A University of Alberta professor has discovered that a majority of those sterilized under institutionalized eugenics in Alberta can’t be shown to have suffered any genetic condition.

Dr. Jana Grekul, a sessional lecturer in the Sociology Department, recently completed her PhD dissertation on eugenics in the province. Her research really started, though, in 1998, when, as a graduate student working for the U of A Population Research Lab, she was contracted by two law firms to go through patient files and hundreds of sets of minutes from the Alberta Eugenics Board.

"What [made] our study different is that for the first time we had access to all available documents and were able to try and tell the story of the eugenics process as completely as possible," writes Grekul via email.

Her two years of research revealed that nearly two-thirds of the patients referred to the board had no documented genetic condition.

The word eugenics means "well born" and its history here began in the 1920s. Back then political activists like the Famous Five aspired to a progressive society, but their methods weren’t always in keeping with their ideals. The women, now revered for being at the forefront of feminism in this country, spent a good deal of their time working towards ridding society of persons whom they considered "mental defectives." In 1924, the United Farm Women of Alberta, led by the likes of Irene Parlby, Emily Murphy and Nellie McClung, launched a massive campaign of support for the implementation of a province-wide sterilization plan. Putting their faith in what science they’d observed in the breeding of good-stock cattle, their pressure tactics eventually led to Alberta’s Sexual Sterilization Act of 1928. The law would stay in place until 1972, leaving close to 3,000 the sterile victims of a misguided nation-building strategy.

Grekul illustrates how factors other than mere psychological health contributed to the definition of mental deficiency: "The poverty of the patients and their families seemed to creep into many of the sections of the presentation summaries, including the sections that were supposed to be devoted to education, sexual history and even family history. This seemed to reveal to us a very pervasive, if unspoken, concern with class issues."

Aside from social status, the research reveals that as the scope of the eugenics movement expanded, individuals were increasingly being referred to the board because of their gender, age and ethnicity. Women, children, teens, and aboriginal individuals were the most likely targets. The individuals’ mental health institutions provided referrals, but the province also had traveling "Mental Hygiene Clinics" used to reach people in rural areas.

Alberta’s sterilization act was scrapped in 1972, but, even in its last year of existence, 55 people were forced into surgery. The first court action against the Alberta government took place in 1996 when Leilani Muir–sterilized without her consent following a botched IQ test she took as a pre-adolescent–launched a lawsuit and won $740,000. Other victims came forward, and in 1999, a class action suit by eugenics survivors was settled out of court for $82 million, offering compensation, if not comfort, to the casualties of our forbearers’ improvident actions.

Grekul has plans to turn her dissertation into a book, which she hopes "will tell the real story of forced sterilization in the province."

Clean and Simple
Sober club provides bar atmosphere without the booze

The walls are covered in pictures of vintage cars, Elvis, The Beatles and in one case, the Muppets. There’s a dance floor, a booming sound system, psychedelic lighting and arcade games. But closer inspection of this generic-looking bar reveals a few subtle clues to its true nature. Replacing the typical giant inflatable beer bottle, is a giant, inflatable can of Pepsi. The patio umbrellas, devoid of advertising, simply say "Canada."

Most importantly, there’s not a single pie-eye in the place.

This is Keep it Simple, a north-side nightclub for recovering substance abusers. Every night the sound system fires up and the room fills with people who used to spend the better part of their lives (and paycheques) in its booze-fuelled counterparts.

"You ever tried Karaoke sober?" asks Ike G., preferring the partial anonymity of his 12-step recovery name. "It takes some getting used to."

Ike is one of about 200 people who visit KIS every day. The nightclub, which opened just over a year ago, is funded almost entirely by the coffee shop on the other side of the building.

The project is the brainchild of Tom Charbonneau and Lawrence Lathe, two former addicts who wanted to give something back to the recovery community. Charbonneau is a contract painter who also spent years in the food service industry. Lathe, whom his co-workers describe as "Albert Camus’ worst nightmare," has been everything from a carnie to a trucker. According to KIS accountant Nate B., in order to see the vision succeed, the pair "begged, borrowed, whatever it took," he says. "If they knew a guy in the carpeting business, they got carpet."

Charbonneau also exchanged his painting services for donations of things like chairs and flooring. Lawrence invested the money he received in compensation from an injury. Both maxed-out their credit cards and, in 2001, succeeded in converting an old call center into the coffee shop. It took less than 30 days. Today the cozy café is filled with antiques and comfy couches. It even has three Internet terminals. Nothing on the café’s menu is over $6.

Since the coffee shop started up they’ve added offices and a meeting room. The nightclub and poolroom came after the partners took over a former appliance center next door.

Meetings are held nightly in the meeting room and, if there’s an overflow, in the nightclub. The calendar is stacked with times for Al Anon, Cocaine Anonymous, Gamblers Anonymous, Codependents Anonymous and other groups.

Throughout the day, people play cards or leisurely shoot some stick in the poolroom. Chain smoking seems to be a staple everywhere except for the non-smoking coffee shop. "We had to get a liquor license," Charbonneau laughs, "in order to have smoking permitted, even though we’ll never serve a drop."

The most interesting part of the experience, though, is the mix of people who come in just to hang out. People of all ages and walks of life, including those who don’t necessarily suffer from substance abuse.

"I always ask my husband why he likes hanging out here so much," says KIS graphic designer and board member Julie R. "He says he just thinks it’s nice."

Members have helped each other with everything from counseling to math homework, and though the owners don’t let anyone in drunk, they "have driven guys to detox at 2 am."

"This thing may not have been the smartest business decision, but it was the right heart decision," says Charbonneau, betraying the apparent toughness of his burly exterior. He says he and Lathe are now in the process of securing more funding. They’ve applied for lottery money and funds from programs like AADAC.

And as to whether a bar-like setting is the best place for recovering alcoholics and narcotics abusers, Ike G., a self-described "middle-class guy from St. Albert who developed a crack addiction" explains that it took him a long time to make the distinction: "I sat around for months not talking to people, trying to figure out what this was all about. I thought that a bar would be a trigger. But the more I started coming here, the more I realized that it’s completely different. There’s no other place like it. If I didn’t come here in the night, I’d be sitting around at home, twiddling my thumbs and thinking about going to a real bar."

KIS is located at 11720-82 St. and is open 9 am to midnight Sunday through Thursday and 9 am to 2 am on Friday and Saturday. For more information call 471-4705.