition. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004

Shakespeare, William. Romeo and Juliet. New York: Washington Square Press, 1992

the last kiss

tasted like tobacco

a bitter and sad smell

-- Utada Hikaru "First Love"

Walking down the sidewalk, my head ducked down, toque pulled low, scarf high, I catch the scent of cigarette smoke, and it lingers reminding me of you. The way it used to cling to you, mingling with your cologne, and the underlying scent of you. It makes me smile, a small comfort as I continue on my way to work. I never thought it was possible to feel so strongly for any one person, other than my daughter. I bury my hands in my jacket pocket and allow myself to remember the smell of you as you kissed me awake this morning, the taste of tobacco lingering on your lips, smoke tingling my nose. If I lick my lips I can still taste you there. It's kind of funny, I'm a non-smoker but the smell of cigarette smoke is just one of the things I love about you, even though I bug you to quit.

Winter has come and gone, and the smell of cigarette smoke lingers on your side of the bed, clinging desperately to the pillow I'm soaking my tears in. You left, and all I have to remind me of you is this smell, and a child still growing within me. It's not fair, because he'll never get a chance to meet you, or to smell that cigarette smoke that just screams your name. The taste of you lingers on my lips, mingling with the salt of my tears as I clutch your pillow tighter and roll over. It feels like my heart has been torn out of my chest, and the smoke fills the empty space and I cry.

Every once in a while I catch the scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, a dark cloud on some days, reminding of the day you left me. On those days I can feel my throat clenching, holding back tears. Other days I can remember that sense of comfort, the smell of you as you held me close when I was scared and needed your touch to soothe me. It's kind of funny how even now the smell of cigarette smoke, the taste of it, reminds me of you.

I took myself on a date, as it were -- this in itself is surprising because as a single mother of two finding the time to do something like this isn't an easy task. Somehow I managed to find the time while house-sitting, and when both of the kids were tucked up in bed. I grabbed my palm pilot, loaded up with a couple CDs in mp3 format, and my sketchpad and went for a walk.

Out of the city there's a different ambience, the night is still and quiet, but for all the lack of street lights it's still breathtakingly brilliant. The light of the stars and the moon shimmer, and if I let my eyesight go just a little fuzzy I can almost convince myself that it's a group of fairies dancing in the bush. I prefer that idea than the reality of he breeze stirring the snow enough to create that magical glimmer.

The sound of Nelly Furtado flows through the ear buds, rattling around in my head and I take a moment to listen to the words.

You speak out all you feel is defiance

All you need is some self-reliance.¹

More truthful words I can't think of. Self-reliance… the thought sparks and as I settle into the tree house, my legs swinging over the balcony I won't let my daughter near, and I begin to sketch. I'm no artist, but like anything I do I do it for the enjoyment.

Take the lead or follow

I want to feel the light shine on me.¹

Doesn't everyone? I pause a moment, considering. I'm shy by nature, maybe I don't truly want the light to shine on me -- at least not all the time. Maybe every once in a while.

The song changes, and I can't help but laugh because really, this song is most definitely one that could be handed in as a dramatic monologue.

At first I wrote it "dear you," then it turned,

"to whom it may concern."

I began it in this way because

I needed to express through these words,

How deeply I was hurt²

Which song? The Letter, by Heather Headley. Reminds me of my ex-fiancé, and I almost wish I knew how to get hold of him to let him hear it. Maybe I am still bitter. Scratch that… I am bitter. I switch the song on purpose, because really, who needs to be feeling melancholy on such a beautiful night? And besides, this is my date with myself.

So afraid to open your eyes, hypnotized.³

Evanescence plays, dark and angsty… hard, and wild. Somehow, where The Letter made me feel melancholy this song makes me sing along, head bopping in time, legs swinging through the air.

Heaven shine a light down on me.³

The moonlight shimmers over the snow, and I glance at the time displayed on the screen of my palm. Hmmm, it's been a few hours, and the baby will be waking up soon to nurse. I guess it means that my date is over. Hey, I got to draw and write… and to be honest I feel a lot more relaxed now than I did before.

¹Nelly Furtado, "Afraid"

²Heather Headley, "The Letter"

³Evanescence, "The Only One"

Three and a half months pregnant and all of a sudden, the gut wrenching morning sickness had changed from one breath to the next. I had almost gotten used to the need to vomit at any smell, regardless of how fond of it I had been before being pregnant; God only knew how many times I had to beg off on cooking supper because the smell of raw meat had made my stomach clench in horror. I had been exhausted, queasy, and generally unhappy. For all the pain and sorrow I had been going through, I would have thought to have something to show for it, but instead my stomach was nearly as flat as it had always been.

The smell of freshly brewed English Toffee coffee filled the air and instead of the urge to vomit, I found myself inhaling deeply. The scent flooded the senses with a sense of peace and homecoming, taunting me with its nearness. The rich warmth of the smell of coffee caressed me, a gentle touch that reminded of cold winter nights curled up in front of the fire with my husband.

I glanced over at my husband, Mark, ready to share my thrilling revelation with him when I paused, caught up in his easy beauty. Blond hair, a little shaggy, and in desperate need of a haircut, fell into his chillingly bright blue eyes, and his lips looked soft and tender. It was as though I was seeing him for the first time all over again, and I smiled, musing on how breathtaking he looked first thing in the morning. Sleep still clung to him, eyes hooded against the light of morning, shadow covering his strong jaw. Beautiful, I breathed, and as he took a sip of his coffee, I swallowed heavily.

There, clinging to his perfect lower lip, a drop of coffee lingered, tantalizing, taunting, and tempting me. Soft, wet brown traveled across the pale pink of his lips, caressing them, leaving behind a trail of heavenly coffee flavour. It tormented me as my vision narrowed until all I could see was those lips, with that single drop of coffee that hung poised, before the sight of his deep pink tongue darting out to catch the drop broke my vision.

Without thinking, I leaned forward and caught his lip between mine, halting the progress of his tongue, savouring the first taste of coffee to pass my lips in three months. It was perfection that I hadn’t expected, the taste of the coffee bursting in my mouth, flooding it with the combined taste of English Toffee, and the unique flavour of Mark. I’d forgotten the way he tasted, and took my time remembering just what I had been missing these past few months before pulling away.  

Opening my eyes slowly, I was greeted by the sight of my husband as he breathed out on a sigh, smiling sleepily at me. I smiled in return, taking his cup and setting it to the side. There was time yet to return to the coffee—later.

They weren’t real, or so she’d always been told – when she was a young girl her mother had called her a liar, and she had quickly learned not to bother mentioning it to her. A figment of her imagination, she was told, and over time she almost accepted that fact as her own reality; except she still saw them everywhere. She would be on her way to work at the office and there beside the road would be a white horse, running along side the bus, eyes full of sorrowful wisdom watching her. She tried to ignore them, she honestly did. After all, they weren’t real. After mentioning the unicorns to Daniel, her husband of five years, she had learned that her mother was right. Unicorns simply were not real creatures. Nevertheless, they were everywhere she looked, and in time, she began to suspect she might possibly be a little crazy. Who sees unicorns everyday?

It was quickly becoming too much, however, when they started showing up in her backyard. She would be outside, trying to work in her garden, when they would come up and start eating her carrots. She couldn’t reason away the missing vegetables, nor could she reason away the feeling of them nipping at her ears as though they were a delicacy. Daniel persisted in informing her that the missing carrots were, in fact, bunnies, but there was a small fence to protect them from that sort of thing. In fact, if she weren’t so sure that they weren’t real she would have to start believing that they were really there. But when she started to think like that she reminded herself that even if they were real, a unicorn wouldn’t come to her. A unicorn only comes to a maiden, and that wasn’t a word that could describe her for too many years; in fact, she hadn’t been a maiden since her fifteenth birthday when her first real boyfriend, Jack, had decided that two weeks was long enough to wait to get into bed with her. He was her first, and certainly wasn’t her last, both non consensual and not. Sometimes she thanked God that Daniel was at least gentle with her, but there were days when her pale skin was marked with purples, greens, and yellows and she began to wonder just what was wrong with her.

Sooner or later, something had to give, and it was a crisp fall day when she finally caved under the pressure. She’d been working in her garden again, enjoying the feel of the breeze ruffling her hair, the sun beating down on her shoulders. The stack of vegetables was growing larger in the basket, and as she twisted to add another carrot to the pile, it was caught in the teeth of one of the unicorns. Freezing, she gazed into the clear brown eyes so close to her own. There was a gentle tug at her hands and the carrot was wrenched from her limp grasp. Okay… so maybe they weren’t mere figments of her imagination… after all, she’d never heard of a figment being able to do that. Well, there had to be a logical explanation for it, but oh, how she wanted to believe it!

The carrot disappeared quickly, and she felt the velvet nose of the unicorn butting against her cheek, another demand for attention she could normally ignore; but not after last night. Today she found her hand, trembling in suppressed agony, bones twisted and wrenched out of joints, stretching up to pet that nose, startling in its softness. It was nothing like she had ever imagined it could be, she’d thought that imaginary creatures would be, well, softer and more insubstantial. The nose was soft, and warm, heaving puffs of warm air against her fingertips as they stroked silently. It was the gentleness of such a large creature that brought the first tears to her eyes, and she cried quietly in the garden, hand continuing to brush over the velvety nose, and down the cheeks. If something so pure and innocent could allow her to touch it, then perhaps there was nothing wrong with her. The revelation caused the tears to fall harder, and she leaned her forehead forward, resting against soft velvet.

A toss of the head, and her hand had slipped up over firm cheeks to rub down the neck, the hair stiff, coarse, and still so unbelievably soft beneath her hand. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared her for this. She could feel her hand tingling from where she touched the unicorn, and breathing out on a sigh she moved in to brush her cheeks against the unicorns, her eyes closing slightly. It felt, well, like magic. She imagined that had something to do with the fact that she was sitting out in her garden hallucinating that she was petting a unicorn. The thought slipped away however, and she opened her eyes to look at the creature once more. It stepped back, away from her hand and dipped its head low, horn brushing against her cheek in an almost soothing way. With that light touch, she felt the tightness, the doubt release her, and she smiled, watching as the unicorn left her garden as quietly as it had come. But she was changed, touched, loved. It was time for her to call her lawyer and get out; the unicorn had taught her that she deserved magic and love.

Maybe, just maybe, unicorns did exist.

September 5th

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I’ve been told. But She isn’t. Beautiful that is. Sure, with those soft golden tones, and rich blood red I suppose I can see the qualities that have endeared Her to so many, yet when I look at Her all I can see is death. She stinks of rotting flesh, and it’s enough to make me want to sick up. And that isn’t even close to being the whole of it. She walks around, moves like She owns this place, and with every touch of Her hand blood falls, and bile spills. The yellows and reds that so many people find pretty only make me see death.

September 21st

It seems things are taking a turn for the worse. She scared away the animals today; flocks of geese flooding the sky as they flew from Her. The sound of their call was a bell tolling in the still air. Death Herself appears to be settling in and the blood and bile continues to fill the air with its rank aroma. It seems like the entire world has been flooded with it; the scent, the blood, the bile, the very essence of Her. It sickens me, and I wish that this wasn’t happening.

October 4th

It’s ending, slowly but surely. She’s killed almost everyone and I think my time will be ending soon as well. Blood pours freely from me, and most of my friends stand tall, stripped of their quintessence. I’m one of the last in a dying breed it seems, and I’m doing my best to keep hope, but Death stalks the chilling air, and I’m growing tired. Perhaps it’s the loss of blood that makes me want to drop to the ground and look up at Her, begging for a swift end. At times I begin to think She is beautiful, even covered in the bile of everyone else. And when I think that I hope for Death to take me soon.

October 31st

Samhain tonight and most likely my last night as well. I only have a little bit of life left to me, and that has been stripped quickly by the snow that has hidden the blood and bile that once decorated the floor at my feet. Death stalks me, and She is soon leaving. I will go with Her, after all. Isn’t that what trees are meant to do? Leave with Autumn?