Finding Isadora(12)

“I’m delighted to see such a large turnout,” Mr. Chambers said. “The Center appreciates your generous support. I’m sure you’re waiting with bated breath to hear the winners in the silent auction, but there are a few items to cover first. The waiters will pour refills of coffee and tea, and they’ll hand out pledge forms. Before you fill them out, I’d like you to listen to tonight’s speaker—”

So much for my hopes. I leaned toward Richard and muttered, “We’re going to be subjected to one of those boring after-dinner speeches.”

The words came out more loudly from I’d intended, and a few heads turned in my direction. Including Gabriel’s, his eyes dancing with laughter. He must think I was a total social screw-up.

The Chair went on. “And so without further ado, please welcome one of our Board members, Gabe DeLuca.”

Gabriel rose, straightened his tuxedo jacket, and strode to the podium.

I clapped my hands to my cheeks, murmuring, “Please let me die.” Pressing my fingers over my eyes and peeping between them, I saw him adjust the microphone then gaze around the room, waiting until everyone’s attention was focused on him.

“I have been recently reminded,” he said, “that after-dinner speeches can be boring.”

I closed my fingers again and hid behind them.

Richard poked me in the ribs and whispered, “You’re only making it worse.”

“Thank you for that, Isadora,” Gabriel said.

Startled, I dropped my hands.

He smiled at me, then let his gaze roam. Not aimlessly, but focusing on one person then another, demanding attention. “I’ll do my best not to bore you. In fact, I’ll do my best to shock you.” As he spoke, he peeled off his tuxedo jacket and let it drop to the floor.

I sucked in a breath. What was he doing?

Around me, the audience was a hum of questioning murmurs. He waited until they fell silent again.

“Did you know,” he said, “that of every thousand children born in British Columbia, three have fetal alcohol syndrome? Did you know that the huge majority of those innocent babies are First Nations? And that FAS children have so many developmental difficulties, they’re disproportionately represented in the prison population?”

This time the whispered comments were louder. He reached up to unknot his bow tie, dropped it on top of his jacket, undid the top buttons of his shirt, then waited until people quieted. “I’m sure you heard about the teen who committed suicide last year after his classmates bullied him because he was an Orthodox Jew. Did you know that last year, in the Lower Mainland, two Muslim mosques were vandalized? So was a Jewish synagogue—and in one of those cases a night maintenance man almost died.”

Now there were no whispers, but the hushed room was full of tension. He stripped off his black cummerbund and tossed it aside, holding us spellbound even when he wasn’t speaking.

“What about the neo-Nazi teenagers who burned a swastika on a lesbian couple’s front lawn? How do you think the couple’s daughter felt when she came home from school to see it?”

He was hypnotic. He punched out the words, making sure each was heard and felt. As he spoke, he undid the cuffs of his white tuxedo shirt and rolled the sleeves up his dark forearms.

The dead silence in the room was a testament to his impact.

“Did you know that last month in Stanley Park, a mile from where we sit tonight in all our finery, a gay man was beaten close to death?” Now he was just a man in black pants and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Except, Gabriel DeLuca, with his compelling personality, would never be just a man.

Everyone else in the room looked pretentious, frivolous, and, from the way they fiddled with their clothing, they knew it. I was grateful for my simple dress though, if Gabriel had asked, I’d happily have donated my diamonds to any cause he advocated.

“Some of this makes the news and some doesn’t. If it’s in the papers, on the radio, do you even pay attention? Do you care?

“Did you know”—his voice lowered to a husky rasp that penetrated to every corner of the room—”that this week, in the Downtown Eastside, a teenage girl will die of a drug overdose? She’s likely a sex trade worker. Maybe she grew up in a single-parent family on welfare. Perhaps she had a father who abused her. She might have been born poor, or she might have been born rich. She might be First Nations, she might be Chinese. She might be Caucasian. She might be from a reserve, or from Eastern Europe. She might be one of your neighbor’s children.”

The whole room held its collective breath.

“She is one of our children. She is a child of our country, our country that prides itself on multiculturalism.” He paused a long moment, letting those words soak in. “Yes, multiculturalism means Diwali, Chinese New Year’s, and lovely First Nations art, but it also means racism. Poverty. Hatred. Death. Until the time we make it mean something different.”

God, but he was good. Better, even, than Jimmy Lee.

I glanced around. Saw men reaching up and loosening their bow ties, as if Gabriel’s words were choking them. Saw women blotting tears, trying to prevent their mascara from running. My own eyes were damp despite—or perhaps because—I already knew about the reality Gabriel was revealing. You couldn’t grow up as Grace and Jimmy Lee’s kid without knowing these things. This was my society and I wasn’t proud of it.