This Was W.R.O.N.G.
Nov. 25th, 2006 12:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fiat_knoxThis has been a time for recalling things that happened a long time in the past. Things that happened 10, 15, 20, 30 - 37 - even 43 years ago, the year of my birth: even beyond, to events my folks told me about, that happened before my time.
The event I'm describing now occurred 15 years ago. It was 1991, that sort of time, the turn of the year. Winter was cold, back then, but I don't recall the days being so short as they are today.
It was October or thereabouts - for once, my memory of dates eludes me here, and there's a reason for this - and in that time, I'd been a volunteer for the Royal National Institute for the Blind, which had a little headquarters down in Chester. Every Friday evening, on my way up to aikido class, I'd stop there first and put in an hour's work, reading magazine articles and the pages of books for the Blind.
Back then, it was "the Blind", not "the sightage handicapped" or the "differently visual" or whatever PC bullshit they call it now. Blind. As in "can't see worth shit and need a white stick, a guide dog, and a friendly voice like mine to read out their magazine stories". Welcome to the PC-gets-kicked-to-its-knees-and-shot-in-the-back-of-the-head-execution-style Zone, folks.
So, after about four months of this, they let me in one evening, but this time, without warning, they had me read out another article. This was not a magazine article, or an instruction book for a washing machine that had been translated from Korean to German, then to French and then to Welsh before being translated to English by a secretary who didn't understand Welsh and used a dictionary. Oh, no.
I was asked to read out a passage from what looked like a very sensitive document. It was describing the specs of a riot control vehicle.
It had roof mounted water cannon, equipped with hookups for teargas "or other agents such as biological agents where required".
The vehicle had front and rear mounted CCTV cameras "to record the faces of the crowd and provide a means of identification of individual instigators".
Furthermore, the vehicle boasted "software to identify and track the movements of key individuals through the crowd, identify and locate gatherings of instigators and predict crowd behaviour".
I was kind of outraged by the claims of this document. I asked them if they knew that this was wrong, and they made the document just ... vanish. Next week, I came in, did more harmless magazines, read out pools results, translated more instruction manuals.
And then, one day, this crowd just quietly folded up their tents and buggered off to Ellesmere Port. Not a word of by your leave, just "This was the last time we required your services. Oh, by the way, did you hear the news? Gene Roddenberry's dead".
It was October 24, 1991. 15 years ago this year. And I still found it hard to get over either the news of Gene's death or, more importantly, the outrage I felt at such a ... heinous document.
In the time since that evening, I have been told by various people that it was some sort of loyalty test, and that I'd failed it somehow.
That's bugged me for fifteen years. Well, now I'm going to say this once on my blog.
As far as I am concerned, and it's taken me fifteen years to digest this, I passed the test. One day, when I die and pass into Neath, I will still be me. Plainclothes Clown to the Stars. All the bloody way to the stars, with my head held high, knowing that I was given a temptation and an offer which would have led to my irreversible corruption.
I think I'd probably take up abusing drugs before I corrupt myself by selling out to anyone in that way, then, now, or ever.
The next time I volunteer for anything like that ... ANYTHING ... I'll tell them that there are some things I will not touch, no matter what.
And they can tell me that I will have to sign as many NDAs and sign the Official Secrets Act tattooed across my arse, I still won't participate in any sort of event that will involve my voice, or any other part of me including my mind, being associated with the destruction or bypassing of the freedom and principles of democracy that I hold so dear.
I may hoist the Jolly Roger, sure: but these monsters are my target. Not my paymaster. And if I die a pauper because I won't bend the knee and take up the banner of the fascist, so bloody well be it.
The event I'm describing now occurred 15 years ago. It was 1991, that sort of time, the turn of the year. Winter was cold, back then, but I don't recall the days being so short as they are today.
It was October or thereabouts - for once, my memory of dates eludes me here, and there's a reason for this - and in that time, I'd been a volunteer for the Royal National Institute for the Blind, which had a little headquarters down in Chester. Every Friday evening, on my way up to aikido class, I'd stop there first and put in an hour's work, reading magazine articles and the pages of books for the Blind.
Back then, it was "the Blind", not "the sightage handicapped" or the "differently visual" or whatever PC bullshit they call it now. Blind. As in "can't see worth shit and need a white stick, a guide dog, and a friendly voice like mine to read out their magazine stories". Welcome to the PC-gets-kicked-to-its-knees-and-shot-in-the-back-of-the-head-execution-style Zone, folks.
So, after about four months of this, they let me in one evening, but this time, without warning, they had me read out another article. This was not a magazine article, or an instruction book for a washing machine that had been translated from Korean to German, then to French and then to Welsh before being translated to English by a secretary who didn't understand Welsh and used a dictionary. Oh, no.
I was asked to read out a passage from what looked like a very sensitive document. It was describing the specs of a riot control vehicle.
It had roof mounted water cannon, equipped with hookups for teargas "or other agents such as biological agents where required".
The vehicle had front and rear mounted CCTV cameras "to record the faces of the crowd and provide a means of identification of individual instigators".
Furthermore, the vehicle boasted "software to identify and track the movements of key individuals through the crowd, identify and locate gatherings of instigators and predict crowd behaviour".
I was kind of outraged by the claims of this document. I asked them if they knew that this was wrong, and they made the document just ... vanish. Next week, I came in, did more harmless magazines, read out pools results, translated more instruction manuals.
And then, one day, this crowd just quietly folded up their tents and buggered off to Ellesmere Port. Not a word of by your leave, just "This was the last time we required your services. Oh, by the way, did you hear the news? Gene Roddenberry's dead".
It was October 24, 1991. 15 years ago this year. And I still found it hard to get over either the news of Gene's death or, more importantly, the outrage I felt at such a ... heinous document.
In the time since that evening, I have been told by various people that it was some sort of loyalty test, and that I'd failed it somehow.
That's bugged me for fifteen years. Well, now I'm going to say this once on my blog.
I. Did. Not. Fail.
THEY DID!
As far as I am concerned, and it's taken me fifteen years to digest this, I passed the test. One day, when I die and pass into Neath, I will still be me. Plainclothes Clown to the Stars. All the bloody way to the stars, with my head held high, knowing that I was given a temptation and an offer which would have led to my irreversible corruption.
I think I'd probably take up abusing drugs before I corrupt myself by selling out to anyone in that way, then, now, or ever.
The next time I volunteer for anything like that ... ANYTHING ... I'll tell them that there are some things I will not touch, no matter what.
And they can tell me that I will have to sign as many NDAs and sign the Official Secrets Act tattooed across my arse, I still won't participate in any sort of event that will involve my voice, or any other part of me including my mind, being associated with the destruction or bypassing of the freedom and principles of democracy that I hold so dear.
I may hoist the Jolly Roger, sure: but these monsters are my target. Not my paymaster. And if I die a pauper because I won't bend the knee and take up the banner of the fascist, so bloody well be it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-11-25 05:22 am (UTC)And fuck 'em all who don't like it. ;D
more power to ya brother......
Date: 2006-11-26 04:43 pm (UTC)Also as far as the PC comments go I have to agree and quote one of my favorite SF/F authors Spider Robinson From his Callahan's series "Politically correct euphemisms are for the differently-brained" nuff' said