Checkmate

Checkmate

wallace fowler

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I want to begin by giving thanks to the One above, for if He did not provide me with the strength, will, perseverance, courage and pure determination to continue moving forward after two nervous breakdowns from the associated stress and trauma directly linked to the racism and discrimination I endured, I would have never learned that after the fire there can be help and healing...

I want to thank Rubin (Rocky) Coward, for without your guidance and support over the past four years and your fatherly advice along this rough road, I wouldn’t be here today with all the benefits from Veteran Affairs Canada that clearly I am entitled to but had no knowledge of whatsoever. You’re not only a friend, but a brother who stood by my side when nobody else would.

Thanks to Dennis Manuge for getting on board and showing support, and to Rollie Lawless for his support as well. I wish to thank The Honourable Geoff Regan, MP Halifax West (Liberal) for advancing my concerns as far as he could and sending letters to Parliament, as well as the Attorney General, on my behalf with the aim of securing a Public Inquiry. Thanks to Zach Churchill MLA (Liberal) and Lenore Zann (NDP) for their support of my struggle to obtain a measure of justice from successive governments who clearly demonstrated that they do not possess the political will nor the desire to affect the necessary changes that would see minorities being treated with the dignity and respect that they deserve, especially when they have signed their names on the dotted line and are willing to lay down their lives in service to our country.

Thanks to Debbie Coward for supporting Rubin in lending me assistance, even though she knows that he already went through the fire with his own case. Nonetheless, she still supported him even though working on my case likely opened up some old wounds. Love and much respect. Thanks to my mom for helping me in situations when nobody else was there, both in and out of the hospital... you are not only my mom, but you are also my best friend. Thanks to Hans Ashe, my clinical therapist, for the support and for keeping me on track while giving me the guidance I needed to get to where I am today. Ron Stockton, my legal counsel, was another big part of this effort going forward. If it weren’t for him, I would have never gotten anywhere close to getting this resolved. I also wish to thank the Honorable Dr. Keith Martin, MP Esquimalt, Juan De Fuca, Padre Ohs, Captain David Wong, and Commander Taylor (all from Esquimalt) whose efforts were instrumental in getting me out of that poisonous environment back in 1993. Thanks as well to Colonel Boddam, psychiatrist at Canadian Forces Base Toronto, for identifying that the racism and discrimination I endured started as early as basic training. To Marianne Ostopovich, social worker, for her support in identifying my concerns and helping me in my darkest hours. To my four supervisors in Esquimalt, Steve Wills, Dwayne Bailey, Carolyn Guy, and Ben MaCrea, for their support. Finally, thanks to Andy Andrews, Ray Belanger, and Dave Guitar from Trenton for being my friends when I needed them badly.

We all have a story; whether good or bad, we all have one to tell. Sometimes we can’t afford to sugarcoat it, so we have to let loose with the raw truth. Telling the truth often involves telling a fairly long, somewhat complicated story. This is mine. We will travel through the years and you will see what I saw and learned what I had to endure. You are about to experience the dreadful truth that is my story, the unrighteous injustice that overtook my life. Events like these should not be ignored. What happened to equality? To justice and human rights? You decide.

Prologue by Rubin (Rocky) A. Coward

Systemic discrimination. It’s hard to believe that it still exists today, that we are witness to a democratic government that ignores the cries of victims. The clear message that they are sending is that it’s okay—it’s acceptable. Perhaps the most disturbing thing is that they really don’t care. They don’t give a damn because it’s not happening to them or their loved ones.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rubin (Rocky) Alexander Coward, an African Nova Scotian who served in the Canadian Air Force. I attained the rank of Sergeant (in administration) after seven years of service and subsequent to serving in several theatres, including Israel (for six months) and Germany (for four years with my family). I returned to 14 Wing, Greenwood, Nova Scotia (an Air Force base) where I personally encountered some of the most horrific acts of racism, discrimination and bullying that anyone could imagine—all sanctioned by the Commanding Officer of the squadron, Lieutenant-Colonel Robert DesRoches.

This was back in 1991, and what I faced left me with a condition called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). I would like to say that I acquired this condition during a tour overseas, while engaged in battle, or at least something similar to battle, but no, it was acquired due to the continuous meager-minded actions of co-workers and colleagues. Regrettably, I had to be released in November of 1995 because they found that I was unfit to perform any military duties.

I would like to point out that I was engaged in advocacy work while I was in the Canadian Forces (CF), and I can pinpoint the origin of my advocacy to shortly after I joined in July of 1981. Around the middle of 1983 it was clear, at least to me, that everyone was not treated equally, nor were they treated fairly. I acted accordingly and did whatever I could to assist the disenfranchised.

Among them was Nela Odarijew (a woman of European descent), a flight engineer (091) who suffered bullying, sexism, and abuse of authority while attempting to perform her duties as part of the 405 Maritime Patrol and Training Squadron, 14 Wing, Greenwood, Nova Scotia. She too, was diagnosed with PTSD and her career quickly ended. Winnie Johnson (an African Nova Scotian woman) received my assistance as an avionics specialist at CFB Halifax, who was discriminated against and passed over for promotion. Tony Smith, an African Nova Scotian man, suffered systemic discrimination, institutional racism, and abuse of authority by the Nova Scotia Government beginning in the very early 1990’s. He and I worked indefatigably for five years to find him some justice. Tony is currently with the law firm Presse & Mason, which accepted Tony’s case on a contingency basis. These are only a few of the many advocacy cases I have accepted under the heading of compassion.

Suffice it to say, a similar path led Wallace J. Fowler to me. In early May, 2011, Wallace was referred to me by Mr.. Perry Borden, Dartmouth Crown Prosecutor. Wallace arrived at my home with his significant other, I showed up at Rubins house on a Sunday morning.

Wallace joined the CF in April of 2000 at the recruiting centre in Halifax. He was subsequently posted to CFB Borden, Ontario (a military training base) in June of 2000 after completing recruit training in Saint Jean, Quebec.

Essentially, this is where Wallace’s troubles began. He recounted several incidents to me where factual documentation supports his claims of being discriminated against due to his skin colour: black. For example, a young male (Black) from Trinidad, Private (Pte.) Reiner Watson, asked an instructor (Master Corporal (MCpl) Piggot) for permission to facilitate getting some administrative work done, and the response offered was indeed shocking. MCpl Piggot replied in a sarcastic manner, while swaying his body from side to side, mockingly stating: I ain’t your fucking homie or no brother of yours from a Toronto garage and anytime you speak to me you will stand at attention.

Wallace recounted that he and Pte. Watson were the only people of colour and that all the white guys laughed at them. He further indicated that this made both he and his colleague feel ashamed. Several more incidents transpired where Wallace was personally affronted and discriminated against; however, as this is only a prologue, they will have to be reviewed in the context and contents of this book.

More importantly, any reasonable person that has an opportunity to review Wallace’s evidence can clearly see that it vividly demonstrates how his problems concerning racial discrimination followed him to CFB Esquimalt, British Colombia. There, while his spouse at that time was walking home on the military base, some guy in a pick-up truck threw a banana at her and called her a fucking monkey. Even the school bus driver called his eleven-year-old son a nigger. Meanwhile, little white children spat in his daughter’s face. Several more incidents occurred as well, but they will be revealed later on in this book.

Perhaps the most interesting element of this entire affair, at least in my experience with the CF, is that Wallace has several letters of support from senior military officers (something that in my thirty-two years of dealing with the CF I have never witnessed before—remarkable indeed) confirming the racial discrimination that he and his family were subjected to while at CFB Esquimalt.

For example, in a move-request letter dated May 31, 2002, Commander R.K. Taylor, the Base Administration Officer, confirmed Captain Wong’s assessment (Capt. Wong was the base’s Social Worker):

[Fowler] and his family have consistently experienced racial discrimination outside of the military workplace… Specifically, his children have been taunted and harassed at school and in the Personal Married Quarters (PMQ) area where they live… Such unpleasant living circumstances have greatly affected the quality of life of this serviceman and his family… I wholeheartedly support the recommendation that he and his family be posted to Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada or as a secondary preference another base in the Atlantic region… While he and his family will undoubtedly need time to heal and learn coping skills, it is my assessment that the Fowlers will achieve this goal without career restrictions placed upon them.

Once he arrived in Trenton, Ontario (an Air Force base located in Ontario) in July of 2002, his troubles increased tenfold. He was told by his superiors that the military does not want or need black people. He recounts being stuck in a basement all day just ironing flags for approximately six months. And when he wasn’t ironing flags, picking up garbage and making coffee runs were his daily tasks. Wallace was placed on Paxil and singled out by CWO Melanson (his former career manager in Ottawa, who posted Wallace to Trenton against the expressed wishes and direction of Commander Taylor) who posted himself to Trenton and began making Wallace’s life a pure hell on earth. He managed this by fabricating stories that led to Wallace receiving administrative warnings, with the aim of getting Wallace kicked out of the CF as an Administrative Burden. Wallace was released wrongfully under release item 5D (no longer advantageously employable by the CF) in June of 2003, when in fact it should have been a 3A or perhaps a 3B (medical concerns or conditions that are acquired while performing military duties).

However, the most disturbing issue in Wallace’s case is the fact that there was essentially a conspiracy between the Ombudsmen for the CF and the Department of National Defence. The CF acted contrary to the Ombudsman’s mandate and contrary to their claim that they are an independent body. Wallace and I uncovered internal emails between the Ombudsman and the CF that literally agreed to change the circumstances of Wallace’s complaint from one of PTSD, racial discrimination, and medical problems, to simply medical problems. Specifically, we uncovered this conspiracy via the Access to Information Act, as is related over the course of this book.

Wallace is now looking to have a wrong made right, to ensure that no other minority family—or any family for that matter—is ever subjected to the kind of bullying, racism, discrimination, harassment, and taunting that his entire family was subjected to by virtue of their race. Wallace and his family suffered mentally, physically, and psychologically, as well as in terms of income. If the CF has a policy of zero tolerance towards racial discrimination, both Wallace and I would like to know why it failed to work in this instance. Perhaps it also failed others who suffered a similar fate.

Essentially, it is felt that most visible minorities will be able to identify with Wally’s experiences by virtue that thousands of Canadians who are visible minorities continue to suffer in silence because of the shame, humiliation, marginalization, bullying and disgrace that is associated with Systemic Discrimination and Institutional Racism. Accordingly, it is our hope that this book will facilitate the acquisition of a Class Action Law Suit for the benefit of both military and civilian employees who continue to suffer.

Rubin (Rocky) A. Coward, CD

Sergeant Retired

10 April, 2013

Chapter 1 - The Beginning

In Halifax, on Friday the fifth of November, in 1973, Margaret Farmer and Wallace Fowler welcomed me into the world as their first son.

I remember running everywhere. For as long as I can remember, I was running. Running out to play, running in to eat, running to the TV, running to the bathroom, running to bed. It was no surprise then, that I eventually wound up running track.

I was a typical Mulgrave Park kid. There’s not a whole lot to tell. We did typical kid things, playing around the project. Well, once I was allowed out on my own. Before that, I was mostly inside driving Mom nuts.

A housing project is a distinct community within the city, like a small town. Everyone watches everyone’s kids. The kids always went to whatever parents were closest if there was a problem. So even young kids were allowed to go out and play, unattended, in the heart of Halifax.

We played games, some formal, and some we invented on the spot. Basketball, soccer, ball hockey, baseball... well, we called them that anyway. Then there were the sorts of games that break out when there’s simply a group of kids. Or maybe the wrong kind of ball. And there were also the childhood basics of tag, track-down, hide-‘n-go-seek. Or we’d just chase each other, and that’s not to leave out playing kick-the-rock and poke-things-with-a-stick.

Life in Mulgrave Park was good. At least, when we were kids and didn’t know any better.

Mulgrave Park is one of the forced-resettlement projects connected to the destruction of Africville. Africville was first settled in the eighteenth century and became a haven for those fleeing the slave trade. Despite being a tight-knit community, Africville was constantly targeted by the city of Halifax for industrialization. Some Africville residents were forcibly relocated in the 1850s so a railway could be put through. A Victorian prison was based there. Later, it was used by Halifax as a dump, for both garbage and nightsoil—human waste. Halifax city council considered Africville as a place to put city facilities that other neighbourhoods would refuse to tolerate. The city never installed water lines or a sewer system, though it did see fit to locate two infectious disease hospitals there over the years. Halifax also failed to provide police or even fire services to this area, which led to Africville becoming a haven for crime by the time World War II came along.

After the war ended, the city—again—designated Africville as industrial land, but protesting residents were granted permission to remain. The city even authorized funds for putting in water and sewer systems, which it never got around to doing. In 1954, a city report recommended moving the people out of Africville to city-owned property for humanitarian reasons. The report, however, states that, The area is not suited for residences, but, properly developed, is ideal for industrial purposes. There is water frontage for piers, the railway for sidings, a road to be developed leading directly downtown and in the other direction to the provincial highway, making its real intentions suspect.

Africville’s people were forced to move out into slum-projects. Garbage trucks hauled their belongings. Bulldozers flattened their houses at night. In 1968, Halifax declared the Africville relocation a success, even though those affected by it were still mourning the loss of their community.

Mulgrave Park was one of those slum-projects. In fact, the last of Africville was bulldozed just three years before I was born. When you’re a kid, you don’t know anything about poverty. Life is just the way it is. Mulgrave Park has a sense of community, in part, because of its collection of former neighbours from Africville, and in part because poverty makes its own neighbours. It’s not like Mulgrave Park was all black either. There were all races there, and I don’t remember ever hearing racial slurs. In fact, I don’t recall witnessing anything racist until much later, someplace else. Sure, I knew people came in different skin colours. But it was just like knowing people had different coloured hair, eyes, or anything else. It was just something descriptive.

My parents were Margaret Farmer and Wallace Fowler Sr. Mom was on social assistance. Dad worked hard at whatever job he could find, from what I was told.

Dad was around for a little bit after I was born, then gone, then back for a bit. Then he went out west. He had a brother out there and they decided to go into construction. And after he got set up out there, he wanted to bring me and my brother out with him. But my Mom wanted to keep us at home with her.

Me and my younger brother, we played. Then we went off to school and played. I was a happy kid. Mulgrave Park has a large open area, and there was always something to do. There’d be soccer, baseball, people playing games... just always something to do. We’d just wander around, from game to game. We didn’t have money or anything, so we usually just stuck together and played our own games.

I started school at Richmond Elementary in Mulgrave Park. I loved school and always got along well with my teachers. At school, I loved English and gym, and hated science. I really had to work at it, even at the primary level. Neither Mom nor my grandmother would accept any slacking off. The more I had to work, the more I hated it. Like most kids, I resented having to do anything that wasn’t playing. I could never see the point of science. But I did what I was told.

I was really close with my grandmother. She lived on Creighton Street. She always had some sort of treat, like cookies or cake or something. And she always had tons of love to give. That’s sappy, but she’s a great woman and a guiding light for me. She was my everything… I was closer with her than my actual Mom. My grandmother didn’t raise me, but I spent a lot of time around her. As a kid growing up, instead of my Mom being there, it was always my grandmother. Me and my grandmother had a bond, you know? She was my world. I remember she had cancer when I was about seven or eight years old. It was prior to heading out west to be with my Dad. She died when I was out there. Right after I left, she died. It still bothers me to this day. I loved her more than she ever knew, and I never got to tell her. We used to go to the park, for walks... and, you know, if she was out getting groceries or anything, it was always me tagging along with her. Anytime I got into trouble, it was my grandmother who was there by my side to help me out.

As a kid growing up in a project like Mulgrave Park, I wasn’t exactly aware of being poor, but I knew there were things I couldn’t have, that we couldn’t afford. Even things like an ice cream on a summer day, or a new ball, or a treat from the corner store. Sure, none of those things are very important, but when you hear we can’t afford it or I don’t have any money to give you often enough, it has a psychological impact. The desperation that exists in all impoverished communities is rampant. We didn’t get much for Christmas. Things were tight. When you’re living in the system, it’s not like you’ve got a bunch of money to be putting into sports and stuff. We didn’t have a lot, money-wise, but there was family—a lot of family—all around me. Family and friends.

Before Dad went out west, Mom started seeing Robert Merineau. He was in the military, something that had a huge influence on my life. Mom and Robert would eventually add two brothers to the us three kids—my two brothers and me—making five children in total. I was 18 months old when my first brother was born, so I don’t remember much of those early years. As an energetic first grader who ran everywhere, I found the adjustment difficult. I started spending more time outside, on my own or because I was sent out. Mom was a quiet person. Raising three boys was a lot for her, but she was always there for me.

Around Grade Three, I started to go bad. I developed a serious attitude problem. I would do whatever I wanted, regardless of the consequences. If I had a curfew of 5:30 or 6 for supper, I’d stroll in at 7, you know, just doing what I wanted to do. Or I was fighting with my friends. You know how you have them little kid fights and everything? Those spats around the neighbourhood? I wasn’t really trouble because I wasn’t into stealing or anything like that. Just being a boy, you know, coming home late, giving attitude, fighting with my friends and brothers. I was just being a kid who was growing up.

A lot of my attitude had to do with school back then. At the house things were mainly good, but when I went to school I gave off an attitude. I never got suspensions or anything like that. I got along well with my teacher, but not always the other kids. I’d get into spats with the kids on the playground. Nothing major, just little kid fights. I was just going through a phase.

I think it was because there was hardly anybody there to discipline me or keep me in check— when I wanted to do something, I would do it. I didn’t have anybody with the authority to tell me otherwise. Parents still hit kids then, and my Mom gave me the odd crack when I got too far out of line, but it was just too much for her, what with three boys to look after. And I think I was just too much for her at that time. I had a lot of anger, negative feelings that I’d direct at my Mom. It was overwhelming, because she had other kids to worry about too. So it was easier for me to go with my Dad where he could put me in line. My attitude lasted until I went out west to be with my Dad. I tried the same tricks out there with him and it was a reality check: FOOT-TO-THE-BUTT!

It had always been Dad’s plan to bring me and my brother out west with him. So, when Mom started finding me too much to handle, she was willing to send me out. She wasn’t abandoning me; she just knew she couldn’t provide whatever it was that I needed. And she knew Dad wouldn’t put up with my crap. He’d straighten me out.

Arrangements were made. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. It was like a There’s nothing I can do with you, your Dad has to step up... kind of thing. There was no, I wanna stay! I don’t wanna go! As a kid, it was something that I wanted to do anyway. There was a part of me that was missing my father too. I wanted to get out there and get to know him.

It was my first plane trip and I was going solo. Well, sort of. Back then, it wasn’t unusual for a child to fly alone. The airlines all had policies in place. Your parent signed you over to the aircrew, usually a stewardess flying to the same destination. You’d follow her around, board and deplane with her. If you had to change planes, she helped you get your bags. If she wasn’t going all the way, she signed you over to someone else. You had this plastic packet you wore around your neck at all times, containing your ticket and ID and stuff like that. That’s how I flew, at age nine, from the Maritimes to the prairies, from Halifax to Edmonton.

I’d always had contact with my Dad. He used to come back to Halifax—his family was in Yarmouth—and when he did we always met up with him. Every now and then we’d talk on the phone. When something came up, he was informed, and there was always the phone conversation. But this was one of those times when he hadn’t been in our lives much.

I went out west right after school got out. Michael Jackson was big at the time, and I got a Michael Jackson coat when I went out there. Remember the red leather coat with all the zippers? They were just coming out and I got one. It was a big thing for me.

Dad met me at the airport. He was a big man. I remember him picking me up from the airport, and I was just so happy to see my Dad. We hadn’t seen each other in a while. He mostly looked like I remembered. I’m sure I didn’t match the picture he had in his memory of me. He must have still had this image of me as a little kid, or maybe from my last school picture. He kept telling me how much I’d grown, in that way that irritates kids, the whole drive back to Lloydminster, in Alberta. Once there, I got settled into my new home.

The first couple weeks, things were great. Then the attitude came back on and I started reviving my old habits. It was a reality check, you know, when I got that first hard slap on the ass. Mom was right; Dad did sort out my attitude problem. He wasn’t mean, but he made it clear that he wasn’t going to put up with backtalk, or coming and going as I pleased. Being in a new, different place had me feeling both excited and timid, which certainly helped tame my attitude as well. Since I didn’t really know anyone, it’s not like I could just run away. Heck, since I came by plane, I didn’t even know the way back home. Not that I was thinking about any of that, but it’s just that the awareness of those things settles into your mind. It makes you cling to what you do know—in this case, Dad. And if Dad wanted my best behaviour, then I was going to give it to him.

Lloydminster sits right on the border between Alberta and Saskatchewan. It’s actually split between the two provinces. It only had about 15,000 people when I got there. It was a booming place, thanks to the oil industry, but it still looked like a small town to me. I was a city kid. Maybe Halifax wasn’t Toronto, but it was a lot bigger than Lloydminster. And Lloydminster is flat. I was used to hills... and salty air and fog. You can imagine what a shock this would be to a nine-year-old’s senses.

Lloydminster was different in other ways too. There weren’t very many black people out there at that time.

My brother came out shortly after me. We used to fight, but we also had each other’s backs. He was the one guy that always had my back, and I had his, regardless. That was one thing my Dad drilled into us: to always look after one another. Still, to this day, there’s nothing we wouldn’t do. We were a team growing up together. So there was me and my brother, and one other black guy from Jamaica. There were only three of us in the entire school who were black.

I started out at Bishop Lloyd Middle School. The first time I encountered racism was out there, in the schools. It was bad. There were teachers calling names, kids calling names. I had a teacher call me a coon at school, shortly after I started. When the teacher called me a coon... I didn’t know what it was at the time. I was young. I didn’t know what no coon was. I went home and told my Dad. Dad couldn’t believe it. I remember my Dad going to the school to talk about it and there were sparks flying. Then the school board got involved, and there were letters sent back and forth, and I think that was the first time that I truly felt out of place. I don’t even know what the outcome was. I know my Dad went there, and there was an apology. I think the teacher apologized in writing or something like that. But I don’t know whatever came of it besides that. I just sort of looked past it and kept going until I got out of there. I stayed in the same school until I was finished, as it was the only one available.

There were a