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Reflections on the Sexual Assault Trial of Former World Junior Hockey Players: More Yhan Just a few 'Bad Apples'​

Gillian Smith-Clark, ​for The 44 North

Editor-in-Chief


A blurry photo negative of five men in suits
A blurry photo negative of five men in suits
"Layered underneath that fabric of an unhealthy masculine ideal is the broader objectification and commodification of women and gender expansive people, and a culture that too often confuses coercion with consent." ​​

The exact number remains unverified, but a group of young men got the text from Michael McLeod to come to a London, Ontario hotel room that night. E.M. testified at trial that as many as eleven men were in the room over the course of the evening; the Crown’s argument stated that ten showed up. The trial record does not fix a single, undisputed number for how many got the text or how many were present in a way that all sides accept – what we do know is that there was a group text sent to multiple players: some responded, others didn’t. It has also been reported that McLeod, after having consensual sex with E.M., went out into the hallway of the hotel that night and invited more people into the room. 

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No one involved, as far as we know, recognized that this could be a situation where a young woman might need help, that she might have found herself in a situation she was not anticipating, might have felt blindsided – possibly scared and overwhelmed in an environment where her judgment was impaired by alcohol, was surrounded by men who were not only strangers to her, but physically intimidating. 

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There are so many lingering questions about both the events of that night and the subsequent trial and verdict – the lack of empathy by the judge and prevalence of victim blaming and shaming (e.g. Justice Carroccia’s petty and demeaning finding that E.M.’s evasive response to a mistake she had made about her weight was “telling,”) that was present both at trial and in the verdict; the noticeable absence of expert testimony on trauma; the gruelling nine days of testimony that E.M. was put through on the stand, a judicial system that seems incapable of handling sexual assault cases well and a 91-page final written decision that reeks of bias and internalized miso

gyny.  


Further, a crucial and haunting question is: Out of those men who didn’t respond or participate, why did none question or intervene in any way? Reach out for help or advice from a friend, coach or parent? And by extension, how can we work as individuals and as a society to ensure that future outcomes, in similar situations, end differently? 

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The question of the young men who did nothing to help is one that immediately invokes a toxic mixture of strong emotions – sadness, fear, revulsion, anger, contempt – yet understanding the motivation behind the thought processes of the men involved can provide at least some insight into how to change behaviour, change culture, and offer a measure of hope for the future. 


Understanding the ‘Why’


Beyond the bystander effect, fear of social consequences and moral disengagement, we live in a cultural landscape that often characterizes an ideal vision of masculinity as one of power, dominance, aggression, emotional suppression, and impulsivity. Pete Hegseth articulated this philosophy perfectly in a recent speech to U.S. generals, where he describes ideal leadership culture as defined by ‘aggressiveness and risk-taking.’  Hegseth went on to say, “[…] an entire generation of generals and admirals were told that they must parrot the insane fallacy that quote, our “diversity is our strength”.” 

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Layered underneath that fabric of an unhealthy masculine ideal is the broader objectification and commodification of women and gender expansive people, and a culture that too often confuses coercion with consent.  Underneath that layer, at the base of everything, is a cultural foundation where boys are inundated from early childhood with the message that they must suppress and lock down their own emotions or risk rejection from those they depend on and love. Activist and writer Jeff Perera speaks about this phenomenon particularly well in a recent podcast episode for The 44 North, “Moving From Harmful to Helpful Ideas of Manhood” alongside his written companion essay, “Five Truths on Not Buying into the Manosphere Bait and Switch.”

 

The result, on that particular evening in London in 2018, was that the text received probably didn’t trigger any alarm bells or uneasiness because this type of behaviour is not only normalized but expected. And too often, it is still celebrated.


These were young, male, elite athletes who were raised in an environment where objectifying and commodifying women was so typical, so woven into the fabric of their society, that they didn’t see it as alarming – they probably didn’t see it at all. Therefore, there was no cause for alarm or an impulse to intervene.

   

One of the many unintended consequences of boys and young men being systematically taught emotional suppression (and often punished and shamed for certain types of emotional expression, e.g. ‘boys don’t cry’) from an early age, is that they also learn to subconsciously ‘switch off’ their feelings, the prerequisite for an ability to switch off cognition, critical thinking and their humanity in the moment. That foundational mechanism can allow an otherwise intelligent, kind, talented young human to ignore any alarm bells that might be sounding in their heads. This isn’t a case of ‘a few bad apples’, but a foundational problem requiring systemic change. 

 

Taking Action: What makes a difference?

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It starts with us. As individuals and as a society, we play a foundational role in shaping how boys and all genders understand masculinity — what it means to be a “good man,” how to express emotion, how to relate to others with empathy and respect, and how to take responsibility for our actions. Together, we can build a new vision of healthy masculinity — one that values wisdom, integrity, moral courage and thoughtfulness. 

 

A simple place to start is by celebrating and recognizing the right qualities in all genders – by recognizing our own humanity so that we can see it in others – and by finding everyday role models who exhibit strength through emotional intelligence, compassion, and moderation.  

 

Further Reading

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Resources

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Ghosts of Diet Cultures Past

by Hailey Hechtman, ​for The 44 North

Contributing Writer


X: @HaileyHechtman IG: @hailey.hechtman

Hailey Hechtman is a social impact leader and mental health advocate. She is passionate about inspiring positive change through community collaboration, constant learning and self-reflection. Watch her interview on 'Life Outside the Box' here.


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The December air brings with it many familiar feelings: the coziness of being curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book; evenings chatting with friends reflecting on the year that was; walks through sparkly side-streets shimmering with the glow of red, green, and gold lights hung from trees and balconies. Yet, while these most delight-inducing snippets of the year-end magic fill me with warmth, I am also visited by an uninvited acquaintance from the not-so distant past, the fragments of my eating disorder brain. 

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While years have passed since the core of my deepest pain and most obsessive thoughts, there is something about the holiday season and the practice of looking at all those health and fitness goals set in January that lost their way by the spring.


There is an uneasy shadow cast as people gather to have feasts and inevitably wax poetic on the good vs. evil dynamic of the meal that stands before them.


There is something alluring about the reminder that January is a fresh start and that all the choices that resulted in shifts in your body can be wiped away with a new plan, a more disciplined approach. There are the temptations to gorge on the plethora of beige carbs and then confront yourself in the mirror with promises that all will be different on Monday. Sound familiar? This is because so many of us regardless of where we are on the continuum of our relationship with our body, have an uncomfortable and yet incredibly engrained ghost that follows us around, the ghost of diet cultures past. 

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It is seemingly innocent when it shows itself as an affirmation to work it off in the morning or a quote posted on a message board telling you that being more disciplined is a cure-all for any feelings of self-doubt. Yet, don’t be fooled, these are just the messages that we see as external to ourselves, the ghost tunnels deeper, it follows us into the corners of our mind and with a few little tweaks, the occasion idiom, it starts to sound like us. 

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The mysterious trespasser tags along into the change room at the mall where it laser-focuses in on that one part, that one area that makes us believe we are not worthy. It chases us out of the kitchen and away from that dessert we have been eyeing all evening with reminders that you will not be lovable if you come within a foot of that pile of sugar. It whispers in our ear when glance upon our reflection at a holiday party, signalling to us that everyone is staring and silently judging us for how that dress fits across our hips. 

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While this menace likely has been floating around us in a spiral of self-critique since we were young enough to absorb the messages shouted or hushed through magazine covers and our mother’s response to our 2nd helping of rice pudding, it isn’t our voice. 

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It is an intruder, an interloper reinforcing a conditioning designed to make us feel less than, to fan the flames of insecurity and leave us distracted away from all the beauty and joy in the world. And, because it is not our truest inner monologue and doesn’t hold a place that is real and honest, it can be banished and replaced. While never easy (it is still something I tackle many years after it has faded into a hum, replaced by a much kinder, compassionate character) we can begin to stop it in its tracks and unlearn its harmful messages of caloric doom. 

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How do we do this you ask? Any time a murmur begins to rise thoughtfully informing you of your thighs, or that your last trip to the gym was two weeks ago or that that chocolate has more ingredients that some influencer told you it should, interrupt it. Let it know that you are aware that it is not your voice, it is not your friend. It is a culmination of decades of commercials and movie quips describing to you what worthiness does and does not look like. In these times, once you have it right where you want it, give it a little push and assure this villain in your tale on the journey to self-compassion that you will no longer be handing it the mic. Clearly state that you have decided that as often as possible (because this will take time and you will be strong, and you will be vulnerable and you will confidently pushback and sympathetically let it back in) that you will be calling in a new lead, the one that shows up with a recognition of your gifts, a softness towards your insecurities, the speaker of pep talks when you are uncertain of yourself. The more you can get out in front of vicious force, the shadow that lurks in your fridge, and instead invite the voice that treats you as a friend, as a small child simply trying to wonder at the world around you, the better your ability to call them up will get. 

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This approach will not only help and lead you to fill the thought buckets with loving encouragement where vile insults were once slung, but it will also give you insight into the minds of everyone around you, who too is trying to shush an unkind spirit in the form of those absorbed and internalized stories from their inner dialogue. 


You see whether yours speaks of macros and hours moved on an elliptical or of how hard you are supposed to be pushing yourself for your boss or that if your date doesn’t find you charming, clearly they are right and you are scum, we all have these apparitions. We all have slurped up the social norms that surround us at all moments, channelled through the comments of our grandmother at dinner or on our iPhone as we flip through reels showcasing people living the shiniest lives imaginable. So, in these micro-moments where you have a chance to glance at yourself from the outside for a split second, showcase the warmest, most genuine smile to yourself and to those around you as together we all put on the suit of self-compassion to activate our own inner ghostbuster. 


Do Not Forget: A Short Story About Indigenous Mental Health Care

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North

A person with a long, dark braid, wearing a red long-sleeved t-shirt that reads, “NO MORE STOLEN RELATIVES” on the back
A person with a long, dark braid, wearing a red long-sleeved t-shirt that reads, “NO MORE STOLEN RELATIVES” on the back
"Canada came here with no rivers, mountains, lakes, or forests. Yet they negotiate with us with the very things they stole from us. And yet society says we get a hand out. Rise people. [...] Canada has nothing to negotiate with. It was all stolen from us.”

—Isaac Murdoch, via Instagram  

 

Author’s note: this short story, particularly the character of Dr. Waubun, was written with the incredible guideposts from Chapter 8 of Decolonizing Therapy. If you are a care provider working with Indigenous Peoples or any People of the Global Majority (PoGM), please consider reading this book.


Meg wasn’t sure what words to use when Dr. Waubun asked her if she wanted to share what happened three years ago. She was quiet, gazing out of the therapy office window cracked open a couple inches under red blinds. It looked out into a sample of forest, or, rather, the last piece of one if the land were a pie tray (as the developers believed). Late afternoon was blending with evening, the trees were bare under a fog duvet, and even though this bit of forest was so close by, the air coming in the window smelled of exhaust and cigarettes. Meg decided it was a terrible time for therapy—so far from lunch and so close to dinner. Her stomach growled.

 

Dr. Waubun smiled, and reached behind her into a desk drawer for a bar that couldn’t decide if it was granola or trail mix. The crystals of her turquoise earrings clinked together in her long charcoal hair, like someone walking through a beaded curtain. As she offered the bar to Meg, she asked, “Is Meg short for Megis?”

 

Meg turned her head from the window. One plank on the bridge of trust. “Yeah, it is.”

 

“Perhaps we can start there?” Dr. Waubun wasn’t like other therapists. Meg could tell that much. 

 

“But that was before I was born. Seventeen years ago.”

 

“That’s okay. Noodin and Iggy died five years ago. But you’ve known him much longer. Processing grief expands well beyond one moment.”

 

Meg looked out the window again. The wind was picking up. He was here. 

 

“He’s here. With you.” Dr. Waubun spoke softly. 

 

Meg took a deep breath. “I just miss him. The way he used to call me Shelly instead of Meg or even Megis. I know my name means shell in English, but he used Shelly to poke fun at my Macklemore t-shirt or pop culture things. And Iggy was just the smallest, softest maltese. She was so fluffy— more than any other maltese I’ve ever seen. When I was little, Noodin used to tell me it was because she wanted to be as brown as possible. I loved her brownness.” Meg nearly choked across her last word. The tears began to fall. “I know that Indigenous people are ten times more likely to be shot and killed by police in Canada. But Noodin’s death feels worse. And he wasn’t my father or anything. Iggy was a dog. Everyone at school is annoyed that I haven’t moved on or whatever. I can feel that I make them sad—my friends, teachers, and family.”

 

“It’s not your fault, Meg. And that’s not fair of them.” 

 

“But don’t you see? I wish I could move on. Meds and diagnosis don’t help. I’m distracted, sleepy, irritable, numb, anxious, and impulsive. I have terrible nightmares. The guilt and shame are so heavy. And I’m here because I need help to make it stop. I’m here because I can’t do it the way everyone else can.”“No. You’re not.” There was a subtle fringe of rage in Dr. Waubun’s reply, but not directed at Meg. 

 

Meg could sense this. “What do you mean?”

 

Dr. Waubun held out open palms, and signaled for Meg to place her hands in them. When Meg did this, Dr. Waubun began speaking gently and kindly. 

 

“Meg. You do not have to move on. You do not have to bury your anger, rage, and grief to make other people feel more comfortable. Noodin, your beloved friend and elder, shared an apartment with a young man in possession of cocaine. When the police came, Noodin’s roomate wasn’t there, and he was afraid. As they violently kicked down the front door, Noodin jumped from the window. Iggy ran, but they shot her, triggered by her movement once inside the apartment.” Dr. Waubun paused, clearly recalling something before beginning again, “Samah Jabr, the chair of the mental health unit at the Palestinian Ministry of Health, says, “There is no ‘post’ because the trauma is repetitive and ongoing and continuous. I think we need to be authentic about our experiences and not to try to impose on ourselves experiences that are not ours.” The past is the present for us. We’re both here to not let anyone disenfranchise our grief. You mustn’t forget.”

 

Dr. Waubun was smoothing her thumbs over Meg’s hands, filling the space between them with an energy of care. She slowly let go and sat back, taking a sip of tea. 

 

Meg didn’t know what to say. She’d never heard someone speak of Noodin’s and Iggy’s deaths this way—as if the fear that stifled Noodin from opening the door wasn’t his own fault. Dr. Waubun had offered space for Meg even though she already knew the core details of what happened. She also knew on a spiritual, ancestral, emotional, and political level. It felt as if a key had unlocked something in Meg that she didn’t know existed inside her, let alone the shape of it. 

 

“I’m sorry, Meg. I hope that wasn’t too much or too forward.”

 

“No, not at all. It was helpful. Being in this room with you doesn’t feel like it usually does—like there’s actually five walls instead of four. Many of my other therapists have felt like blank white walls. Not that they were evil or anything. I think they meant well. Even wanted to help.” Meg laughed briefly. “It’s strange how much of a difference the walls make. The olive, copper, and blue are refreshing.”

 

“I understand.” Dr. Waubun smiled, and the wrinkles around her eyes and cheeks moved like little eddies. “Could I ask you something?”

 

Meg nodded, fiddling with the elastic at the end of her long braid. 

 

“Would you share your perspective or definition of grief and rage?” 

 

Meg blinked as if the ancestors inside her hadn’t heard these words in centuries. “I, uh, don’t know. Since we moved to the city we don’t even talk about the emotions we could name while feeling them, let alone grief and rage.” Meg paused to think, remembering a phrase Dr. Waubun used a few moments ago. “What did you mean when you said “disenfranchised grief?”

 

“Ah, yes. It’s a phrase I’m learning, too. There’s a great book called Decolonizing Therapy, by Dr. Jennifer Mullan. I have it here, on my desk. Perhaps we could speak about some of it together. What do you think?”

 

Meg nodded with a mild enthusiasm that made Dr. Waubun sit up in her seat. 

 

“Wonderful. The first thing I wanted to share with you is Dr. Mullan’s definition of disenfranchised grief: “Grief that people experience when they incur a loss that is not or cannot be openly acknowledged, socially sanctioned, or publicly mourned.” How does that resonate with you?”

 

Meg thought for a moment. “I’ve always felt that I was only allowed to be sad if an immediate family member died, or someone in the military or on Remembrance Day, or a natural disaster. But I feel so much when I think about anything. Losing Noodin and Iggy didn’t fit into those buckets.”

 

“Yes. And, they’re connected to and represent a much larger cultural grief, don’t you think?”

 

“Yeah, that’s exactly it. Violence to our land, language, songs, cermeonies, dances; my family’s trauma; our ancestors’ trauma; abuse, poverty.” Meg’s voice cracked and rose in volume with each word.

 

“Mhm. Would you like to say more about what you’re feeling?”

 

“Fire. Like I want to burn all the labels people forced upon me.” 

“Which labels?” Dr. Waubun remained gentle, but met Meg’s heartspace energy where it was blooming. 

 

“Defiant. Dominant. Rebellious. Oppositional. Uncontrollable. Resistant. Unmanageable.” Meg counted these on her fingers, snapping each finger open from a tightly closed fist. “It’s like these are labels reserved for ignorant people. Pathological people.” Her eyes welled up with each word.

 

“I know. And that’s not true. Do you believe me?”

 

“Maybe. Starting to.” 

 

Dr. Waubun nodded and paused a moment before speaking. “Dr. Mullan says that there is something called a Rage-Grief axis, and that “one side needs a release—physiologically and emotionally—and the other requires the space to rest and grieve. To be with the difficult emotions, rather than display them.” She also says, “We relive what is unfinished through our disguises”” 

 

“This makes so much sense to me.” Meg said through her tears. 

 

“Me too.” Dr. Waubun smiled. “And we can schedule many sessions with as much space as you need to process this. Perhaps even with any rituals, ceremony, energy work, or spiritual work that are part of your healing process. Do you have a relationship with these that you’d like to incorporate together?”

 

“Not right now, but I want to try to learn more about what my ancestors practiced.” 

 

“Wonderful. We can make that a part of our work. Would you like to keep working together?”

 

Meg laughed a little. “Goodness. Yes please.” She wiped her tears with the back of her sleeve.

 

Dr. Waubun laughed too and nodded. 

 

But Meg’s face changed, suddenly. “I just don’t know how many sessions I can afford.”  

 

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.Through our donations program you had an anonymous donor for at least a few sessions. Specifically for you, too.” Dr. Waubun beamed. 

 

“What?” Meg was confused. She hadn’t told anyone she was doing this. 

 

Dr. Waubun grinned and nodded.

 

•••

 

As Meg walked out of the building fifteen minutes later, she saw an orange pick up parked by the curb, on the opposite side of the parking lot. It couldn’t be. 

 

She wandered over, slowly, to find a young man, no more than eighteen, asleep in the front seat with his arms crossed. His mustard coloured toque was pulled over his eyes and long lashes—that she knew were there—and he was using a plum purple flannel as a blanket. Meg’s heart leapt and carried her fist with it to knock loudly on the window. The man woke with a start. 

 

Jack. Noodin’s Jack, who she hadn’t seen in five years but recognized instantly. They’d been childhood friends until his family moved to Michigan after Noodin’s death.

 

As he clambered out of the car, disoriented, Meg fit herself into his arms. Startled, he fell backwards onto front seat and elbowed the car horn. It echoed through the trees on the other side of the truck, sending a group of crows in a flurry of feathers and cawing. 

 

“Oh shit!” They said in unison, laughing. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to be making a ruckus. 

 

Jack got his footing and stabilized himself by gripping Meg’s shoulders. He looked at her for a moment, scooped her into a hug, and kissed the top of her head.

 

“Why are you here?” She asked with a mix of joy and accusation.

 

“Well, let’s just say I’m sorry I haven’t been.”

 

“Why? To both parts of that sentence?”

 

“My mom couldn’t come back here. Even though they were divorced it shredded her heart. And I was only twelve. I wanted to visit as soon as I could drive myself but I was afraid. And it all still hurts. I thought my grief might add to yours. I know how close you were with my dad.” 

 

Meg shook her head and started to interject but Jack continued.

 

“You don’t have to say anything. I know we have to work through it together. The pain feels so big because it is bigger than both of us.” He smoothed the collar of her shirt. “Remember, right before I left, you dared me to kiss you in the powder room as a ‘pact’ not to ever have a girlfriend?” 

 

“Oh my. Why do you remember that?” Meg looked down and blushed. 

 

“Because I should have done it.” He titled her chin up. 

 

“We were twelve, Jack.” 

 

“Yeah, well, I don’t think love has an age.” He laughed. 

 

“Love huh? Hm. Well we don’t have a powder room now.”

 

“No, but I’ve got a shitty car with doors cancelled out by untinted windows?”

 

They both full-body laughed until Meg remembered where she was. “Wait. How did you know to find me here?”

 

“Uh…” Jack couldn’t come up with a lie quick enough. 

 

“It was you, wasn’t it? You paid? Why?”

 

“Honestly?”

 

“Honestly.”

 

“Because I saw that funny meme about the ex who’s supposed to pay for your therapy when your credit card declines.” 

 

How he maintained a serious face Meg didn’t know. “What the fuck, Jack?” She was struggling to be serious now. 

 

“Okay. Your mom called to check in on me, so I asked about you, and well, the rest is history. I don’t have a lot of savings yet. My mom helped.” 

 

Meg shook her head, smiling, and as she was starting to reply he kissed her. This was absurd, she knew. Abrupt. But then something occurred to her. This wasn’t about the cute crush they’d had on each other since forever. Along with the heaviness of grief inside them, there was a whole lot of love. Perhaps, if that pink robot dude from Marvel was right in asking, “What is grief if not love persevering?” then maybe people have to choose how it perseveres. Maybe this kind of love builds up too, mimicking a heavy, painful ball in the chest if it’s not released—rewoven and reshaped—upon others in a way that honours why it’s there in the first place. Joy is fighting the fight too. Meg kissed him back.

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