The Thin White Line

Send it.

The facts are the facts.

Matt took a sip of vodka, swirled it in his mouth, swallowed, felt it burn all the way down and then erupt as it reached his damaged stomach lining. He’d better get his prescription for ulcer medication refilled.

He re-read the op-ed piece he’d written for The Citizen for the umpteenth time. He had to admit he’d been surprised and not a little vindicated when his research revealed that despite what the Canadian literary community wanted to believe, authors who identified as Black, Indigenous and People of Colour were not under-represented in Canada. In fact, as a percentage of the population the opposite was true, it was white authors who were. All this was backed up with facts and links as listed at the bottom of the article. His finger hovered over the send button.

What about blowback?

Don’t send it.

His finger retreated and gripped the glass.

It would be naïve to think there wouldn’t be repercussions. All those publications that gave priority to marginalized authors because “their stories had been denied” would have to reconsider their woke assumptions. Not too many of them, and that would include the newspapers’ readers, would agree that this type literary affirmative action was reverse discrimination that fostered resentment or that it created the perception BIPOCs were less competent.

No, they’d denounce him as resenting the success of others, making excuses for his failure as a writer, or against equal opportunity for BIPOCs. In other words, a racist.

Another swig of vodka emboldened him. “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,” he muttered.

Send it.

His finger rested on the send button.

He could take the criticism if it created a discussion that led to the realignment of attitudes that reflected reality. But what about his partner, Raminder?

Don’t send it.

She was a celebrated BIPOC author about to start a book tour for her highly acclaimed third collection of short stories. She would be one of the authors his article suggested was given an unfair advantage. He couldn’t see that playing out well for them publicly or personally, but did upsetting your partner mean you ignored injustice? Did you do nothing, and hope society would self-correct?

Send it.

But did it have to be him who sounded the alarm? Was he the only one this issue was chafing morally? How would prospective publishers look at his manuscript currently circulating among them? Would he become a pariah, be “cancelled” like so many others who’d dared challenge the sanctity of this new order with common sense backed up by verifiable evidence?

Don’t send it.

He drained the bottle into the glass and took another drink.

If he didn’t send it, sometime in the not-too-distant future, when he wondered how society had got so fucked up, his conscience would remind him that when he had the opportunity to do something, to at least try, when it would have been so much easier to have prevented it from happening, he’d done nothing. Instead, he’d buried the truth and compromised his principles rather than jeopardize his career aspirations and displease his partner.

Send it!

Sent!

There was a moment of panic. “Fuck it! Fuck them!”

What was he worried about? Nothing would change – unfortunately. It was an op-ed piece about discrimination in the publishing industry. Who gave a shit? Besides, there was no guarantee it would even get published, let alone read

He emptied his glass and staggered into bed.