A New Beginning
Here’s some new vocabulary I’ve learned since I came to Canada:
Procrastination, jaundice, and the assorted use of the term passive-aggressive. Muffin top, onslaught, albeit, hitherto, schlepping, snuggling. Besotted.
The story after Typhoid Mary, who’s a smarty pants, DINK (double income, no kids), the verb sasquatching (either lying lazy all day or going in search for Sasquatch).
I had to look at some slang in the Urban Dictionary: Tootle, woot! Soonish, yessum, shishkabob, gourd, hitting the hay (going to sleep), playing footsies.
I am incredibly grateful, albeit I miss EC.
All I’ve learned since childhood, hitherto, I’ve used it.
I’ve schlepped all over.
I’ve been absent from my writing for a while. I had to leave my former city since none of my four part-time jobs would give me a Permanent Residency. After months of long, forced, and painfully long applications, I couldn’t get one full-time that would, so I started to apply elsewhere. I got one on an Island, an hour and forty-minute ferry ride from Vancouver and then a 4-hour drive up north—a small town of approximately four thousand inhabitants. I bought a car, wrapped my life in four suitcases, and went all the way. I’m in the northern city of the Island.
The housing search started again. I was given free lodging for the first three weeks and would need to find one of my own. It wasn’t long until I found a bachelorette in a condo a few minutes from work. Fourteen apartments, around 17 people live here. The moving was easy, but as soon as I started downloading the car and bringing the stuff in, an ambulance reached the front part of the condo. Paramedics went straight to number 4, the one next to mine. I could see them trying to resurrect a young guy on the floor. They persisted in giving CPR for minutes and minutes; the door was ajar. I continued bringing the stuff up, and although they kept trying, I knew it would be fruitless by my last trip. They declared him dead after half an hour of intense efforts. His name was Chris, and the cause was an overdose. The couple who called the ambulance were gone after some minutes, drawn after a long night of drug use and the sad and scary events of the morning. The police came in, the ambulance took the body, and they closed the door. A tragic and deep silence took over the condo, leaving me with a heavy heart and many questions.
I will never forget his dog’s sad face, watching me from his balcony. He’s the one who got life’s sentence first, clear and definingly pronounced even before humans did. He knew better.
Alcoholism, drug abuse, and suicide are notable causes of death in this small city. With more than 35% of the Indigenous population, the social inequities and deep, recent and ongoing history of trauma contribute to these indexes. It’s been shocking for me to learn the true history of Canada and the controlling mechanisms of dominance they kept hidden from the world, including most of their citizens. Indigenous were relocated from their territories, crammed in some foreign, absurd land without meaning to them. Their customs were prohibited, like their right to meet in their potlatches, and in an intent to suppress their languages and culture, their children were forced into the European-Canadian ways in Residential schools that operated from 1870 to 1996. After the discovery in 2021 of hundreds of children’s bodies buried in the backyards, the truth started to unseal. I’ve been in awe since that same year when I first celebrated the “Truth and Reconciliation” events and began to unveil my eyes to history as I knew it.
Despite the government's concessions to the Indigenous, there’s still a long way to go towards reconciliation. Regardless of being given some land back, their right to self-government and cultural preservation, and even being exempt from taxes, true healing is not happening for their people. Sometimes, it quenches their desire to succeed and fades their ambitions for a better life. Money and power are not the issue. There are complex matters I have just started to get acquainted with, revealing particularities and some similarities with what happens in the Southern Americas. Modern times call for a new beginning. As easy as it sounds, recognizing true healing is not outside ourselves but a personal choice, an attitude of self-responsibility. Despite the past and its horrors, we can not blame others, our parents, or our history. As Dr. Gabor Mate would quote, “We may not be responsible for the way the world creates our mind, but we can learn to take responsibility for the mind with which we create our world.”
Of course, substance abuse is not exclusive to the Indigenous population, although, according to the statistics, they are affected chiefly; it’s all well spread in this community. Chris was not Indigenous. It may contribute to the fact that there’s little culture here in the town and its surroundings, and there are few things to do. Labour is on fishing, logging, mining and, due to its overwhelming nature, whale watching, hiking, trekking, sailing, and diving, mainly in warm seasons. Those not part of this industry do not have many options to do. The musical scene is limited, but I bet there’s much more going on than I know. I’m thirsty for it and have started to dig into it.
As I tidied up my new life, a man approached in his car to my balcony. He asked me to let him in. He was Chris’s father, and he wanted to grab some stuff from the locked apartment. He told me he would have to wait for the police to open, and he didn’t want to do so. Understanding his pain and his desire for closure, I let him into the building. Then, I trespassed to apartment 4 through my balcony and opened the front door for him. The smell of chemicals was strong, the smell of crack, which I could recognize. The scene was shocking; there was food spilled on the floor, dirty dishes, smoking paraphernalia, the spoon, pipe… and there was John, his father, trying to understand what’s happened, where his son collapsed, and the circumstances previous to his passing.
“I just want the TV,” he told me. “I will toss all the rest”.
Objects seemed nonsense to me. Maybe John wanted to see his son’s place and understand better what’s happened. “He can’t be genuinely interested only in a stupid TV,” I told myself.
“I’ll help you carry it to the car,” I said.
There we were, unscrewing the huge device from the wall. While I expressed my regret, John narrated his military service and his life of losing his closest friends. Then, he started begging me to take some of the stuff. I felt overwhelmed by it all and accepted some; I could feel his relief as I did. That’s how I furnished my apartment: a black leather sofa, a lamp, and a small round white table. A microwave, a red porcelain elephant, an African wood mask, whom I call “the man.” He had terrific art objects, including a small fine pewter whale John’d bought on a trip they made together. I call it “the mother”. He was gone, tired, as his hip was hurting; he was to come back tomorrow. He left the ventilation and doors open so the pungent chemical would finally leave the rooms.
“It must have been accidental; his death was accidental, I know it,” he repeated constantly.
In my space, I cleaned and sanitized the odour stuck on each object as a witness to the tragedy. Can’t say I was glad about owning them.
And then the fire alarm went off. “God damn it, what now,” I manifest. The sound is so loud that remaining inside is not an option. In the front, we meet the neighbours experiencing the racket: some ladies and a couple of hippies. I turn to one of them and say hi. He has a kind, welcoming attitude and is the neighbour on #5. We talk about Chris, the sad events and his dog. Who’s going to take care of him? We all start agreeing.
“Me, says number 1.”
“Or me,” I manifest, thinking twice.
We are all so sorry. The woman on #7 is crying. She was his girlfriend. Skinny, she looks so fragile. I say, “Hey, I’m so sorry.” She thanked me for helping John take his things out. She inquired about a frame of a teddy bear of which II have no recollection. We’re all out, Hardy Bay’s inhabitants, feeling united by the drama, by the futility of death that could knock on our doors anytime. Will we be there for each other when demise comes up for any of us? Will we stand collected, bail, or hide behind our curtains, covered by the warmth of a drink, a bath, a book or sleep?
The alarm stopped. The lint of a non-empty trap on a dryer had raised the heat in the laundry room. We go inside, each to our bachelorette. I sleep, recalling the day’s events. Nonetheless, I am glad to meet people who seem understanding and welcoming. I hope that I’m in the right place and on the right professional path. I’ll make new friends, encounter a new community, and face life in this new beginning. “That hippie was hot,” I think to myself.
