Killing the Unborn Rebels
The Cambie Hotel Pub, known simply as “The Cambie,” is an interesting spot. It is one of those bars that is situated at the crossroads of the Universe. Most religions (excluding, of course, the Mormons), colours, and political theories are represented here. You are guaranteed to meet almost anyone in this bar and anyone who deigns The Cambie to be beneath them probably isn’t worth talking to anyway (unless you are looking to secure a home loan or a good lease on a new Jag).
The beer is cheap and the people are friendly; they need to be. The Cambie doesn’t have private tables. The pub is filled with massive wooden benches and tables that resemble a medieval mead hall more than a contemporary watering hole. At these massive, communal tables you can find yourself seated next to almost anyone. The bar, with its devilish brew of cheap booze and cool people, is almost always a good time out. As a lover of drink and the composer of bullshit fact, I am forced to approve.
D*****, a playwrite I am waiting for, is late. Either that or I can’t see him. He must be late because he usually stands out in a crowd and, after one beer, I’m not that drunk yet.
I can’t stop looking at the group beside me and it is becoming obvious to the group beside me that I can’t stop looking at the group beside me. D***** arrives in time to avert some awkward answers.
The truth of the matter was that I was simply entranced by the full-body tattoos of one of the women sitting in the group beside me. That, and she is pregnant. She doesn’t drink or smoke but sits, sipping a juice, listening to her friend lecture on new Marxist theory. D***** can sense that I am know longer paying attention to him and a look a terror grows on his face as he feels that a question for our neighbours is brewing somewhere in my twisted psyche.
I interrupt him with a quick “I’ll be right back” and before he can slap me in manacles I am sitting next to the tattooed, expectant mother.
Either we are dooming our society to anarchy or we are killing our rebels. How does a child rebel against a mother who is tattooed from head to toe? Join the Conservative Party? Buy a Volvo?
The Cambie being The Cambie, I was able to pose this question to the group beside me. Their answer was simple: Kids will always rebel. This I knew. But parents can lie to their kids about some of their past discrepancies; you can’t hide an inked out birthday suit from prying eyes. I want to know how kids would rebel against parents that couldn’t lie about or hide their own rebellious pasts. So if tattoos and piercing become the norm where do our kids go from there? Further or back?
The pregnant girl didn’t believe that she was rebelling but being herself. At that moment I worried for her child. Somewhere between my ears, I quietly questioned the fitness of any mother who doesn’t realize that, in this world and all those to follow, being yourself is the purest form of rebellion.