The Switch

 

 

 

            There are details in everyone’s life that are definitive. More a pinnacle than a starting point, these events seem to be a catalyst for change. You don’t have to be an adult for the world to effect you. Life can be cruel and even our youth can’t always  protect us. Things happen, life happens, and there are moments when you can actually say that if this event had not occurred I would not be who I am today. We all experience them. We can say when it happened, why it happened and how it effected us. Usually, these events contribute as we journey along, the conditioning is slow and builds us into adulthood. Sometimes the exchange is as swift as flicking on a light switch.

 

            I was 7 years old and had been walking the 10 minutes to home for almost a year. In the early 1970s, the area we grew up in Toronto was presumed secure, and my parent’s had little concern with me travelling the 4 blocks from my school to our front door. Toronto, generally speaking, was much safer then or, at least, it seemed that way. I am sure the same seedy and threatening culture existed back in the day but it was nothing like the metropolis that now stands before me. In the 1970s, there was a boom in almost everything. Increased immigration, civil rights movements and the struggle for diversity echoed in this cradle of what appeared to be a better place to have them. Civilization corrupts itself. With increased population comes increased crime and with it victims. Arguably, no city is a sanctuary but we tend to only recognize those things we have been exposed to. People thought that Toronto was safe and they still do.

 

            It was a direct route, from Fenside Public school to our home on Roywood Drive.  It was a mere hop, skip and jump away. I walked this way, to and fro,  in the morning, in the late afternoon and every weekday at lunch. Most of my friends ate their lunch at school but my Mom was close enough that I did not have to suffer the brown bag experience like they did. Back and forth, home to school, school to home, I made the familiar journey usually with  my eyes wide shut. Despite the specific destination, my  head was  usually in the clouds every step of my way. Yes, I was a thoughtful boy, driven by imagination and the lack of nightmares that, at the time, avoided my living and a good night’s sleep. I wandered home in a daze, my mind filled with super-heroes. It was a simple life and despite the normal chaos that greets even children, I was happy go lucky in my own little world.

            I was a pretty child. My soft blond hair, Caucasian features (including sharp blue eyes) and a fair complexion always seemed to grant old ladies the right to pinch my cheeks or mess my hair and tell me lovely things. I was not limited in my knowledge of what was going on. I have always been cognizant that some people find my appearance pleasant and that, even as a child, I was attractive to others. In lieu of this fact, the standard “don’t talk to strangers” speech by my parents hung in the air like an old bodyguard, a sentry looming in the background every time I stepped outside. All my siblings and I  knew it was better to be safe than sorry. If there was a doubt, don’t. If you think  you should run, just do it. I remember my Mom telling me “home is safe but this world is not.” Everything was just fine but be careful.

            I was somewhat distracted as a child but I was always aware. I paid attention to everything I experienced or was exposed to, but my innocence was still something that had yet to be disqualified or lost. God was good, life was good and everything would be okay in the end. It was the same silly dream we all have as children. Childhood is ingenuous and is often like going to the zoo. You believe there is no threat yet you know there is. Everyone tells you that it’s okay from this side of the glass. I don’t remember crossing a bridge or some light bulb going off. I didn’t even notice the cage door opening. I don’t imagine I wanted to think anything about it at all, not immediately at any point. All I know is that almost instantly I saw the world differently and my world would never be the same. I have always known a monster when I see it.

 

            Late September forced me to wear the sweater my Mom had plastered on me earlier in the day. Actually, I was glad to have it. I walked by myself, a regular event on my anti-social calendar. I preferred my own company right from the get go. It was a solitude I was glad to claim. The 4 door cream-coloured car pulled up beside me on the street. I looked over, ignored it, and continued on my way. It crept silently behind me, just enough to activate every warning signal that my parents had conditioned as a response. The front passenger door opened and he offered me  heaven. He was older, balding and as white as I was. I can barely remember his face. In hindsight, he appeared like every other old man who tried to be nice to me. I rejected his offer, spied my escape and I ran like I had never run before. The police, obviously, found it impossible to locate him.

            I can see him, his whole being, sitting there playing with my soul. I was in trouble and I realized that fact right away. Somehow, I just knew he was a monster. Danger, Will Robinson. I tore through the neighbourhood, jumped over fences and scattered to get to my safe place. The police said that there was little they could do but that my parents had raised me well. For weeks, I was shuffled back and forth with a parental guidance that eventually made me crazy. I survived but the scar has lasted a lifetime. When I stop to think about what might  have happened had he offered me a comic book, I shiver. The possibility, what might have been, has lingered ever since. It is here I made the switch from innocent child to discerning pessimist. I went from 7 years of age to 30 with a few short feet and some dangling candy.   

 

            I don’t think that I am being dramatic with the claim that this event remains one of the most significant experiences I have had in my life. Little compares. It could have gone either way and the thought still chills me. What could have been in of itself is a nightmare. It’s not that I am tormented but the possibilities linger like a cobweb in the corner of my psyche. There are the obvious triggers. Every Amber Alert activates something from deep within. A television program or a news report on a missing child may well send those shivers through me. I’m not haunted but I can hear the ghost calling me, taunting my sense of safety and corrupting the world that I once existed in as a kid.  No matter, it is always there. It spoils the soup. I can’t ignore the idea of a milk carton with my face on it and what might have happened to put me there.

 

 

            You can’t relive your life anymore than you can ignore it. We all retrace our tracks whether we want to go there or not. You cannot undo what has been done but  you can use it. A great deal of  my strength has come from living with this nightmare. As a child, it built me and fortified me and helped move past the loss of my innocence. My illusions regarding this world disappeared in the blink of an eye. I made the switch and then ended my childhood. I can stop and survey the cost, see what might have been, but the horror has already lingered long enough to not really matter anymore. Like with most things, it remains to remind me. It can be a gentle sting or a lumbering weight. It’s a tale of knowing right from wrong, and surviving in spite of that horrible event and the face of a monster that I no longer remember. Either way, my innocence was still gone.    

 

“An innocent child is a beautiful thing

Secure in a Father's arms

Sleeps while a Mother sings

There's no way to know

All the harm this world can bring

I miss my innocence

Oh to be innocent”

(Innocence Lost, Amy Grant 2003)

 

 

 

 

Photo

 

https://www.reddit.com/r/Art/comments/c18szt/innocence_lost_me_watercolour_and_ink_2019/