‘Tis the Season to be Brain Dead, but Listen up Anyway: A Holiday Message and an Invitation to Anglican Bishop Bob (“The Shredder”) Bennett and other assorted Scrooges

 

Dear Bob,

I hear you’ve told all your staff they’ll be fired if they talk to anyone about the documents you’re sitting on, concerning your Mush Hole Indian residential school where we’ve been unearthing tiny bones that are likely human.

That’s pretty harsh, Bob.  It is Christmas, after all. And it’s not as if your secret is at risk, or anything. Even if somebody in your church developed a conscience and started spilling their guts about the Mush Hole, who are people going to believe: one disgruntled employee, or the entire Church of England?

So take a valium and some egg nog, Bob. Figure heads like you are supposed to remain calm at all times, and keep control of the narrative – in this case, concerning those missing 50,000 Indian children who passed through the tender mercies of your system on their one way trip to the bone yard. They all died of natural causes, don’t forget. They ran away. Maybe their records can’t be found. Hell, maybe they were even abducted by aliens.

Meanwhile, don’t forget, you have the best public relations boys in the business to rely on, and their sure-fire method called the Inoculation.
It got started just yesterday on the CBC, which ran a big program on national television about the mass graves of children in Canada.

Now don’t shit yourself, Bob, they weren’t referring to the Indian residential schools, but the kids struck down by the Spanish flu in 1919. That was long, long ago. So don’t worry – our fellow pale Canadians got the message, loud and clear: massive numbers of dead kids in Canada is the result of an act of nature, and disease – not deliberate killing.

We’ve been inoculated now: prepared, conditioned, and molded in our responses. So the Mush Hole bones won’t seem so bad when they fully surface: “Mass graves? Oh yeah, I heard about that … probably the flu …”

It always works. Surely you of all people should know that, Bob. Besides, our November 21 public announcement of the discovery of probable children’s bones at your Anglican residential school in Brantford didn’t exactly cause a ripple of shock or protest anywhere here in lovely Canada. But still, you and your friends in government must be worried, to shoot us full of scandal-prevention serum like that, and just before Christmas.

After all, those little bones are exposed now, Bob, slip ups do happen, and not all of us are immunized to the bullshit. So I really do get why you’re perched these days so fretfully in your London, Ontario office astride those piles of documents about the Mush Hole. I hope you’re getting out for air, occasionally.

But I do know the score, Bob, and I realize that as a Bishop, you can conceal any evidence you like of a crime scene, and even shred it to your heart’s delight. Fred Hiltz, your big boss in Toronto, even said so the other day, when he declared that even he, the Primate (I love that term) for all Anglicans in Canada, couldn’t order you to release those documents. Fred answers to Lizzie Brit herself, Bob, and she is the Crown, after all. So that means you’re above and beyond the law.

So what is all the worry about?

I’ll tell you what. Leona Moses spilled the beans to me last month when I sat down in her home in Oshweken, on the scrap of land you guys have left her and her fellow Mohawks.

You remember Leona, Bob. She worked for your Huron Diocese as a researcher in 1999, until she and her co-worker, Wendy Fletcher, were both gagged for ten years by your church after they started talking about what they uncovered. Leona was told never to talk about what she’d seen in your archives: especially one particular document she found.

It seems that, back in 1870, your church signed a formal agreement with the puppet chiefs set up by your Crown to wipe out all the Mohawks by incarcerating their children in the Mush Hole residential school. It’s signed and sealed, in a document issued by the Crown and the New England Company, who set up the school. And it’s accompanied by a whack of letters proving that you guys and the Crown knew that children were dying en masse in the place, and you did nothing about it.

Of course, why would you? That was all in the game plan.

Now that’s what I’d call a smoking gun. But that particular document vanished, according to Leona, and ended up in something you call “the
G 20 black box”.

So, Bob, the whole world wonders: where is this black box? And what else is tucked away in there?

In my teenage years, I got a real kick watching on TV former US President Big Dick Nixon sweat and lie to Congress about all the incriminating tapes and evidence he didn’t have in his possession. I like to think you’re closeted away in your drab office in the same manner, scowling and paranoid like old Dick, barking at subordinates and telling them to find a way to fix everything. But I know that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

Instead, I’m sure you’re preaching to your flock this Sunday on reconciliation and healing, or whatever.

But that black box is still in your sanctum sanctorum somewhere, Bob, just itching to be explored. And I bet that even part of you is wanting it aired. Nobody, after all, is completely iniquitous. Isn’t that what you guys teach?

Old Scrooge’s delight that glorious Christmas morning when he had found himself again, and reveled like the child we all are inside once he found it so easy to do the right thing, always struck me to the core, whenever it expressed itself in old movies or from the faded pages of my father’s Dickens collection. I laughed and I cried with Scrooge, when he discovered the real joy of the season. Just like I will laugh and will cry with you, one day, Bob.

It was Tiny Tim who said it all, in the Dickens tale. And I hear his words whisper up through the grounds of the Mush Hole, where so many other innocents lie, mangled and forgotten, almost lost to us.

You can help revive them, Bob. You can do the right thing. All you need to do is to come outside, and open all the locked and forbidden places, and secrets, and beg all those little ones for forgiveness – by telling the truth, and awaiting history’s judgment on you, and those like you.

But you’ll likely need a midnight visit by three ghosts, first. Or even 50,000 of them.

Season’s salutations,
Kevin