mountroyalaccountability.ca is more than protest. It’s an academic artifact built from necessity — forged without funding, instruction, or approval — in direct response to institutional abuse.
Mount Royal University once awarded an honorary degree to Elder Clarence Wolfleg, recognizing his lived experience and community contributions. That set a precedent: that not all learning happens in classrooms, and not all achievement comes from being allowed to finish.
I wasn’t just mistreated by MRU. I was actively silenced, discredited, and erased. I asked hard questions. I submitted advanced infrastructure. I built systems beyond the comprehension of those tasked with evaluating them — and I was punished for it.
So I built this archive. Every section, script, animation, and protection layer was created by me. This site demonstrates real-world software development, CDN-layer security theory, network telemetry, and full-stack deployment — the very things I was excluded for knowing too well.
If Clarence Wolfleg was honored for service and storytelling, this too deserves acknowledgment. This work is my curriculum. This site is my defense. And this claim is justified: I am asking to be awarded an honorary degree.
This archive exists because Mount Royal University buried the truth. The Iniskim Centre deflected harm. The BCIS program enabled targeted grading sabotage. And the disability office centralized all decision-making through one person — Chris Rogerson — who used that power to punish resistance.
So I made the record they wouldn’t. This site preserves names, receipts, and failures — not out of spite, but accountability. It’s a counter-institution built from firsthand experience and a refusal to be forgotten.
It is also now the foundation of my honorary degree claim. Because while they failed to educate or support me, I taught myself what they couldn’t — and left documentation that exceeds anything they handed out as curriculum.
I began at MRU in Anthropology, but my work — including original software systems and full-stack development — caught the attention of BCIS faculty. After reviewing it, Alan Fedoruk, then Director of the BCIS program, told me directly: “I’m making the executive decision.” He enrolled me into Programming II (COMP 1502), a course reserved for admitted BCIS students, bypassing normal restrictions.
I was placed into a series of accelerated and technical classes, including some taught by junior or student instructors. Still, I excelled — scoring consistent 90s and 100s in courses run by Yasaman and Masah. But once it became clear I was succeeding and headed for full BCIS admission, those same instructors began creating obstacles.
Assignments vanished. Submission links weren’t posted. Accommodations were ignored. Communication went cold. Feedback stopped. My efforts were no longer evaluated fairly — they were being filtered through bias and resentment.
I brought these concerns to Fedoruk again, but he refused to act. What began as an opportunity became an uphill battle — not because I lacked the skill, but because I wasn’t welcomed into the system I was outperforming.
When I uncovered discrepancies in my student account tied to Melody Xing, I brought the evidence forward. Instead of investigating, I was told by Tori McMillan to stop asking questions. That marked the beginning of my silent removal.
The Iniskim Centre — meant to protect Indigenous students — distanced themselves. I was cut off from support, ghosted in communication, and pushed out without any formal explanation.
Their silence was intentional. It was systemic. And it made clear that speaking up meant being erased.