Procreational Neglect: Part 2/2 Amanda Ramsay Guest Contributor Mi: father once admitted to me that he’d hated the calluses because my mother deserved nothing but gentleness. “And that’s why I’m glad you're going to university, Michael,” he’d said. “Your woman shouldn’t ever have to get used to rough handling when intimate—only a gentle touch will do for a Finnegan woman.” I remember he’d grinned but the memory of it is vague, I can’t see past his current heartache. “However,” the judge says. “Should I find him guilty of spreading his genes in the same way that one might be guilty of knowingly spreading sickness, then all of his,” he pauses. He presses one hand to his cheek, seeming in thought. “Then his issue, would also have to be destroyed.” The judge sits back to allow the term to resonate with Hannah, he seems expectant. lama part of his issue. If my sister succeeds then I too would have to be destroyed. I try to pour my anger and my hatred for my sister out of my eyeballs, staring at her back. Standing abruptly my father bumps the heavy oak table forward half a foot. “No,” he says firmly. “Your honour, please!” His hands stiffly clasp together and press into his breast. A tear begins make its way down one cheek, visible to me only because it catches the sunlight from the windows. Hannah’s sallow eyes widen and she slowly stands on her side of the courtroom. She looks back and forth between my father and the judge, confusion fills her face. Both of her counsel pale. “What does that mean, your honour, what is issue?” says my sister. Dad looks at the judge and steps out from around the table. “May I tell her?” his voice is an octave higher than usual. Slowly he turns to my sister, more tears visible. “Issue means progeny.” To her continued confusion he adds, “offspring, Hannah, children!” A sob escapes and he begins again, “Please Hannah,” he pleads, “Not just me. This is about Michael,” his hand stretches out in my direction. “Your other sisters,” he swings his hand in front of him to the right of the courtroom and highlights two large families with young children. “What about your nieces?” he pleads. “Ruling in your favour would mean their death, Hannah!” He sobs, each one rocks his body. Turning back to the judge he says, “please, your honour, not children. They’ve done nothing wrong. I’m to blame, I guess.” He collapses into the wooden chair and it scrapes piteously on the floor, “just me.” He shakes his head violently side to side twice and stares at the top of the table in front of him. I grab him from behind, my arms enfolding him completely around the shoulders. It’s awkward leaning over the bar, but it’s for comfort’s sake. Not only for his comfort but for my own, I hold him tightly. This time he doesn’t shrug me away. “You did nothing wrong, Dad. I love you.” I whisper in his ear. “I’m happy you’re my dad and I’m glad I’m not some test tube baby.” I throw as much disgust at Hannah as I can through my eyes. An unbearable lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow my anger. Like looking through an aquarium, my tears threaten to spill over onto my cheeks. The collective mood in the room is different now. More sniffling and more creaking comes from the benches but not a single whisper emanates from behind me. It’s as if everyone disappeared and here we are, alone at our most vulnerable. Hannah is still standing but her eyes slowly float to the floor. She shakes her head from side to side and it gains momentum until she raises her hands, as if she physically needs to intervene. Her head stops moving and tears are visible on her face as she uses her hands to feel her scalp. Fingers dance over the patches of hairs that stick out in shaved tufts. She lowers herself into her chair with her hands still on her head. Silently crying, the judge says to himself, “Yes, the children.” The microphone barely picks up each word. He clears his throat forcefully and takes on a face that does not match the single tear present and hanging off of his chin. His mouth straightens into a line, “Now, for the legal ramifications of this decision. The whole country could take on legal suits against lg ~ am = —_ us a i their parents. Parents would have to be able to prove that they either had no previous knowledge of disease in their family or would have to resort to aborting all children they conceive of naturally. By naturally I mean through the act of intercourse and then labour.” He places both hands on his face for the span of one minute and adds, “Those who oppose, would have no choice.” He says ‘choice’ deliberately slow. 4 > The judge picks up the gavel and bellows, “all rise.” The microphone produces a moment of deafening feedback and takes a moment to clear. Everyone in attendance stands; Dad yi M - a” N > @ - at i - . rf : ; Ja & a 45 Sports 15 is steadied by my hands, one on each of his shoulders. Both counsels stand in uniform, one hand grasps the wrist of the other in front of their bodies. Each one of them bows their heads as if awaiting a benediction. “Tt is my ruling that the defendant not be guilty of Procreational Negligence, for the following reasons: that the loss of rights to individuals affected by this decision, and the resulting courts cases created by the precedent of this case, would suffer more than the individual’s Liv ignant.de- ¥ 4 4 — b rights to be born free of genetic disease.” He lowers his voice only slightly. “And Hannah,” he says and looks her in the eye. “I am sorry for your suffering, truly Iam.” The slam of the gavel deems my father and I, worthy of life. Amanda Ramsay is a local writer and busi- ness owner attending classes at UNBC to fin- ish a degree she started eight years ago. Her background is in marketing and advertising for corporations and non-profits. If you have any comments, suggestions or questions for Amanda, she can be reached at info@ poplarideas.ca.