Giving Perspective To Matilda

I had to cope with a rather distraught Matilda Hatt yesterday. All I knew was that she was furious with her immediate superior, whom she had dubbed Optimus Prime. (Tilly quite liked the Transformer movies.) I sent Ahmed in the Bentley to fetch her from the airport, something he was eager to do.

This was not always the case. Ahmed, being of a Middle East persuasion, was often singled out as he parked and waited for whatever personage was arriving. He would patiently explain to the officers that he was no relation to Bin Laden, had been a Canadian citizen for years, and indeed was married to a nice Catholic girl, an act that in certain areas of his homeland would result in him being beheaded. Eventually the officers, who all appeared to be retired drill sergeants trying desperately to fulfil a huge gap in their lives, would tell Ahmed to move on. This quite often resulted in his circling the airport and arriving again at his spot. Whereupon the whole process would start again.

Things were different now, thanks to the advent of the cell phone. Ahmed could wait, along with others doing the same thing, on a ramp just out of sight of the airport officers. When he received a call, he would know precisely the spot where the arrival was, zoom in and collect the person, and would then sail off, noting with pleasure the look of fury on the officers as they rushed to the pick-up spot, too late to harass.

So off he went to collect Tilly, and soon she had flounced into my study, demanded a healthy shot of Grey Goose, and began pacing around the room, venting. Big time.

"Simone, you're not going to believe this. I was all set to join a team to help out in the upcoming election in Afghanistan, and I was ready to kick ass. Get those Afghan women off their butts and into a polling station, and have them plump for any candidate that is pushing for their equality. And you know what Optimus did? She removed me from the team, with orders to take two weeks leave! The bitch!"

"I would have done the same thing."

"What! You've got to be kidding. After what we've been through? Simone, really."

"Tilly, stop pacing and sit down. By the way, I like the outfit." Tilly was dressed in a stylish black linen flared skirt and white blouse. It was a far cry from her usual army fatigues. Hell, I hadn't thought she even owned a skirt.

"Well, I'm meeting this guy later -- oh, stop it. You're trying to change the subject."

"Perhaps. But for now, just sit and listen for a bit."

Reluctantly Tilly folded herself into one of the big study armchairs, and I began. I explained that her "kicking ass" as she put it was precisely the wrong approach. You don't jump from the 9th century to the 21st that quickly. Just imagine, I asked her, if she was, oh, I don't know, say a serving wench in the 15th century who suddenly found herself thrust into the 21st. "You would be gobsmacked," I said. "What on earth would you do?"

"I would," Tilly replied, "get a job in a pub as a waitress. Some things never change. And then I would listen. And learn."

Good on Tilly, and she was right about the waitress job. A bum pinched in the 15th century is no different than one pinched in the 21st.

"So you would listen and learn," I continued. "Well, that's what you have to allow Afghan women to do. And it takes time. Look at Mary Wollenscraft. Look at Emmeline Pankhurst. And in Canada women were only considered legal persons in the 20th century."

"Really?" she said.

"Really. Look up Rosalie Abella on the topic. And this above all -- give them time. We needed it. So do they."

"I guess you're right," she said glumly. "God, some things are so hard."

"Progress is never easy. But where women are concerned, I have hope." I reached for a book. "This, Tilly, might give you hope as well. Emmeline Pankhurst said it. 'We have to free half of the human race, the women, so that they can help free the other half.'"

And for the first time that day, Tilly smiled.