Oh tempora, oh Mordecai: What next Quebec, Mme. Marois telling us what we can wear?

Sometimes “the law is a ass” Mr. Bumble said, and it looks like the debate on Quebec’s proposed charter of “values”—or lack thereof—is one of those times.

Despite the symbolic blood-letting of the Bouchard-Taylor Commission, which basically found there was no “reasonable accommodation” crisis, Quebec still harbours too many who are, as some Western Canadians used to put it back in the day, referring to French on their cornflake boxes, sick of having Islamic headscarves “shoved down their throats.”

Bev does Bubby. Is this head covering dangerous? Only the PQ knows...

In Montreal, where I thought we were famous for our laissez faire attitude toward issues that knotted knickers elsewhere in North America--like abortion, daycare, gay sex and marriage (“if you don’t like it, don’t do it, but keep your nose the hell out of my business”)—I predict we’ll soon have a new branch of the civil service analogous to the beloved Office québécois de la langue française Tongue Troopers: the Headscarf Haranguers. Or, perhaps, the Kippah Killjoys.

They’ll certainly have their work cut out for them. Let’s try and get our heads around how this would work.

Consider that most anodyne of textiles, the simple kerchief. Imagine a teacher at a public school, or a Centre de santé et des services sociaux receptionist. If she tucks her hair into a turban as a fashion statement, or dons a headscarf to keep her hairdo safe from the rain, or because she’s having a bad hair day, no problemo. Ditto for covering a pate denuded by cancer chemotherapy. But if she put on that same headscarf out of Islamic modesty, das ist verboten. And if she’s an Orthodox Jewish woman, covering her hair out of Orthodox Jewish modesty? Verboten again, I guess, though she’d look exactly the same as the cancer patient.

The true bureaucrat requires an objective way to differentiate between Jewish women, Muslim women, and women undergoing chemotherapy. How to accomplish this? May I suggest cancer patients be issued big yellow Cs to pin on their breast pockets? Or perhaps the Muslims and Jews could be issued large yellow Ms and Js, despite the optics. Clearly, issuing yellow crescents or stars of David would be unacceptable on religious symbol grounds; besides, the latter has clearly been done before (done to death before, in fact). And here in the ever-distinct society of Quebec, we value, above all, our cultural uniqueness.

But if you think that headscarves are complicated, what about wigs? Apparently, it has so far escaped the notice of the Headscarf Haranguers that sometimes a wig isn’t simply a wig. Most men who wear toupees do so for cosmetic/vanity reasons. Wearing a toupee to appear more sexually attractive will certainly sit well with the Headscarf Haranguers, but many Orthodox Jewish women wear wigs out of religion-based notions of propriety, which will not. Some wear wigs for reasons such as, again, chemotherapy, medical conditions like alopecia, or because, sometimes, unfortunately, their hair looks like crap. How are we—or, more importantly, the Headscarf Haranguers--to tell the difference? I could again suggest a yellow letter--B (for baldness), C (for cancer), or V (for vanity), but I’m sure Mme. Marois will see the value of a parliamentary commission to examine in closer detail acceptable reasons for wig wearing in this brave new Quebec. Otherwise men topped by toupees may be evaluated differently from women wearing wigs. Which would be sexist and against their human rights. Not to mention Quebec values.

But enough of wigs, and let’s leave beards—in fact, all other body hair--for another day.

Confining ourselves to clothing, let’s consider, for a moment, the zucchetto. This is not an Italian pastry but a skull cap worn by Catholic and Anglican clerics, and of the same sartorial ilk as the kippah. Clearly, following enactment of the Quebec charter of “values,” men like Pope Francis or Bishop Tutu would no longer be welcome to address the National Assembly in full religious regalia. No doubt, they’d be required to wear business suits, like engineering company executives, Canadian senators, or political bag men. This probably wouldn’t be a problem because I doubt Pope Francis or Bishop Tutu would be interested in addressing Quebec’s National Assembly in the event the charter of “values”—as currently bruited—was actually enacted.

Finally, if my doctor wore a kippah while at work, he’d be breaking the law. But if he covered it with a Yankees cap, he’d be okay. Unless the Marois government decided that only Expos caps were permissible. By Dickens, when the law can so easily be made “a ass,” I wouldn’t put it past them.

A version of this article may be found at 
The Huffington Post Canada.

Beverly Akerman’s award winning story collection, The Meaning of Children is set largely in Montreal. She’s strangely pleased to believe she’s the only Canadian fiction writer ever to have sequenced her own DNA.

Darkness at Downton: Season 3, Episode 5

SPOILER ALERT: Key incidents in the episode are discussed, so if you haven't seen it, and intend to, you've been warned...
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I'm afraid Downton has grown very dark indeed, making it difficult to make light of this episode.

Last week's death of Sybil Branson, youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Crawley, reveals the deepest themes of this third season of Downton Abbey, and the series as a whole. The episode ended with the shocking convulsions after Sybil has birthed her bairn, the newest generation of Crawleys. (It isn't a strictly accurate portrayal of eclampsia, which remains a problem in pregnancy even now, ill understood and incurable, except by monitoring and early delivery at the earliest signs).

This week's pivotal scene takes place in Cora's bedroom when, blaming Robert for having insisted Sybil be treated as advised by the society doctor he'd engaged, tells him it's too soon for him to return to her bed.

And here is the clash of America vs. Aristocracy: Dr. Tapsell was "knighted and has a fashionable practice on Harley Street" while reliable country doctor Clarkson, who had counselled an emergency c-section hours before the delivery, was only the uber-reliable country doctor who had known the young woman for her entire life. A man of lower stature but greater knowledge--in this case, devolving to something as mundane as knowing that Sybil usually had slender ankles.

"You let all that nonsense weigh against saving our daughter's life. Which is what I find so very hard to forgive," actress Elizabeth McGovern sniffles.

Again and again across the series, we are confronted with Sir Robert, the benevolent slightly buffoonish one lord to rule them all, making decisions that, despite their impressive decisiveness, end up going south (e.g. losing Cora's entire fortune with one bad investment, which he was counselled against), and this episode is no exception.

He behaves insufferably over son-in-law Branson's wish to raise the baby as a Catholic. Robert balks, and has the temerity to invite Mr. Travis, the local Church of England vicar, round to dinner to dis popery. This is truly shocking when we take into account that a), Tom is heartbroken over the loss of his wife, for goodness sake, and b) that by the moral code of the Crawleys, surely importing a guest to insult a family member at table "simply isn't done." It demonstrates something that, to this crew, is clearly among the worst of all faux pas: bad manners.

When Mary confirms Sybil's intended the baby to be baptized Catholic, Robert is "flabbergasted." Cora says, drily, "You're always flabbergasted by the unconventional."

Robert seems blind to how inconsiderate he is being, blundering about like an injured bull, and demonstrating his increasing unfitness to lead.

Meantime, downstairs, a parallel story plays out with Carson the butler, who forbids any member of the staff having dealings with Ethel, the fallen maid, who has resurfaced as Isobel Crawley's new cook and housekeeper. Ethel, you may recall, while working at Downton, was seduced by an officer convalescing there during the war. Immediately dismissed, she ended up having a child out of wedlock and was forced into prostitution to support them. Ethel had given up her son to a better life with the now dead officer's parents and, latterly, been taken in by reformer Isobel, who hopes to help her overcome her degradation. In other words, Ethel's path to ruin happened on Carson and the Lord's watch, yet all they did was blame her for her misdeeds, and shame and humiliate her. Another among many shocking indictments of the social conventions of the Victorian era.

When Isobel suggests a luncheon for the Downton "girls"--"does that include me?" warbles the Dowager Duchess--the stage is set for the confrontation: between the men and the women, between creaky notions of propriety and the ancient concepts of mercy, made modern in the guise of rehabilitation. Thank God, mercy wins.

Mrs. Patmore agrees to help Ethel with a menu and cooking pointers (Mrs. Hughes has been defying Carson's edict by helping Ethel out for years). And when Robert storms into the luncheon, demanding his women--Cora, the two daughters, and his mother--leave immediately, Cora refuses. And the women stay put. "It seems a pity to miss such a good pudding," the Dowager offers by way of explanation.

The leadership upstairs and downstairs is gradually being chiselled away by the growing strength and enfranchisement of the women, and the mounting irrelevancy of Victorian social conventions. That is my read on the real message of Downton, though it be swathed in melodrama.

And the ultimate proof of this, which I realized most clearly after watching the end of season shocker, is telegraphed by the opening credits: they're alphabetical. Not "starring" this one and that one. In other words, no member of this cast is to be considered above the others. Sir Julian Fellowes demonstrates by metaphor in the very first moments of the program, that he thinks it best to treat all his actors equally.

Downton Abbey: social history writ small, wrapped in melodrama, and high production values. But make no mistake, the values here are not simply of production: they are social values, resonant and real, and so is the historical backdrop. And that is the lesson of its exploding popularity, what propelled it to the top of the TV drama heap worldwide, and why we keep watching.



A version of this post originally published on The Huffington Post Canada