A couple of weeks ago I was on the sociology department
website of Simon Fraser University trying to look up an old student and colleague I had lost
touch with decades ago. I found her listed as faculty under the
special category "In Memoriam". After the initial shock, I made
inquiries and discovered that Liz had died approximately three years
ago--after a heroic battle with cancer--and that she
remained active fighting the injustices of the penal system right to
the end. A fitting recognition of the rent that happens in our
communities when someone dies that SFU afforded her a special place in
their list of faculty. Which leads me to a Liz Elliott story, which I
would like to tell as my own tribute to this remarkable activist.
It was decades ago and Liz and I were co-directors of a halfway house
in Toronto (called "My Brother's Place", which was abolitionist in
philosophy and which catered only to men who had spent the majority of
their adult lives going between regular jails and psychiatric prisons).
One day in our second year of operations, we encountered a perplexing
problem. Dissension had set in in the household. The men kept
denouncing each other as "rats" (translation: people who squealed to
authorities and the lowest of the low according to the prison code).
Day in and day out, one or other would start yelling that so-and-so was a
rat, and no one should talk to him. Now we had gatherings with the men three mornings out of seven, at which we would discuss whatever the men
wished--whether it be psychiatric labeling or the ways in which measures that look benign typically extend institutional control. While Liz almost never came to these meetings, on this
occasion, she did. And lo and behold, she brought with her a giant round
of cheese. "What's the cheese for?" everyone asked, knowing that there
is never food at these morning meetings. "In a moment," she answered.
Eventually all eyes were on her. She looked from one to other, and at
long last answered, "I have been watching you all for months now, and as
far as I can make out, every single one of you is 'a rat'. And so
let's just acknowledge that we are all rats, and let's all eat the
cheese together." There was a difficult moment, as a few of the men
turned pale. Liz had just uttered the worst insult anyone could give
another--and if it could be believed--she had accused every single one.
One guy looked like he did just before he punched a wall and another
guy, muscular and over 6 foot 4, just like he did before attacking
someone--moments, alas, with which we were all too familiar. I could
see additionally that one of the shorter guys--Z--was holding his breath.
Then suddenly one of the men began to laugh. Soon everyone was
laughing. And now H, a quiet chap, who tended to keep to himself, nodded, looked around, and proceeded to do the unthinkable--cut a piece of cheese
and begin eating it. Another moment's hesitation. Then another man
followed suit and then another. Soon everyone was enjoying the cheese
and laughing with each other. And this was the last time that people at
My Brother's Place ever heard that "so-and-so" was a "fucking rat".
Make of the story what you will. Meanwhile I tender it as my own
belated tribute to the remarkable penal abolitionist Liz Elliott.
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