So Long, Queen Street West: The Words

"Nishnaabe! Got a dollar?"

There really wasn't any escaping it. I had to hook him up this morning.

"Of course brother. Hold on a sec."

I hurriedly rummaged through my right pants pocket, fishing through a pool of coins. Of course I could give him a loonie - I had about 5 or 6 of those alone. But I was sure to pull out just one and place it firmly in his calloused, nicotine-stained palm. "Appreciate it brother," he said. "Got a smoke too?" It was barely 10 AM and the sharp odour of alcohol cut through my nostrils. "Nah sorry dude," I lied. "But I'll hook you up later if I see ya." We exchanged the traditional "thumb grip" Native handshake, and parted ways.

And this was the harsh reality of transplanting from the Rez to downtown Toronto. Sure, I was another case, but one of the rare ones. Like Kevin, the 30-something addict I saw nearly every day on the way to and from work, I came to the city years ago with big expectations. But the difference between us is I was running to something, while he was running away from something else.

For me, Toronto was opportunity; it was sheer excitement. But for him, it was escape and relief. He told me the name of his Rez once. I forget exactly what it was, but it's somewhere near Thunder Bay. He never told me why he left, but I had a pretty good idea why. He was escaping a disjointed life of abuse and self-destruction, only to find a new degree of it at Queen and Bathurst. Today, I have my degree. Today, he's living on the street.

I came to this intersection for totally different reasons. It's where the "cool" people hung out. Despite seedy undertones (namely, my Nish brothers and sisters who panhandled on the corner every day), 20-somethings flocked here day and night to shop, see, and be seen. Every night of the week was electric. You were guaranteed a good time; you just had to make sure you didn't get cornered by the wasted Indians asking for change/smokes. The vibe brought me there. But for my Nish counterparts, it was both a baneful and loosely satisfying sense of community that drew them in.

In the beginning, sometimes I tried to avoid them. Not because they embarrassed me, or because I couldn't afford to help them out. It was just too depressing to be around. But before long, I grew ashamed of that attitude. These could be my cousins, my aunts and uncles, friends with whom I've long lost contact. Gradually, I got to know quite a few of my brothers and sisters and their stories:

"My Nokomis died, and she was the only one I really had back home. I didn't want to stay."

"I couldn't find no work up there, so I came down here to try to sell my art. Wanna buy some?"

"I ran away."

"The Rez is boring. It's always a party down here!"

And the one thing that always maintained was the typical Nish sense of humour - no matter when. I needed to feel welcome like that sometimes, even though most of the time we were all on totally different pages. After a while, you wouldn't see someone there anymore. And that either meant something really good, or really, really bad.

It's only been weeks, but that already seems like a distant memory. A land and a time far away, when in fact it was just a stroll down the street. Don't get me wrong - I feel very fortunate to have avoided that lifestyle (or to have not needed to explore it at all). But I try to empathize as much as I can. I see their faces when I go back to the Rez in some of the people there, and vice versa. But for bringing me back down to earth in this tumultuous-ballet-of-shit-that-doesn't-really-matter called the city, I'm always grateful for my people who I can always find down at Queen and Bathurst.

Posted by waub at September 13, 2005 10:09 PM