I don’t know why the hell you picked me, as I had just been on stage thanking my (then) wife I was obviously queer and out and significantly older. You were a star, and your status helped me to tamp down my resistance.
The way men, the entitled 50%, have always assumed they could access women’s bodies at will. You didn’t ask me if you could massage me. Eventually my (then) wife returned, you dropped your hand (that hand), and we smiled politely and “uh-huh’d” while you bashed the Rockies, BC and, in particular, Vancouver. You closed the distance between us and you massaged my shoulder/neck while talking to me about how I needed to relieve the stress of my big win. One of the very hands that is being discussed in court this week. I don’t know you very well, but I know this: one night in early 2004, after I’d been awarded a writing prize in Ottawa, you followed me to a side room annexed to the main hall, where I’d gone to get away from the crowds, and while my (then) wife was in the bathroom or off getting another drink, I’m not sure, you put your hand on me. Background on the on the Jian Ghomeshi trial is available on Wikipedia. The following article, first posted February 5, 2016, is reprinted with permission from her website. Her writing has won or been nominated for numerous awards. Jane Eaton Hamilton is a Canadian author and activist.
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