Just the other day I had a rather uncomfortable demonstration of two different types of stupidity demonstrated by two different types of men. Unfortunately, I was one of them.
It didn't happen recently, in fact it happened several years back, but it was only a few days ago that I found out about it. And it's left me feeling . . . I guess odd would be the best word.
I have an acquaintance, whom I'll call Mary. As part of the writing community, I would occasionally bump into her -- every couple of years or so.
Evidently, the last time I came into contact with her was during a book tour I was on some time back, when she interviewed me and got me to sign her book.
I'm not even sure what I wrote but being genuinely fond of her in a platonic sense, in a playful and teasing mood, it ended up being something to the effect of "Mary, you're fabulous. Let's run off together and get married. Drew." And then she disappeared for another few years.
I recently ran into this woman again, after several years, at an arts function. After some brief salutations, Mary filled me in on the intervening years. After our last encounter, she told me, she took the book home and proudly showed it to her boyfriend. He read my inscription and, using her words, proceeded to "beat the crap out of" her. Because of my flippant dedication, he automatically assumed there was more to the joke than there was, and decided to register his disapproval in a highly physical manner.
When she told me this, my jaw just dropped. Immediately feelings of anger, guilt, surprise and a host of other powerful emotions welled up inside me. Basically, I was responsible for a woman being beaten by her spouse. Always a strong opponent of domestic abuse, this news struck me to the core. I was stunned. Unfortunately, I've been in situations before where I say or do something in a joking fashion that is wildly inappropriate, with unfortunate and embarrassing repercussions. I think everybody's been in a position like that. But this, by far, took the proverbial cake for me.
Mary then told me that for the next year or so, she was understandably furious and very angry with me, and looked forward to confronting me about the aftermath of my clever and witty little comments. Had I known all this had happened, I would have gladly presented my neck for ritual decapitation.
Instead, to my surprise, she thanked me. Once more, I was stunned. Because of this horrible, violent act, she said, I saved her life. I'm paraphrasing Mary but, evidently, it took her a while to properly assess the environment she had been in.
She had placed herself, unconsciously, in a very controlling situation with a man that was both her fiancé and tutor for school. That assault precipitated her leaving the relationship and it was then she had the time and the distance to better reflect on what had happened. Her friends, who had always had concerns about the man, supported her and told her she was lucky to get out when she did.
As a result, she doesn't blame me any more for what happened. All I did, Mary says, was force the issue to the surface where she could see him for what he was. Basically, my attempt at humour forced him out of the closet, so to speak. In fact, she hugged me after our talk. Now she's off on her own, having a wonderful and exciting career. So, I guess it was a good thing that it happened. I guess . . .
Still, I feel weird and conflicted. Indirectly, or directly, I was responsible for the subsequent abuse of a woman. That turns my stomach. It never would have happened if I hadn't written that dedication.
She counters that, yes, it quite probably would have happened eventually. There would have just been a different trigger, maybe when she wasn't in a position to leave so easily. Using a bad metaphor, it's something like having heart surgery: It's painful and scary, but it's better than the alternative.
Ironically, I make my living as a humorist (though some might disagree). I'm reminded of a comment made by Dick Gregory, one of the two leading and most influential African-American comics (with Richard Pryor) of the 1960s. When he decided to give up the stage, people asked him why.
"After a while, things stop being funny," he said.
So Mary's at peace with the world and has gotten on with her life. Now it's my turn to try and reason this all out. That, and why it is that some women never get the men they deserve . . . and vice versa.
The book I signed all those years ago that started this all? She says she still hasn't read it. I don't blame her.
Drew Hayden Taylor lives in Curve Lake, Ont.