In an alternative contemporary reality, Nick Wong is a product of the Childrenâs Centres âgovernment-run residential schools designed to prevent all forms of patriarchy and help usher in an unprecedented age of world peace. While girls are groomed for leadership, boys are taught subservience.
As is the case with most male graduates, Nickâs emotions are stunted and he feels little connection to others. Nevertheless, his innate curiosity and his desire to do the right thing spur him on a perilous quest for Truth âabout marriage, family and the need to connect with who we are.
In an alternative contemporary reality, Nick Wong is a product of the Childrenâs Centres âgovernment-run residential schools designed to prevent all forms of patriarchy and help usher in an unprecedented age of world peace. While girls are groomed for leadership, boys are taught subservience.
As is the case with most male graduates, Nickâs emotions are stunted and he feels little connection to others. Nevertheless, his innate curiosity and his desire to do the right thing spur him on a perilous quest for Truth âabout marriage, family and the need to connect with who we are.
Nick Wong strutted through his downtown Ottawa neighbourhood, grinning as he basked in the success of his performance last night: The jaw drops when he passed a saltshaker through the table. The screams-turned-belly laughter when he sneezed and his head appeared to fall off his neck. Most of all, Nick relished the memory of the long-faced, scrunched up woman in the wheelchair, the dying embers in her eyes lighting up as he transported her to a world where limitations were illusions and troubles could be forgotten.
Before long, the grin on Nickâs face vanished.
It happened when several women in navy blue pants and crisp gold shirts strode past him, their gazes flitting. Their refusal to make eye contact made him feel like a discarded pop canâempty and crushed.
Reality had set in. It always did.
He sighed and turned into Amazon Mall.
The line in front of Simple Wear snaked down the main aisle of the shopping centre. A procession of mankeys like himself, in old sweatshirts and shapeless pants, shuffled into the store. Joining the queue, Nick focused on the monitor hanging from the ceiling.
âDespite a heavy police presence,â the anchorwomanâs voice blared, âthe Hardinians on Parliament Hill broke through the crowd-control barriers, allowing other insurgents to pour throughâŚâ
More violence.
He wished he were still in bed. But today was Saturday, and Age of Oppression Memorial Day was in three days. All males sixteen and over had to wear pink slippers or risk a hefty fine. His old pair had ripped.
Nick studied the line, only marginally shorter now. His feet sweltered in his sneakers, and his lower back ached. The smell of freshly baked dough, garlic and cheese wafting from the food court made his stomach grumble.
Ape-brain. Should have eaten more before leaving my apartment.
He looked again at the monitor, hoping to get his mind off the hunger. â...latest statistics from the World Federation indicate the male population has declined 14.8 percent in the last twelve months, slightly slower than plannedâŚâ
Nick yawned. He arched his back and was stretching and twisting to loosen it after standing for so long when something caught his eye: Beatrice, sitting on a bench about thirty feet away, bulky shopping bags on either side.
Strangeâher usually neatly groomed, shoulder-length hair hung disheveled.
Theyâd met last summer at her bossâs backyard birthday party. Nick had been hired to do magic tricks.
âYou were awesome,â Beatrice had said after his performance, warmth radiating from her round, dimpled face. Her own birthday was approaching, sheâd added, and Nickâs show had helped lift her spirits.
They had begun a long conversation, the subject of which he no longer recalled. He only remembered laughing and nodding and watching Beatrice listen to his every word.
Since that first encounter, heâd enjoyed all their conversations and secretly considered her his best friend. She was different from every other woman: she respected his ideas. But today, Nick didnât want to lose his position in the queue and hoped she wouldnât notice him.
As he contemplated how he could make himself invisible, Beatrice looked up and their eyes met. She waved.
Dang.
Nick waved back, frowning while pointing to the long line of people that had formed behind him. She tilted her head, as though confused.
HmmâŚcanât expect her to saunter over with those heavy bags. After shifting his weight from one foot to the other a few times, he sighed and walked toward her.
He stopped midstride. Her face was streaked with tears.
âW-what happened?â Nick glanced around, assuring himself no one else was within earshot. It would be awkward for a mankey to be seen trying to console a woman.
âEarlierâŚin the washroomâŚI was grabbed from behind.â
âWhat?â
âIt was awful. I was so scared I couldnât scream. She pulled my hair and dug her fingernails into my scalp. Felt like she was pushing razor blades under my skin.â Beatriceâs chin trembled. âShe called me a âpervertâ and a âmankey lover.ââ
Nick flinched.
âI turned and there were two more of them. They told me they recognized me from last nightâs Womenâs Meeting, saying my behaviour was deplorable and theyâd file a complaint with the Ministry.â Â
âA complaint?â Nick swallowed and stepped closer. âWhatâd you do?
âI spoke my mind.â
âAnd?â
âAnd what?â
âThereâs freedom of speechââ
Beatrice snorted. âNot for promoting sanity.â She grabbed a grocery bag and was about to move it off the bench.
âOh, Iâm fine.â Nick held up his hand. While he appreciated her intention, it wasnât proper for a mankey to sit too close to a woman. Â
He remained standing, attentive to Beatriceâs every word, facial expression and gesture as she related the previous eveningâs disturbing events.
+++
How Beatrice hated these local Womenâs Meetings. As soon as she arrived at the old school gymnasium, she glanced at her watch: 8:44 p.m. Fourteen minutes late, perfect. She had timed her arrival well. Fifteen minutes late would have resulted in a reprimand.
Although these monthly gatherings always started a half hour late, people were expected to arrive on time. Unfortunately, the only access was from the front, so everyone who walked in faced those already seated. Beatrice scanned the gymnasium, which was almost filled to capacity. Taking a deep breath, she marched down the aisle toward an empty chair near the back, below a corroded, upturned basketball hoop. She took her seat, hoping no one would try to strike up a conversation or offer her a joint while waiting for the meeting to start. The scent of weed was stronger than usual that evening.
Despite the hard plastic chair, Beatrice refrained from fidgeting. She looked alternately at the floor, the dusty bare walls, the grinding ceiling fan, and the two front loudspeakersâanything to avoid seeing the imposing glass-framed portrait of the Advisor, the head of the World Federation.
Beatrice shuddered every time she saw the Advisorâs image: the wispy strands of cotton-white hair; the thousand wrinkles that went every which way and even crisscrossed each other; the deep, dark eye sockets. The Advisor looked as if she were resurrected from a bygone era, yet the fierce ambition in her eyes and smile suggested a creature who belonged to the present and, even more, to the future.
The air remained stale despite the ceiling fan. No one else seemed bothered. People looked ahead placidly, some occasionally taking a puff or leaning to one side and exchanging a few words with their neighbours.
Beatrice slid a sandaled foot back and forth along the smooth vinyl flooring, and soon her breathing slowed. Decades ago, a teenager probably dribbled a basketball on the same spot where Beatrice placed her foot. And some young child surely landed a sneaker there while jumping or sprinting in a relay race.
Alas, that was before her time. Before they sent the children to live in Childrenâs Centres.
Itâs not right. This gymnasium was built for kids to play in, not for these asinine Womenâs Meetings.
Drumbeats rolled through the room. Two women wearing navy blue suits and gold headbands strode in. One, with cropped hair, turned and pointed a finger at the wall behind her. A familiar image appeared: a solid orange circle partially eclipsing a solid black circle and the words Our Future Is Near.
The drumming ceased.
Everyone rose. The two women chanted, âOur future is near.â The audience, including Beatrice, joined in. This went on for thirty agonizing seconds.
The crop-haired woman signaled everyone to sit.
âFriends,â she cried, âour future is near! We will recite the Five Principles. I would like a volunteer.â Many hands shot up. She flashed a cold smile. âHow about the person in the back with the blond hair who arrived late?â She locked eyes with Beatrice. âWould you please stand?â
Beatriceâs heart raced. Heads turned, and she felt the crushing gaze of a hundred sets of eyes. She rose from her chair.
 âYour name, please.â
âB-Beatrice Tender.â
âWell, B-Beatrice Tender.â A sprinkling of laughter rose from the audience. âYou have the honour of reciting the defining principles of our Movement.â
Beatrice clenched her jaw. To decline would mean a lengthy interrogation. She kept her voice low. âThe first principle of the Movement is, The nature of mankeys is to control and abuse women.â She swallowed. âThe second principle of the Movement is, Our higher status is our due for centuries of selflessness and sacrifice. The thirdââ
âBeatrice, please recite each principle without prefacing it.â
Beatrice paused. She had hoped she could get away with saying them in an impersonal manner. She tightened her fists until her nails bit into her palms.
âWe shall never give power back to mankeys.â Her voice quivered. âFamily threatens social harmony and productivity. We shall not be intimate with mankeys but only with other women.â
Beatrice sat, blood pounding in her ears.
The second chant leader stepped up to the lectern. She removed the joint dangling from her mouth and cleared her throat.
âLadies, we are at a time in history where we have advanced ahead of mankeys. They have become evolutionary failures.â She raised a fist, and the crowd cheered. âBut we have much work still to do if we want world peace. We must continue to accumulate power.â She looked over the audience with hungry eyes. âWe must win over countries stuck in the past, where Hardinians have a footholdâŚâ
Ten minutes later, she concluded. âFellow fighters, the insurgency is gaining momentum, even here in Canada. We must remain vigilant. The enemy is everywhere. They could be your friends, your next-door neighboursâŚeven someone in this room.â Her voice shook with fierce determination. âWe must continue our struggle for a peaceful world, a world where our bright orange sun eclipses the blackness of mankeysâ ignorance and brutality. I now turn the floor over to Karla Rook, Senior Project Officer at the Ministry of Tomorrow.â
A broad-shouldered woman sporting jet-black hair and a fleshy nose with an upturned tip advanced to the lectern. She adjusted her navy blue suit and straightened her blood-red tie.
Beatrice slid her sweaty palms back and forth along the sides of her seat and braced herself for another verbal onslaught.
âOur future is near,â Karla bellowed.
âOur future is near,â the auditorium reverberated.
âOur future is near!â she shouted louder, a clenched fist in front of her face.
âOur future is near,â the audience screamed.
Beatrice had seen Karla at previous meetings. She was always pumped up.
âAs you know, this Tuesday is Age of Oppression Memorial Day, and we expect no less than full participation. You all have your assigned tasks. I shouldnât have to remind you that if you see a mankey on the street not wearing pink slippers, you must notify the police. Issuing a warning is not enough anymore.â
Beatrice gritted her teeth.
Someoneâs hand went up in the audience. Karla pivoted. âYesâŚCharlene?â
A small, white-haired woman rose. âItâs Charlotte. I was just thinking. It doesnât seem right that in a free country some people are forced to wear a certain type of footwear. It didnât use to be that way.â
Karla scanned the audience, undoubtedly seeing many annoyed faces, before returning her steady eyes to the elderly woman.
âThank you, Charlotte, for sharing your perspective. But itâs the law. We might as well also ask why these monthly meetings are obligatory. Or why, in a court of law, everyone must stand when the judge enters. Or why we allow peaceful demonstrations against the government but not ones that incite violence. Sometimes freedoms need to be curtailed for the greater good.â
âAhh. Makes sense.â The old woman sat.
Karla stared at her for several seconds before turning her attention to the rest of the audience. âAs I was saying, you all have your assigned tasks for this Tuesday. As for next yearâs Memorial Day, we will build on lessons learned. But the Ministry of Tomorrow has added a new theme: mankeysâ brutality against children. Weâll be looking to you for ideas.â
Children? Fury ignited in Beatriceâs gut. Society has gone mad. She sprang up. âIââ
Heads turned. She froze. Her impulsiveness had shot out of her legs and mouth. Her knees weakened.
âYes, Beatrice?â Karla said.
It was too late to back down. Everyone stared, waiting. She needed to say something. She rocked from side to side. âI would like to be the first to share my ideas.â
âYes, Beatrice?â
Beatrice felt light-headed. She wanted to sit but couldnât. It was as if everyoneâs eyes were propping her up, preventing her from resuming her seat.
âThisâŚI think thisâŚcrusade against menâmankeysâis going too far.â Beatrice imagined the audience filled with vultures and snakes, waiting to pounce on her as soon as she stumbled. âIt may not beâŚnecessary. Mankeys have no real contact with children.â
Murmurs swept across the room. Karla strutted down the aisle, over the faded black and red lines on the gymnasium floor, cementing an icy stare on Beatrice. Her shoulders were pressed back, her stride long and commanding.
When she reached Beatriceâs row, she stopped and faced her. âAnd do you not know, Beatrice, that the reason we forbid nonwomen to be alone with children is precisely because of their proclivity to control and abuse them?â
Beatrice trembled, yet she was determined to stand her ground. âIâm sure not all men are like that. If I ever have a childâuh, I mean, if that were legalâI would want a man to help me raise it. A man who cared about children and wouldnât harm them.â
Many in the room gaped, others winced.
âI meanââshe swallowed hardââthereâs got to be a few mankeys like that in the world.â
Dead silence prickled her nerves. The only sound was the rhythmic grinding of the overhead fan. Beatrice sat and waited, her stomach a jumble of knots.
The universe had paused, needing to figure out its next move.
After a long moment, a tall, husky woman in a middle row got up and made her way ostentatiously to the lectern. Turning to the audience, she looked straight at Beatrice. She positioned her mouth very close to the microphone, almost tasting it. âYou are a wife,â she hissed and then returned to her seat.
+++
Nick stared, mouth agape, as Beatrice finished her story.
âI was shocked. Iâve never been called a wife before.â Tears welled in Beatriceâs eyes. âShe said it to a room full of people! I felt worse than dirt.â
Nickâs pulse thrummed in his temples. At least it had been a member of the audience, and not Karla, whoâd called Beatrice a wife. NoâKarla would never do such a thing. Nick had known Karla since childhood; she was always respectful to everyone. A passionate defender of freedom of speech, she was one of the few women Nick dared engage with on contentious topics.
âWhy did you speak out in the first place?â
âI couldnât contain myself.â
Nickâs throat constricted. âThen what happened?â
âNothing. I could hardly breathe. I donât remember anything more except, vaguely, being on my feet during the final chanting. I stared at the back of the chair in front of me until I felt a squeeze on my arm and someone said it was time to go home.â
Nick remained standing in front of Beatrice as if his sneakers were glued to the tiles. Donât cry, he wanted to tell her. He searched his pockets for a tissue but couldnât find any. He felt useless.
âIt was that old lady, Charlotte,â Beatrice said flatly. âShe told me she was once an oddball and that I, too, will see the light.â
Beatrice stared at the floor, sniffling. âWhy canât a woman have a baby of her own?â She wiped her cheeks with her hands. âWhy must it be a crime? Werenât women given wombs?â
Nick straightened. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. His eyes settled on Beatriceâs quivering lower lip. Although Nick knew there were women who wanted to be mothers, they were rare. Yes, heâd heard some women say it, but it was always said in jest. Beatrice was serious.
His chest tightened and his stomach churned. Nick had been raised to believe a person should put societyâs needs first.
Is Beatrice selfish? In the months that heâd known her, her kindness had impressed him. Like the time sheâd accompanied him home after one of his performances, when a headache skewed his vision and nauseated him. Can it be that she is ignorant? Doesnât she understand the social harm of motherhood?
Nickâs stomach felt hollow. It grumbled and made him light-headed. He took a step back. âI-I need to go home and eat. Itâs pretty late.â
Beatrice scrutinized his face with her puffy eyes. âNick, Iâll be thirty in August. Do you know how Iâm going to celebrate my birthday?â Her expression dimmed.
Nick shrugged. Two years ago heâd announced to his buddies at the Mankey Bar that it was his thirtieth birthday. They had treated him to a Coke and a donut.
âIâm going to set myself on fireâin front of the Ministry building. Youâre invited to attend and bring all your friends. I no longer want to live in a world like this.â
Nick stared at her, his neck muscles tensing. Why is she telling me this? What am I supposed to do? He wanted to yell at her, beg her to reconsider, but his mouth wouldnât cooperate. His thoughts froze and his body overheated. He craved fresh air.
He pretended he hadnât heard clearly.
âAnyway, it was nice seeing you,â he stammered, taking a shaky step backward.
He continued to back up a few feet, avoiding eye contact, then turned and shambled toward the end of the snake line, a deserter trying to hide in a searchlight. Once out of Beatriceâs line of sight, he stood still for a long time, every inch of his skin tingling. Then, he punched his fists against his thighs and headed straight for the exit.
Nick Wong is a magician, a master at the art of deception; but who strangely hates lying to his betters. Who happen to women. He lives in a world where men are second class citizens; relegated to living in small apartments and low paying jobs and are referred to as Mankeys. A derogatory and belittling word, to remind them that they're barely evolved from monkeys and have no social standing in the New World Order. Nick barely has any friends of much value, simply a couple of acquaintances that annoy him and a few women who he secretly cherishes as friends, but has no idea how to be friends. He's not happy, but he's not unhappy either; accepting his lot in life as a remnant of the Age of Oppression when males would do nothing but abuse women and children, Until, that is, one particularly rainy day when in. a rare fit of altruism, he offers his umbrella to a fellow Mankey with a terrible cough.
What was so compelling about Severed Roots was the underlying mystery involved in Nick's story. Why, exactly, is the enigmatic Karla so drawn to him? What is his relationship to Angelina; his old facilitator at the Children's Centre where he grew up. What exactly is Morrie's overall plan? Why did he approach Nick on the bus that day, specifically? So many questions in what is, a relatively short book.
But it's not just those questions which made this a must read. It's the story telling, the drip feeding of the history of the world, and its cultural anecdotes. The world building of this New World Order is stunning, with Huzcotoq providing a terrifyingly realistic view of what could be. The so-called Age of Oppression ended some 20 years before; criminalising marriage, the concept of family and even relationships between men and women. Men are bred only for the purpose of being sperm donors, and even for the ones who are born, they are offered incentives to transition. All in the name of eliminating violent crime against women and children. Women are also victims of this New World Order. Those who desperately wish for a baby to hold and nurture are given the tag of having a mental health problem. Babies are only born in the name of 'human manufacturing' by surrogates, before being passed on to a Children's Centre to be raised as a perfect group of non-violent non-females and powerful, strong minded females.
As Nick begins to feel more and more that the world around him is skewed; that family isn't necessarily the root of all evil as he's been taught; that not all men in the past harboured violent urges towards women, we watch his character grow from a placid, obedient (and somewhat clueless) Mankey, to someone brave who challenges the status quo in his own, quiet way.
Severed Roots is a joy to read.
S. A.