The Door in My House Was From Willie Pickton

I remember in 2001, my parents were remodelling the bathroom. What they needed was a door. They didn't need anything fancy. All they wanted was something that was sturdy and would open and shut. So they went to a salvage yard. I forget the name of the company they obtained the door from, but I believe it was something quite generic like "K&Y Salvage Ltd." or something like that. I remember my mother recalling that they came in on the day one of the owners, David, was going about his business. The door cost $50.

For one week straight, my mother was raving about this fantastic door. What a great deal. It was really sturdy and looked pretty fine. Whenever a visitor came over, she'd show the guest the bathroom door and remark how everything was framed just right. In a sense, this is my mother's way as she is one to constantly look after her home.

Around this time, I recall a little bit of outrage in the Downtown Eastside, but nobody I know really cared. They were complaining about some disappearing hookers, and about police inaction. I remember shrugging my shoulders. That's what hookers did, they disappeared. That was my simple opinion at the time.

Then one day, I read the newspaper about how, on a routine weapons check, police decided to apprehend a pig farmer based on certain suspicious circumstances. It seems as though one of the missing women's personal items were found in the pig farmer's home. This pig farmer's name is Willie Pickton, and within days, it was revealed that Willie was responsible for not just this woman's disappearance but perhaps 50 of them.

More details emerged. There were bone shards found on his farm. He fed the women to his pigs. The pigs were then sold to the public for public consumption and several people I know were unsure if the bacon they ate had in turn ate the flesh of a dead prostitute.

My mom then told me the door they bought was from a business owned by Willie Pickton and his brother. The brother's name was David, the man my mother briefly met at the salvage yard. Over dinner, she wondered aloud about what other products she unknowingly may have bought from the serial murderer. Unsurprisingly, we did not eat any pork that night and since then I have not been able to eat pork at all.

A year and a half later, we moved out of that house. We did not take down the door. For all I know, the current owners may still be using that door.

You see, while I knew no missing women, I learnt very vividly that we all are affected by inhumane actions. Whenever I looked at that door, I couldn't help but be reminded of the women society tossed by the wayside only to be skinned and have their body tossed haphazardly to the pigs. Every time I heard that door creak, I remembered the cries of drug-addled women who still deserved better than their fate.

I finally understood that prostitutes don't just disappear.

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