People City

 

            When my family moved from Toronto to Strathroy, Ontario in 1976, we left it all behind us. Actually, they left it all behind them. Any chance I got to go back, I took. Toronto has always been a huge part of my life and continues to be. So do the people that fill my visits. Coronavirus has limited any actual contact outside of technological means so it is appropriate to claim that I miss my hometown. I miss my city. It's been over a year since I travelled down the 401 highway to snuggle into Toronto's downtown core. Whether socially, professionally or someone simply walking down the street, I think of Torontonians as my kin (in a manner of speaking). Although I live over 100 kilometers away in Paris, Ontario, most of my friends live in TO (Toronto). Most of the people I spend my time with reside in the Greater Toronto Area. My family might argue that Strathroy was where we grew up, but I know it is the Big Smoke that constitutes my place of birth.

            I love the place, more than words can express. Almost every segment of my life has ties to TO, in one form or another. I was born there. I lived there with my first partner. My fondest and fiercest memories of my youth are centered on its suburbs and its downtown. It may be the largest city in Canada, but for me it is an escape from the complications that come with modern living. I can disappear on its streets and hide in its pleasures. Toronto means adventure and art and culture. The people represent the civilized world to me, an example of diversity through immigration and Pride and tolerance. In spite of its flaws, and with great bias, I view it as the best city in the world. New York aside, most certainly, it is at least one of the best and my favourite place 

            The heart of a city is the people who live there. With over 9 million in the Greater Toronto Area, there is much spirit and soul to the grand space. I have travelled extensively throughout my adult life. I find this city thrives because of the people who call it a home. It is a rare thing when someone is hospitable, especially in places like New York City or Los Angeles. It is a natural thing once you cross our border. People are friendly and people are courteous, for the most part. Yes, it has its own forms of darkness but there are always good men and bad men. Yes, Toronto has its skeletons; it comes with warts and all. It is the people who make up the essence of this place. All the architecture, all the history, yet the entire city would hold little without the very lifeblood that flows from the population. Each person has a story to tell, or we have stories to tell about each person. Each face, each being is part of an eclectic mix. Toronto is the People City.

"Find yourself in people city
Stay awhile if you can
With folks who will be tomorrow's faces
Kickin' the traces
Showing you places
In Toronto
That's people city"

            I grew up in North York, a congested suburb of the Toronto area. As a boy I played on Younge Street and watched the CN Tower rise in the distance. Fenside Public school was a cozy 10 minute walk from my home. From Kindergarten to Grade 5, I spent my formative years huddled with  my friends in the confines of this bricked in monument to learning. For the record, I had the best upbringing and the best parents I could have asked for. I was a inquisitive child for the most part, full of hope but full of questions. Despite the occasional balance, despite a sense of peace, I was temperamental at best. 

S’en Aller

            I have very few memories from my childhood that do not bring me joy. My public school was your standard fair. Fenside Public was my second  home. My adventurist soul was fledgling then. I was full of curiosity and full of questions. I had managed to go without fighting for a few weeks when Shawn Savoy attacked from behind. All I had done was to ask, in class, a question, and you would have thought the world had ended. I suppose in public school five extra minutes at lunchtime is an eternity, but that is beside the point. As I walked out the west end hallway and onto the schoolyard, he pounced. Having been given a gender-nonspecific name like Kelly taught me to fight early on. Four siblings and a myriad of friends didn’t hurt my battle skills. I grabbed him from behind and whipped him over me, ducking down to shift gravity. He fell hard on his back and ass, screaming nonsense the entire time. It was over before it really started. He stood up and took his swing, only to be met by a barrage of punches and jabs. I had learnt previously that you have to fight if you're going to win. 
            So began my war with Shawn Savoy. Even though I have not seen him since my family relocated away from the city, he remains my greatest childhood adversary. I hated his guts.  I guess I still do. He lived just across the way, but he might as well have been from another planet. To this day, I am not sure what his problem was. The only time I ever reacted towards him was when provoked. He was my least concern. Perhaps the problem lies therein. Maybe completely ignoring him, excluding  him and mocking him behind his back, was enough to build a rage towards me. I would have thought that after endless black eyes and bloodied lips that he would have learnt his lesson, but he always kept on coming. He was an odd and angry little boy. I know we all suspected that abuse was a factor in his home, although no one ever cared enough to try to prove it. In fact, his entire family was as disposable to the neighborhood as Shawn was to me. When I wonder what he is doing now, I have visions of orange jumpsuits and him having to take forced lunches with some guy named Bubba. 
            Without a doubt, his worst offence occurred when I was bitten by an Irish Setter. He was a witness to the carnage yet did nothing to help. Instead, he stood laughing, mocking me like I deserved what I got. I can see him standing twenty feet away, only a chain-link fence between him and me and the beast. For the longest time I wished him harm, some sort anyway. He brought out the worst in me and I allowed him to every time. When I walk about the streets of Toronto, I occasionally try to picture what he would look like now, what would he be like if we crossed paths one more time? For all I know, I have stood in line with him, ate at the same restaurant as him or even roared at the same Toronto Maple Leaf's game as him. Sometimes I imagine we pass, eyes noticed from behind a mask; somehow we meet, recognizing one another after all this time. My instincts would remain the same. I would turn my head and I would simply walk away. 

"Where love takes hold
Makes old dreams happen
She makes you feel things
So very feeling
Take on old meaning
In Toronto
That's people city"

            I went to check out the DD Summerville Olympic pools. I was doing research on the area and relished the chance to rediscover a landmark from my youth,. Approximately 25 kilometers from downtown, I assumed it to be a "conservative" environment. The Beaches, this area, I always pictured as upscale, middle class living. I had not been there in years so I was rather surprised  by what I found. Having rediscovered my youth, I walked about the area observing. Among all the masks and social distancing I came across a homeless fella sitting alone against a concrete wall and the swimming pools within. He invaded my memories. He was not supposed to be here, This was not how it was supposed to be. I continued to circle the area. I had the time to face my denial. In less than 10 minutes I counted 14 homeless or vagrant humans. It's sad that we get used to other's circumstances. In a city the size of Toronto, you never know what you're going to get.    

The Long Walk Home  

           

            My first partner and I lived right across from Kensington Market for most of 1994. The Market flows into Chinatown and is within walking distance of Queen's Park and several universities. Our basement apartment was quite nice considering the area, and had just enough room for us both and our two cats, Gizmo and Felix. That year was more like one long party than a quest for direction. Instead of building future endeavors, we pissed away our money on beer, tequila and cab fare. Having the Market so close was a nice touch, not only for the fresh produce but for the quaint cafés and shops scattered throughout the streets that make up the area. Two hundred feet across the way from our house was a splendid patio-bar with umbrellas and sports channels blaring on the what would now be old TVs. If we were not to be found, we were across the way or downtown at the Loose Moose on Front Street.  We did not think the "Two dollar Tuesdays"  deal could be beat. 
            I sure can't drink alcohol like I did back in the day. We used to drink and drink until the money ran out or one of us ended up with our head in a filthy toilet. It was a coin toss which one of us got shitfaced first. The Loose Moose was a draw for the young crowd. University and college students came for the prices and stayed for the decadence. When the night was over, taxi cabs disappeared like presents on Christmas morn. For two piss-drunk hedonists, it was a very long walk home. From Front Street to Spadina Avenue, then across to Dundas Street, seemed to take forever. We both battled passing out or spewing on the sidewalk. We knew the area like the back of our hands, so we occasionally took a shortcut down a side street or a back alley most people were too afraid to travel by. On that long walk home, we used to talk about how much we loved living in Toronto and how much we would miss it if and when we eventually moved to less expensive ground. For the first time since I was a child, I was home again and it cost me..

            When Spadina meets Dundas Street, you have to head west to meet up with Kensington Market. We lived on Bellevue Avenue, which was connected by Denison Avenue to Dundas Street. Like most other Tuesdays, once we had spent our cab fare on a few more beers, we stumbled towards home with little regard for anything other than our buzz. On Denison Ave., I stopped to tie my shoe, hoping to avoid falling on my butt. My partner continued walking only a little ways ahead. Suddenly, she appeared before him blocking his way. She introduced herself specifically, with a friendly "Hi! I'm Dalene." She had, apparently, been standing, pacing across the street at a tiny park near our home. Lots of girls like Darlene frequented the area. Bellevue Park, like most parks in the downtown core, had drug and vice traffic, but we had yet to be so exposed to this seedier side of city living.

            She was a tall drink of something, that's for sure. Her African Canadian ethnicity was as clear as the two teeth she maintained in her mouth. Her hair was unkept and from a distance you could almost smell her lack of care. A smell I can confirm. She wore a faded jean jacket, a light pink halter top underneath and a revealing short skirt. The strangest thing was that her shoes didn’t match, fashion victims of crack cocaine, we stereotypically assumed. She approached, reached out and touched my friend's chest and then asked for a dollar. When she was informed of our current poverty, she insisted that if he gave her a dollar she would "treat him real good." He removed her hand and proceeded to give her all the change in his pocket. I added a little bit more. Services rendered would consist of  her leaving us alone. She took the money, stood back from him, and once again offered him sexual favours for more small change. She called out to us as we sauntered away. We saw Darlene on occasion. Usually she could be spotted doing her thing in the park across from where we lived. It was strange to have engaged her so. Neither one of us had ever "met" a female proustite nor been offered the suggestions our new friend had made to us. The entire event opened our eyes. 

Hobophobe

             Winter in Canada can be extreme. The harsh northern wind, the terrifying temperatures, and a deluge of snow make for treacherous conditions both in the rural areas and inside the cities. Toronto gets no exemption from the grip of Mother Nature. From November to April, chances are that her streets will be covered in one form of freezie or another. One day in January might be warm and sunny, with a southerly flow, and the next day the town closes down under two feet of the white stuff. Our weather is unpredictable at best. Canadians are known for their perseverance in the face of such assailants. We may not like weather after autumn, but we can handle it. At least, most of us seem able to face the dead of wintertime.

            Like every major city in North America, and I assume most of the world, Toronto has a homeless crisis. No matter the season, the streets are riddled with beggars, panhandlers and victims of the concrete jungle. When the winds of December blow hard and cold, warnings of frigid temperatures have city volunteers searching the streets for the less fortunate from our society. The local news channels report on frozen men and women, duped into believing an exhaust vent or shelter by a building will save them from the relentless and bitter sting of hypothermia and freezing to death. As with most things you see every day, or hear about all the time, you become ambivalent, walking past them as they beg for change or sleep in the snow.

            I have never been a stranger to this ambivalence. Even though I cannot help but see them as they sit alone, sometimes with their dog, dirty and defeated, I don't want to see. I have tried to help, I have reached out to many of them, but the experience always left a bad taste in my mouth. I've been assaulted, belittled, spit upon, violated, screamed at, cursed at and everything in between. All this was just for the honor of asking if they needed my help. While the majority of the visible homeless population seem to sit with a cigarette in one hand and a Big Mac in the other, while asking for change on Yonge Street, it is the invisible factor that I feel for the most. We cannot see their need and they have no face we can relate to. Still, they are out there, beyond our line of sight and compassion. They are disposable. It really can be a cold, cold world.
            I still drop loose change in their hats and I always help them if they ask for help, but I refuse to place myself in a situation to which harm may find me. I guess you could say, once bitten twice shy. One winter, just after the new millennium began, I was stuck in Toronto, trying desperately to find a way home and out of the city. Toronto was covered by ice and snow and even the taxi cabs seemed to have disappeared from their roosts along Gerrard Street and up along Bay Street to the west. I left my friend's house wrapped in layers of sweaters and winter clothing, protection from the -25 Celsius wind chill and the 80 kilometer gusts sent by Lake Ontario. The Great Lake sat partially frozen at the foot of the metropolis. As I crossed Yonge Street, heading towards the Greyhound Station, I spotted a man lying in a pile of snow, huddled against a lamppost. His blanket was covered in at least 3 centimeters of snow and it blocked any air flow from the vent below. He was heavily covered in matted and old gear, ice had started to build up around his body. His face and his hands were exposed to the unforgiving temperatures and I was unsure if he was breathing. Compassion defeated fear, so I walked over, I took him by his left arm and gave him a shake. I called out to him in hopes he would awaken. Suddenly, he sat up and started screaming at me to leave him alone. He reached down into his blanket and pulled out some kind of sharp weapon. It looked like a shank from one of those bad prison movies made in the 1970s. He just growled at me, as if feral and fearless, so I backed off slowly and went on my way. For all I know, he could have been Shawn Savoy. 

"Winter's white in people city

Green ravines make summer pretty
When leaves start to turn
Then the rainbow burns
That's when you learn
That you're in Toronto
That's people city"
(People City, Tommy Ambrose/Gary Gray 1973)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpJXAavGpi4&t=164s

            When I was growing up Toronto was home. It was also spectacular and stunning to this little boy. As a man I carry that view with me. We mystify those things we find in favour. Unfortunately, my rose-coloured glasses started cracking years ago. I am not blind to the tragedies that litter any modern cityscape. While I tend to ignore like the best of us, it is example that l follow like the rest of us. Toronto has a different side, a side beyond the concrete and steel. It is not all pretty lights and fanfare. Still, despite the obvious, Toronto is my long held friend, my destination when I feel most alone. There are a million and more tales of this city, some seem invisible but they are not.

Photos

https://www.fourseasons.com/toronto/

https://www.yelp.ca/biz/bellevue-square-park-toronto

https://toronto.citynews.ca/2021/02/01/covid-homeless-big-story-podcast/