Ms Jillian H.

The door to Mr. Abraham's office was closed. My eagerness to see the man may have been responsible for the knock which was perhaps a bit too enthusiastic.

When the door was opened, it was not the face of a Mr. Abraham which met mine. It was not the face of any man which met mine.

It was the face of a woman; moreover, it was the face of a woman decidedly displeased.

Nothing was said as she opened the door. Aside from obvious displeasure, I could read nothing else from her expression.

As she continued to look me over, my discomfort became palatable. Old insecurities wormed their way back into my brain and I wondered if there was something wrong with me. Had I come at the wrong time? Had I come to the wrong place?

I checked my memory bank; I was correct. This was the right place and the right time. My appointment was with Mr. Abraham, the man in charge of Government Housing and Accommodation. It was he I was expecting to see when the door was opened. Perhaps some expression of surprise translated to my face, but I felt that there was nothing more that could be responsible for the cool reception from the other side of the door.

"Do you think I am deaf?" she queried. Her haughty tone did nothing to put me at ease.

"Sorry."

"Well, don't just stand there; come in."

I followed her lead but stood somewhat awkwardly inside the spacious room.

"Well, sit down!" she commanded as she resumed her position behind one of the huge oak desks.

Grabbing the nearest chair, I sat awaiting the next set of orders.

After a long fifteen seconds, during which time nothing was said by either one of us, I ventured in a respectful but timid voice, "Mr. Abraham's not here?"

"Well, that's obvious, is it not? He is not here, and he won't be here. I am handling you. Now, you are applying for housing?"

"Yes, ma'am."

As she stared, I could feel both her voice and her eyes accusing me in tandem. I wondered what I had done to warrant such curtness and officiousness.

"Well, here is the application. Fill it out and return it ... at your convenience."

Those last words at your convenience would seem to suggest some effort on her part to manage a small degree of civility but the manner in which those words were spoken could not be mistaken for anything other than dismissive in nature. Even though I sensed that she wanted nothing more than to be done with me, I persevered in asking, "Yes, ma'am ... but ma'am, should I not fill it out right away and ..."

As if to confirm my impression of her, she stood and reiterated, "Yes, you will fill it out and return the completed form... but you won't fill it out here."

Still somewhat dumbfounded, I stood and walked toward the door continuing to wonder why I was being ushered out so quickly. I could readily see that there was more than enough room to accommodate me at one of the other empty stations. In my mind, the most pragmatic course of action would be to invite me to sit and complete the forms right there in the office where I would have had easy access to clarification should I require it. I was almost certain that Mr. Abraham would not have treated me with such discourtesy. During our previous telephone conversation, I had been given the opportunity to explain fully my circumstances to him. Mr. Abraham understood that I needed to secure accommodations here in Thunder Bay almost immediately before I could start working at any job. His voice conveyed a measure of both graciousness and compassion and I looked forward to meeting the man to whom I was entrusting so much. I must have taken a bit too long in contemplation for once again her haughty and dismissive voice ordered, "Well, off you go ... Now!"

Her contempt was obvious; her stare was unmistakable; she was the complete antithesis of Mr. Abraham. I left that office feeling that I had just been tossed out like some unwanted stray.

* * *

Once in the hallway just outside the office door, I began to shake. My emotions were raging up inside me. I was seized by the temptation to reenter the office, rip the application form to shreds, and defile her desk with the dregs. The mere thought of such rebellion brought a smile to my face. I indulged in the luxury of fully playing out the scenario in my mind. I would enter the room without uttering a word. I knew that she would have many words to use against me. Still silent, once the deed was accomplished, I would take my exit. My heart would feel the triumph of my rebellion and I would be vindicated.

But ... once again rational thought prevailed. Once again I knew that I had more than just myself to consider. I had a family now and I had to do what was best for them. Thus, I forced myself to banish these selfish contemplations and focused on completing the task at hand—namely the application form.

Once again I returned to the office still unable to shake the vestiges of uncertainty and nervousness. Outside the door I hesitated. Do I knock before entering or do I just enter? My nerves got the better of me and I did both. I knocked, and without waiting for an invitation to enter, I walked in.

Wrong.

No sooner had I opened the door when I heard her bark, "How dare you come into this office without my permission! Get back outside and knock, and wait for instructions!"

I felt as if once again I was a small child being reprimanded by my teacher and I was tempted to be compliant and say, Yes, Teacher, but I did not. Instead, I made a brazen move by continuing to walk toward her desk and I handed her the application. To her credit, she received the form and quickly began to scan it for details.

After finding the first error, she wasted no time recalling her most contemptuous voice and began her reprimand, "You did not fill out the address section – you do have an address, don't you?"

The contempt was not restricted to just her voice, it translated into her look too.

I tried to explain, "Please let me explain, ma'am."

Miss Jillian just went berserk, "Don't call me ma'am. I am nobody's ma'am. My name is Ms. Jillian H. You understand that? Ms.! Ms.!"

"Yes, ma'am. Oops ... sorry ma'am ... yes, Ms. Jillian H."

I had not meant to be funny. And, Ms. Jillian H. was most certainly not amused. I had to tread very carefully. Ms. Jillian was indeed most serious. I'm not certain which act of negligence she considered more grievous an offence ... the omissions on the application or me referring to her as ma'am.

I took the application from her, filled in Diana's Rainy River address and phone number, and handed it back. She completed the cursory review of the form. Unable to find fault with anything else, she rose from her chair and once again dismissed me from her presence.

"That's all. You will be contacted sometime!"

At that point, I should have turned and walked away, but I needed more. I had to ask, "When, when?"

She seemed offended that I was still questioning her and was most pointed in her response, "When we have reviewed your application, that's when."

And then she added with a hint of what could only be described as delight, "You have to wait your turn just like everyone else."

Some internal force propelled her to go on with her reprimand, "You do not think that you can just march in here and have your way. That will never happen!"

"Ms. Jillian, allow me to explain. I would appreciate ..."

"Explain what, precisely?"

"Ms. Jillian, I have two job prospects; one is as a substitute teacher, and the other is as a part time cab driver. Mr. Abraham indicated that I might qualify and that he might be able to speed things up. Could you assist me ...?"

Before I could finish my explanation, she cut me off by declaring with the utmost authority, "You have to take your turn like anyone else. Just who do you think you are ... some kind of prince? Well, you are no prince here. And you see how truly foolish you are! You came here without your wife – why? That is so typical of your type."

Why was her attitude so combative? What did she mean by your type?

I had to remind myself not be uncivil. I was the one in need. I was the one who required her assistance. Once again I tried to explain myself.

"Ms. Jillian, there is a reason why ..."

It was useless. Her mind was closed; she was beyond reason. Indeed, it seemed that reason had surrendered to irrationality. Her voice assumed a heightened quality of screech amplified by an assumed air of righteous indignation.

"Oh, yes, you meant to leave your wife – and your child – somewhere. You came here alone by design. You choose to assert your manly authority. You want to be the man – just like all Asian men."

"But that is not true Ms. Please may I ..."

"It is true! You cannot deny it. You and all men like you like to wield your authority over your wives; the women in your lives have no choice; they have no say. What's more, they must be subservient. You men have all the say. Right?"

With the utterance of each successive phrase, she inched her way closer to me until our faces were but inches apart, at which time she thundered, "You have a need to feel superior. You think men must be in charge of everything, all the time. Well, I am here to inform you that we women will no longer tolerate it. We have moved out of the dark ages. This is the Seventies. You hear me? The Seventies!"

How could I do anything but hear her? She was virtually on top of me.

What I did not understand was her belligerence toward me. What had I done to cause such a reaction?

Once again I attempted to reason with her hoping to quell her anger.

"Ms. you are making a mistake. Please, let me ..."

"No! I am not mistaken about you and your kind ... not one iota!"

There it was again; the words, your kind.

"Your kind?" I repeated the words back to her, essentially hoping for a retraction or at the very least some further clarification of the phrase.

The hoped for retraction never materialized but a forceful clarification was imminent. Clarification came clothed in further insults. These she wasted no time in barking at me. "I do not approve of you. Truth be told, I despise you; I despise you and your kind. Now, go!"

I thought she was done with me and I wanted nothing more than to escape. But, she had one more set of gems to reveal. She seemed to revel in the utterance of each syllable, "You will be contacted later on ... after I have reviewed your application. And know that I am in no rush to review your file. You see, I am on to you and people like you. You get your pleasure from power and control over the women in your life. Well, you won't get a chance to pull any of that with me. I, thank God, I am a woman born of liberation ..."

I was done. Former thoughts of escape evaporated, for now, I too, had something to say; the words simply exploded from my mouth, "Then, woman, take your liberated view and liberate me from my confusion. So far I do not understand the root of your attitude toward me. Miss Jillian, yes, I will still extend to you the simple courtesy that you refuse to show me and I will call you Miss, but you must be plainly told that you have been nothing but rude and condescending both in your words and in your attitude since I walked through that door ..."

I had more to say but she refused to hear me out, "How dare you – you Asian reprobate, how dare you attempt to lecture me! I will not have it! Leave, now!"

I, however, was just getting started. Nothing, save death, would prevent me from having my say, "Woman, I don't know how you attained the position you currently hold, but from what I have witnessed thus far, you are totally underserving of it. You possess neither the graciousness nor the simple civility that such a position requires. You lack even the most fundamental elements of good manners and common sense. Your new found liberation has left you blind to anything but your own self-interest. Your liberated view is so narrow in scope that it threatens to alienate you from, at the very least, half of society."

Then I stopped. Slowly the realization dawned that I had destroyed what small chance I had of being approved for any form of housing. I had to accept it.

I turned to leave.

I looked up.

For a brief moment our eyes met but I could not read her expression; I averted my eyes. It was then that a picture on the mantle claimed my attention; it was a family portrait. I recognized Ms. Jillian immediately. She was surrounded by three young children—two boys and a girl. There was something about one of the boys that reminded me of my own son, Trevor; they shared some common features and their complexions were somewhat reminiscent of one another. I noted too, that there was no father figure in the portrait. I was overcome by sadness. Something changed in me and once again, prompted to speak, I found myself saying, "Ms. Jillian, I am sad. I take it that you are the mother of those three lovely children."

"That picture does not concern you," she barked. "I will thank you to mind your own ..."

I ignored her and continued, "How relieved I am that your children are not present to witness your vitriol. Know this; your mind is dangerously warped and your thoughts are toxic. Don't worry about me and my family. We will be fine with or without your assistance. I suspect it will be without. My worry is for you and for your children. I feel that you are completely unaware that you may very well infect your children with your venomous thoughts. I hope that does not happen. I wish you well."

I turned to the door and let myself out.

The door had barely shut behind me when I heard her call, "Mr. Maraj, Mr. Maraj. Please ... a moment."

I looked back. The door was open and Ms. Jillian stood tentatively at the entrance. She seemed somehow different; her head was slightly bent; her face was flushed; her voice was softer, more plaintive, and, dare I say, faintly apologetic, "Mr. Maraj, please come on back. I am so sorry. I am ashamed of my conduct."

In complete shock, I followed her back to the office. She motioned for me to sit. She was pensive; no trace of her former self remained; she seemed transformed.

"Mr. Maraj, I come from a large city and I have met people like you ... Indians ... Asian Indians."

She paused. I sensed that she needed time to ponder her next words. She struggled to continue, "It is my experience that the people I have met, people like you – tend to be highly manipulative in manner and grossly superior in attitude. I have been involved ..."

She stopped. It was apparent that my presence had resurrected some deep sadness in her life. Painful recollections were reflected in her voice, "Clearly, I lumped you in the same category as the other Asians I have met. It was personal; I did act incorrectly. Worse still was the fact that I also was without courtesy. I really was rude. Would you please forgive me, Mr. Maraj?"

I sensed the sadness deep within her and wondered about the circumstances that had conspired against her to cause her to denounce Asians at large. My mind then went to the world in general and I began to wonder how many of us could be guilty of making a similar mistake. Indeed, how many of us have already made such a mistake. Ms. Jillian was truly contrite and broken. I did not know what to do following such a confession. I managed a simple, "Ms. Jillian, thank you."

"No more with this Ms. Jillian. Mr. Maraj, I am Jillian and I am so pleased to meet you."

"And I am Frank. Thank you, Jillian."

"Shall we start over, Frank?"

"Yes, let's."

"Frank, there is something that is puzzling me."

"Puzzling you?"

"Yes. You have made me wonder about something. Do you understand what the Women's Liberation Movement is about?"

"No, not really."

"Where have you been?"

"In a fog of my own."

"What is your opinion of this movement based on your understanding?"

"I am not sure I understand it. Perhaps you can help me with something that has had me troubled for quite some time."

"Tell me how I can help."

"Well, some time ago, when I was at university, I offered my seat on a crowded bus to a young lady. To my shock, she responded in a most sarcastic manner by saying, `Do I look helpless? Save that for your mother.' And ever since then I have been confused about my role in this new society. I still am confused."