Category Archives: Consent

A Tale of Two Sex Crimes: Douglas, Ghomeshi, and Process in Sexual Assault

By Esther MendelsohnPrison Massacre

T’was the best of times for sexual predators, t’was the worst of times for the women upon which they prey.

A female judge faces removal from the bench for an incident involving nude photos which were shown and distributed online without her knowledge or consent. She has been the subject of a pernicious and protracted inquiry for over two and a half years. Meanwhile, in the Twitterverse, Jian Ghomeshi’s fans and supporters are decrying the supposed lack of due process in his termination from the CBC.

Court of Queen’s Bench Associate Chief Justice Lori Douglas has been at the centre of a nude photo scandal that has rocked the Manitoba judiciary for over four years. Her trespass? Allowing her husband to take nude photos of her. Her husband, Jack King, who was also a lawyer and has since passed away, then showed the photos, without her knowledge or consent, to a male client in a bid to entice him into having sex with his wife—again, unbeknownst to her. After Justice Douglas was appointed to the Manitoba bench, the client claimed Mr. King’s actions constituted sexual harassment and filed a $67 million law suit and a formal complaint with Canadian Judicial Council, but settled for $25, 000 with a promise to destroy and never distribute the photos. He then proceeded to distribute the photos.

Before the scandal broke, and leading up to her appointment, Justice Douglas duly disclosed the existence of the photos to the appointment committee. In fact, it was a well-known secret. She is now being accused of not disclosing this fact and of altering her personal diary when she learned of the inquiry.

The inquiry, set up by the CJC, has been plagued with accusations of bias and mass resignations. The new panel consists of three senior judges—all male. Delays and debates about costs have characterized the inquiry, and there seems to be no end in sight. Even though the panel has admitted that the allegations are weak, they insist on marching on.

Now the panel wants to see the photos. To show them again, even to the panel members alone, would be a gross infringement on her privacy, a fresh violation of her sexual integrity, and utterly irrelevant to the matter at hand. The main problem with her conduct, ostensibly at least, is that she allegedly tried to cover up the existence of the photos. (Even if she did, she did so in the context of a society which devalues women’s work, misunderstands and misrepresents women’s sexuality, and simultaneously sexualizes and objectifies women while demanding they remain chaste.) Seeing the pictures will not elucidate any proof of whether or not Justice Douglas disclosed their existence.

d94c413b2ec88423f558371620452b62   The chill effect is glaringly obvious. How are we supposed to have a representative bench (and bar) if a female judge is being lambasted for things she chooses to do in her private life which harm no one and have absolutely no bearing on her ability to adjudicate cases? 

Can we not trust a woman who takes nude photos? Why not? If the issue is framed as being whether the public believes this judge can decide a case impartially, we are essentially harnessing women’s success to their sexuality and our perception of their abilities to their personal choices. We are once again putting women’s lives and careers at the mercy of society which still has an overwhelmingly distorted view on women, their sexuality, their abilities, and their collective character (as though such a thing exists). 

Every day, brutal sexual assaults go unreported or under-punished, perpetrators often acquitted on technicalities or because of society’s distorted view of women. But when a female judge is linked to nude photos (leaving aside the troubling fact that she is the victim of cyber sexual harassment/assault), the system will leave no stone unturned in its pursuit of “justice”.

To be sure, the standards to which judges are held are higher than those to which media personalities are held, and that is just as it should be. It is also true that the type inquiry of which the still Honourable Justice Douglas has been the subject and the criminal proceedings which could face Ghomeshi are quite different. The point of comparison, however, is the extent to which processes are used and abused when the subject of the process is a sexual offence.

While the inquiry into Justice Douglas’s personal life has been marred by prejudice and driven by discriminatory beliefs, Ghomeshi has set the agenda even before any charges have been laid. Ghomeshi, in a show of keen media acumen, got everyone talking about BDSM. Only those  familiar with BDSM and those familiar with the issues surrounding sexual assault were able to see the Facebook diatribe for what it as—a distraction. He has also been using litigation to silence his victims and confuse and pressure the CBC into ignoring allegations against him.

Windsor Law’s Professor David Tanovich suggests in a piece published by The Globe and Mail that if lawyers suspect a lawsuit is frivolous or an abuse of process, they are precluded from taking it on, as per the Law Society’s Rules of Professional Conduct. Ghomeshi is represented by a union and any disputes with his employer must therefore go to arbitration, so money, restoring his good name, or being reinstated cannot possibly be his end game in filing suit. Rather, by suing the CBC, he is attempting to silence victims and any manager who dares to intervene in workplace sexual harassment. 

Much of the discussion surrounding the Ghomeshi scandal and the still-unfolding sexual harassment scandal emanating from the Hill, has coalesced around the question why don’t victims come forward

The question is predicated on the assumption that there is a process for redress and that this process is just. But the process can be manipulated. Despite decades of reform, the old tropes can still be found in judgments and in the media’s dissection of a case. Everything from the point of reporting communicates to victims that they should never have reported in the first place. The knowledge that the police will likely not believe you, the embarrassing examination in chief, the excruciating cross examination, the abysmal conviction rate, the farcical sentences, the demonization for being the person who ruined his career—there are plenty of reasons not to report. And if those reasons are not enough to dissuade victims from reporting, the fact that the process itself can be abused to suit the ends of the perpetrator probably will.

Society’s distorted view of women and sexuality allows people to use the system for ends utterly counter to our notions for justice. Ghomeshi using a lawsuit to silence victims and prevent intervention by managers, a blackmailer suing the victim of cyber sexual assault, a judicial inquiry conducting a witch-hunt against a victim and attempting to dictate the acceptable gamut for women’s private lives are just a few recent examples. There is certainly a process in sexual assault cases, but it seems to serve the perpetrators, not justice.

(Since this article was originally published, ACJ Douglas agreed to retire early in exchange for the CJC staying the inquiry. An open letter was written by the author of this article and was signed by hundreds of law students, professors, and lawyers across Canada and the US:

The CJC issued a response which can be found here:

This article was originally published in The Orbiter Dicta . Esther Mendelsohn is a second-year student at Osgoode Hall Law School.)

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The Bizarre Loneliness of Being Called a Cat

By Amy Medvick

catsI can remember that when I was younger I used to be sore about the fact that I was almost never cat-called, and I was jealous of the girls who regularly were. Getting that much attention from men was foreign to me. I assumed it must be because these girls were so much more beautiful than I was. I would think to myself, “If only I had that kind of effect on men, it would be simple enough to find one I like and date him. It would be so easy!” I was a lonely girl in those days.

Of course, occasionally I would receive one—the “nice legs!” or “nice ass!” variety—though this was quite rare. Always crude, and usually aimed at whatever region of my body was the most noticeable at the moment. I would try to understand them as compliments, hoping to bolster up my self-esteem, which worked a little, though at a price. I was always left feeling vaguely dirty and I assumed this was my own neurosis, some kind of complex female self-esteem thing that I needed to sort out before I could be truly beautiful—whether you go for the inner or the outer variety.

The first time I went to Brazil, I found the men to be so sweet. It seemed they only delivered genuine compliments to strange women on the street. I remember walking down Rua São Clemente in Rio, taking in the sights and sounds. “Linda,” said a nice-looking man as he walked past me: beautiful. How nice!

On later trips, made with a better understanding of the language, I came to realize that in Brazil, just as here, there are shady characters on street corners opining vulgarities at the female passers-by, along side the milder variety of cat-call. I just didn’t have the vocabulary to understand them.

I suspect, in fact, that for most of my life I had been experiencing a sort of language barrier with Canadian cat-calls too. But the barrier wasn’t Portuguese to English, the barrier was that I assumed I couldn’t possibly be the object of such attention. However, as my growing feminist awareness caused me to take more notice of my daily interactions with men, I began to perceive the constant commentary that follows me around as I’m trying to do my groceries or go to the bank or any of the many unremarkable tasks that fill my days. There was an irony to the process, since the more I took notice, the less I was able to even try construing what I was hearing as complimentary.

Now, you might be thinking, What’s so awful about receiving compliments as you go about your day?

But this is the tricky thing: cat-calls are rarely compliments, even though they often masquerade as such.

I never come out feeling more beautiful or desirable, nor do I feel that shy tickliness that comes from a really genuine compliment made in a more appropriate setting. I usually feel less beautiful and less desirable. Nope, cat-calls make me feel singled out, shamed for being noticed, and wondering if there’s something inappropriate about the way I’m dressed. In the worst cases, cat-calling can make me feel nervous or even afraid. In the best cases, I’m only bewildered, not sure if I’m the intended recipient. So often, the things said to me are simply bizarre.

m221184882But maybe I need to define what I mean by “cat-call”. I have a rather broad definition: I mean almost anything a male stranger says to me on the street that isn’t “Ma’am, you dropped your gloves” or “Where’s the nearest subway station?” or other similar practical interactions. Cat-calls are intended to get attention, provoke reactions, and put me in my place. These cat-calls often seem to have a sexual motivation, even if the statement isn’t clearly sexual, though there are other varieties as well.

However they manifest, they are a gendered phenomenon—I have never been spoken to by a female stranger in ways that fit into any of the above, or following, categories of cat-calling. Much of this commentary might not strike you as really being a cat-call. But ah, this is why I am redefining the term! There are multiple, public, gendered commentaries flying at women on the street every day, not only the overtly sexual but many others that share a similar intent with the cat-call as it is traditionally understood.

But perhaps some examples will illustrate better what it is like for me to walk down the street.

I might grow out my bangs. Maybe that will help.

I might grow out my bangs. Maybe that will help.

So, for example, one cat-call I frequently hear is an identification of my hairstyle. Some guy will mutter a phrase with the word “bangs” in it, or simply exclaim, “Bangs!” Something in the tone makes it clear that this has become my name. “Bangs!” he calls plaintively as I pass by without reacting. He sounds sad! I have broken his heart, he says in that one word. Why aren’t I wooed by his ability to describe me?

Clearly, I am cold-hearted. Also ungrateful.

Then, there are the instructional variety. One Saturday, I was walking down Bloor Street, eating chocolate covered almonds from the bulk-food store as I enjoyed the spring sunshine. I noticed this giant man eyeing a tiny woman up as she walked by. The ogling disturbed me. He noticed me noticing his ogling, and then it started. “You shouldn’t eat chocolate. I had to have two fillings because my teeth rotted out from eating chocolate my whole life.”

Oh, OK Sir. I won’t eat chocolate. Because you say so. My appetite is so unbecoming.

i-dare-youThere are regulars whom I have come to recognize, always making the same requests. “Smile, be happy!” he tells me every time I pass him. Clearly the Zen wisdom of this man trumps whatever may be happening in my life that day. Whatever my heartbreak, be it of the love, career, or dying-pet variety— it does not justify forcing him to endure my dour countenance. God forbid!

Some cat-calls are truly bizarre. “Do you like fireworks? Fireworks! Yes, you do!” This isn’t a sales pitch since fireworks aren’t for sale. Or maybe it is a metaphorical sales pitch with metaphorical fireworks. I don’t even flinch though, because at this point I’ve heard it all.

On second thought, this explains everything. Mistress of Murder indeed!

On second thought, this explains everything. Mistress of Murder indeed.

“Green!” cries the fireworks vendor. The colour of my dress.  Oh look, they’re describing me again. How come I don’t swoon? Well, I don’t really have time to swoon because I’m on my way to a Blasfemmers meeting. By the way, did you know I’m a feminist? Do you still find me so alluringly green now that you know that? Or does that make it more fun? Are you a hipster and is this ironic cat-calling, so tasteless and rAnDoM that it’s cool again? I don’t understand what you expect to accomplish! Please clarify!

No wait, please don’t!

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I pull and tug at my sweater, trying to hide my shameful greenness.

“You look like Michael Jackson!”… great.

No comment.

But the worst cat-calls are the ones that don’t at all try to pretend they aren’t really insults.

One night, last summer:

I was waiting to cross the street, heard my phone receive a text. Took it out. Someone was confirming a rehearsal time. The lights changed; I started to cross. I put my phone back in my purse and took out my day-planner to write down the time. Not your typical street-crossing activity, I admit, but not really anyone’s business either. As I passed in front of the waiting car, I hear their voices: “Oooh, what are you writing in your diary? I hope it’s about me! Dear Diary, my vagina stinks.”

For a moment it was like trying to swim upstream as I struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Then it clicked, just in time to shout and gesture expletives as they sped away.

Later that night, walking home:

“Hey, what’s up? What? You won’t talk to us because we’re black?”

Yes. That’s the reason. I’m not talking to you, strange men in the dark of night, because I am a racist. If you were white, I’d be all like, “Heey booyss, hoowss it goin’?” That’s exactly how I interact with strange white men on the street. Because that is a safe thing for a woman to do at midnight.


Two nights after that:

I was downtown hanging out with my Mom. I had been telling her about those two events earlier that week. Also talking to her about some guy who got all up in the grill of my feelings without really knowing what he was stirring up, and how I was trying to figure out what to do with all the disappointment, yet again.  Somehow these two topics were combining to make me feel incredibly hopeless about love, and awfully lonely.  I left for home feeling dejected, too exhausted to cry as I slowly descended on the escalator to the subway. A middle-aged man was on his way up.


“Hellooo,” he cooed, eyebrows raised. Not particularly creative, but I didn’t have the energy to ignore him. Instead I watched him as he glided towards me, the tired weight of my eyes resting heavy upon him.

“What, so sad?” he said.

I wish we lived in a world where I could say, “Yes, so sad, and here’s why: because despite all this attention I get for doing absolutely nothing, I’m still lonely. It seems like it’s love and admiration that’s being heaped on me by strangers every day when I leave the house, but its not. It’s insult and aggression. If in some strange other universe you appealed to me, and I offered myself, I know you wouldn’t have me. Your anger is palpable. I think you might hate me. At the least, you have taught me that my place is to feel isolated, ashamed of being remarkable, and no matter how I try, your words still echo in my ears every time I talk to a man I genuinely care for. Those echoes make it a struggle to believe I can be taken seriously.”

Yet—yet—once in awhile:

A crisp, sunny February day. I’m out in my new neighbourhood, wrapped up in my vintage velvet coat. A man hovering outside the Roti Shop on my block calls out to me in his lilting Caribbean accent.

“Beautiful. Lady. Good Mornin’!”

And it was. And I felt, indeed, like a Beautiful Lady.

I can’t fully explain why this one felt so different from the rest, except maybe that it was genuine and benevolent. It brightened my day, and I think that was his intention. He wanted nothing from me, and wasn’t angry at me for reacting, not reacting, enjoying or feeling angry or shamed. Amid the din of the cat-calling, when the weight of all the bizarre loneliness inflicted by the flood of commentary threatens to pull me down, I think of this one. The compliment was nice, but that’s not really the important part. It’s just a relief to remember that being a Beautiful Lady should be nothing but a good thing.






And now, to make us all feel better, here are a bunch of cute pictures of cats with phones:






Cat Calling Mum

Picture by Mark Richards-Bruce the Cat dials 999 and gets the cops calling!



Keep it to yourself, bozo.

Keep it to yourself, bozo.

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That Time An Episode Of ‘Weird Science’ Ruined My Life, and Subsequent Childhood Musings on Yes and No

by Mirra Kardonne

Sometimes I think back to that stretch of time as a young’un, when I thought everyone was a robot. More specifically, a computer-persona named Hank.

Let me explain.

I was around 8 or 9, watching TV. Rapid-fire flipping through channels, only a nano-second’s worth of televised image flashing through my brain before I knew I didn’t want to watch it.  I landed on a particular program, I can’t remember what it was called. Maybe you remember it… two dorky teenage boys have a genie. Not in a lamp, but in their computer. And not an amorphous Robin-Williams’ voiced blue mass with head on top—but a sexy, buxom female-humanoid, software programmed to perfection (by the two geek-pro boys). She would always get the boys out of a tough scrape with her magical/techno powers and kibosh their hair-brained schemes with a scolding. Oblivious to the admiration of the slack-jawed virgin males, she would aid in and clean up after the boys’ adventures every week before the boys finished for the day and ‘turn her off’ (or something like that). She would then retreat back into her technological den of chastity.

I thought the show was scary, but not in a Goosebumps way…in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. The genie character was treated like a human, which didn’t make any sense, because she wasn’t. That was the whole point: they made her because no real girls would deign to talk to two such geekazoids. She wears makeup, has perfect hair, wears sexy outfits, yet she herself is asexual, because she’s a freaking computer. The boys keep her a secret—no friends, parents or teachers know about her.  She lives in their computer, and is summoned every week from behind the screen into their bedroom, ready to knock their socks off (with her… personality).


One evening, I’m flipping through channels, and come across this very show (a quick Google search tells me the show was called Weird Science). It had just started, a few minutes past the hour. So far in the plot, genie is suspicious of a new computer the boys have in their possession. The computer is comprised of machine stacked on top of machine, adorned with dials, levers and multicoloured lights. On top of the mechanical mass, a single monitor, displaying the head of a man. The man’s mischievously-handsome face smiles a charismatic smile, and in a voice easy to listen to, seduces the boys away from their beloved genie, who scowls from the corner and warns against this newfangled mechanical character. The Computer Man-Face calls itself Hank.

There’s something unsettling about that disembodied Man-Face. His body is made up of metal boxes… he shouldn’t be so smug. I wish he would stop joking around. What does he know about life–he was just turned on 5 minutes ago! I mean it was turned on 5 minutes ago. What business does a computer have being charismatic, or mischievously handsome? Why on earth are the genie and Hank at odds, like brother and sister fighting for parents’ attention? They’re both tools! Why is the genie looking at him with resentment? Why is Hank winking at her, even though she clearly detests him?

Clicking the channel button with my thumb at a steady pace, I put my eyeballs in far distance from the program (the distance of many channels). It’s the TV-watchers equivalent of light-jogging away from something ugly they saw on the sidewalk, like roadkill, while taking a morning run.

I keep flipping through the channels until they turn over, and I’m back to the beginning, Channel 2– TVO.  Channel 3– Global.   All the way back to where I had thumb-click fled. Hank was now talking to the genie, a head confined in a box, and she—a full bodied female computer projection. Obviously agitated, she begins to leave Hank’s presence, but he quickly manages to change her mind. She stops, half turns to look at Hank, and stays to listen a little while longer.

Commercial. My dad comes into the room because he wants to watch the McLaughlin Hour. Lollololololloolol Dad—No. I don’t think so. A struggle ensues, where he goes for the remote and I hide it, he turns the channel manually and I yell very loud. I think he manages to watch his show for about 15 minutes before I get to turn back. I don’t know why I want to go back and look again. I am very uncomfortable with where this is heading.

I flip back to the channel. Confusion, lights, and the music is blaring minor chords—it can only mean TROUBLE. Everyone’s yelling and running around. Where’s the genie?! What’s wrong with her, what’s happened? Cut to: her head, a 2-dimensional image on a screen of her furiously making out with Hank, two profiles eating face with a vengeance. Evidently, she has been lured into his head-only universe and is now trapped inside his computer fortress home, where no one can come in: Like a doorless room with a glass wall, we can all see the thing happening inside but no one can do anything but watch.

The boys are sprinting this way and that! It seems that the only way to free the genie in time before her identity is completely deleted by Hank is to turn two keys in the Hank computer-body at the exact same time which will shut the whole operating system down. I don’t know if they succeeded because I RAN AWAY WITH THE SPEED OF MY THUMB ON THE CHANNEL CHANGER into the upper channels.

I. Am. Scarred.

The whole episode had set up an entrapment, from which the genie needed to be rescued. She has been seduced by the computer Hank, who is on the evil sex warpath, who has hypnotized the pouty-lipped micro-miniskirted puppet of a character into submission. She is consumed by his will to seize, and she must eat his stupid face, and even worse, she must be tricked into thinking that she likes it.

I’m not sure if the TV exec Powers That Be were trying to scare the living daylights out of me and other young girl Weird Science viewers, or what. That whole ‘boys only want one thing’ hooey… turns out to be true!! Boys, men and male-performing robots want to trap you in a small space and/or trick you into fucking them. Girls are either meant to be a piece of furniture in boys’ lives (as the genie was to the boys; a smattering of girl-prudence and boobs in the boobless wasteland that is male dweebhood), or prey, as she was to Hank. Females are NOT allowed to want, let alone long for, seek or enjoy anything sexual. The music cues! Minor chords!!  Girls must identify lust as E-V-I-L, and dangerous. If I, as a girl, ‘submit’, I am rendered a shadow of my former self, a slave to some man’s will. I must rely on my male friends who want to fuck me (but don’t have a shot) to save me from the man who will manipulate me into doing  ‘the sex’, which categorically disgusts me, chaste virgin princess that I am (in my natural, unmarred state).

And the problem that caused the child-me so many sleepless nights, was that I did, in fact, feel an inkling of the drive. That primal will that Hank embodied, that same thing the genie demonstrated after her ensnarement.  To feel and do things… I didn’t have anything in mind at the time… but dammit, one day I’ll learn! I sort of got it, even though I also knew that for me to feel the drive was wrong, yes it definitely was. It’s wrong for me to feel it because Hank is a predator who preys on girls like me. I can’t feel it, or else I must be a predator like Hank. No, I need to be a hyper-feminine, overtly sexual exterior, with an asexual interior– always on display but never available. Like the genie.

My 8 year old self ponders…

What if I do want it? Will anyone believe me? What would that mean about me? What if I don’t? Will it happen anyway, like it did on the show? Will I be hypnotized? Will I be rescued? Will I be able to stop it, even if no one is around?


And what happened in the middle of the show? Was she really hypnotized? Or did she… change her mind? Did she… ask for it? That’s what Hank The Robo-Predator said. And there are only two options: predator and prey. Male, and Female.

Down, down the rabbit hole. I dreamt of Hank, of eating breakfast with my family and they’re all Hank, and I’m trapped inside the house. I dreamt that my sister is the genie and she’s trapped inside Hank’s domain and can’t escape, and doesn’t want to. Even saying the name, H-A-N-K, left a bad taste in my mouth. I was on constant alert for months, I tell you.

The name Hank is a running joke in my family. They mention the ‘Hank’ incident as a twisting tornado of shrill hysteria, confusing to all who encountered me on my ceaseless, vigilant shakedown of ill-intentioned wrongdoers.

At the time, as a child, I had this awful fear that everyone was Hank. It brought me to my wit’s end, not being able to account for anyone’s thoughts, intentions, or even authentic humanness. I couldn’t get behind their eyeballs and know for sure that they were who they claimed to be. At 8, what I knew for sure was that Hank was a threat to my physical and mental safety, and that I was at risk of losing my mind and becoming a slave at the merest wink, or mischievous smile.

CUT TO: present day.

Now, in writing this article, I am finding it is difficult to start, or rather stop, raising the questions of what the real problems were. At the time, I didn’t know how to (although I doubt I would have wanted to) penetrate the surface of my initial fears and keep asking why I was rocked so hard by what I had seen. At the end of the episode, had the genie been ‘trapped’ and ‘tricked’ into eating a delicious souffle, or riding a particularly hideous tricycle to the badminton field, I doubt I would have had such an epic freak-out. Hank wanted to have sex with the genie and removed her free will to say yes or no in order to do so. The programme’s real betrayal of their young audience was in teaching their viewers that saying ‘Yes’ indicates that the woman has been tricked, while saying ‘No’ indicates authentic femaleness. The false dichotomy that males are predators and females are prey- one is intelligent enough to scheme and plot, the other must only be intelligent enough to avoid or escape those who would ensnare them.

For me, that primal drive is what it’s all about. Doing the thing that drives you in all honesty, moving forward, bearing witness to yourself. When every layer of pretense is circumvented and every inhibition forgotten in the throws of instinct and reflex. When solipsism consumes, and there is no before or after, only right now. You know when it’s primal, there’s no mistaking it. You also know when it’s missing, even if everything is great… but it’s not… something.

Can there be too much drive, too much primal intention? Too much from me or from another? How does one know for sure? What does Yes mean, and for how long? Can I take back my No?  And woven through even the mere act of showing up are threads of yes and no, the primal wills and the drives of other people prompting our Yes and No, while many are unable to listen to their own drives and instincts. No longer young television viewers learning from TV characters on when to survey and when to act, now we are actors ourselves, moving forward in the world with no clear idea of what we want, how to get it, how to ask, how to accept, how to refuse, and how to be refused. It’s those occasions when I become nostalgic for the times that safety meant only sitting in one place, changing the channel.