The Move and Other Events
I grew up mostly in a suburban neighbourhood of Toronto. I was close enough to the Big Smoke to take advantage of stores, the Ex, the Village and more, but the neighbourhood really had everything any kid needed. We were walking distance to the schools, had a park and skating rink (in winter) across the street, a *plaza around the corner, a library, swimming pool and movie theatre. There was even an art store and a fish and chip shop. What more could a kid want?
Friends: You know, I hear a lot about how important friends are, but I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I mean, I had friends, in a loose sort of way. I was on good terms with most of the kids in my neighbourhood. In fact, I got along with the tough kids, was on good terms with the active kids, and was completely indifferent, but not openly disdainful, of the goody two shoes kids. (You know, the ones who pinched their cheeks to make them rosy.) But collecting a “group” of friends wasn’t something that mattered to me.
I noticed that recent immigrants were often treated badly by other kids, but I didn’t see any reason for this. Sure, they were a little different sometimes, but I never understood how this was a bad thing. The parents of one of these girls owned the art store, and they lived in the apartment over it. I liked to stay overnight at her place, because her mom served us buttered European cardamom bread and coffee for breakfast. I never got this at home. It was delicious. So yeah, when I look back, I realize that I actually never understood the fear and suspicion some people feel toward those who are different. Hanging out with these "different" people worked for me.
In those days, there were very defined roles for girls and boys. Girls could not take shop in school, and boys could not take home economics. This I found strange. Some of the best chefs in the world were men. Still are. And I have a great-grand aunt in my background who was a cabinet-maker. I always thought these narrow expectations of the genders were very confining. But that was just our world.
Then the world changed.
The move certainly impacted on my little world. Dad realized he couldn’t go any higher at his job, so he looked for another and found one in a little city on the American border: Windsor. This is a manufacturing town with a plethora of factories, tool and die, automotive and more. I didn’t like it. The kids in my new school seemed immature compared to the kids I was used to. The school courses were more limited. For instance, there was no art class available, so for my elective I had to take music. That was ok, but I really missed my art classes.
Music: always a source of challenge. I asked my mom if I could take piano lessons again, but popular styles, not Conservatory. She had it in her head that Conservatory lessons led to a high school credit, so I had to keep to that, or no more lessons. I pointed out that since I was forced to actually take music in school, my credit would come from that, but to no avail. Piano lessons were apparently not in the cards. Later on I talked her into a few guitar lessons, which was enough to get me started. The rest was just practice on the used guitar I talked her into buying me. Hey... if one door closes, look for an open window. Anyway, a guitar is a lot easier to carry to a protest than a piano.
I skipped a lot of school because I didn’t like it. And when I did go, something strange or embarrassing often happened. For instance, one day we all had to stand up and play certain notes on our instruments in music class. So I tucked my violin under my chin and played them. A lot of the other kids were missing their notes.... some rather badly. The music teacher pointed at me and said, “she’s hardly ever here but she can play way better than the rest of you!”
Great. That certainly helped my popularity. {/sarcasm}
Another time we were to act out a scene from the novel we were taking in English Lit, To Kill a Mockingbird. I memorized my lines because I thought that’s what one did when acting out a scene. The teacher was moved to remark on this because the other kids hadn’t learned theirs. They were reading their lines from clipboards. Afterwards, a few of them gave me hell in the washroom for not telling them beforehand that I was memorizing mine. Huh?
I hated school. It was limiting, narrow and nasty. But I was still too young to quit. After that first year in the new town, I was channelled into the business program. Nobody asked me what I wanted. It was just determined for my own good that I would do better learning to be a secretary. Fine. At least it wasn’t challenging enough to take up much of my mind and time.
You see, the bigger world really was changing, or as Bob Dylan put it, the times they are a-changin'.
These changes had captured my interest and participation. It was a time of civil rights marches, Vietnam war protests, concern for the environment, folk singing, protest songs, and yes, the Detroit riots in ‘67.Think of all the hate there is in Red China!
Then take a look around to Selma, Alabama!
Ah, you may leave here, for four days in space,
But when your return, it's the same old place,
The poundin' of the drums, the pride and disgrace,
You can bury your dead, but don't leave a trace,
Hate your next-door-neighbour, but don't forget to say grace,
And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,
you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction. mmm, no, no.
you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.
From Eve of Destruction by Bob Dylan
I discovered Gordon Lightfoot one Thursday evening on a radio program out of Detroit. I was instantly a fan and not only bought all his records over time, but music books as well, and I learned several of his songs. Yes, I sang and played that guitar. An important song of the time was Black Day in July: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAjLIVISqRw&feature=related
I would have copied some of the lyrics here, but none of the sites will let me, so fug it. But for anyone who'd like to hear/see it, the above link will take you to a You Tube verson.
And I wrote my own poem for the times:
The American Dream
Through the thunder of running feet,
a jagged scream split the sweaty night.
The one on the ground never heard the shot;
he lay limbs all akimbo,
a weird death-dance in the shadows
of the flashing crimson lights.
His mother’s tortured face will twist
in denial at this inevitable news.
His brother’s prison-grey shoulders will sink
a little lower when he hears.
His friends will watch another day end ~
night breaking in blood-red hues.
Surviving in hopeless resignation,
he never learned what living could mean.
Caught up in an endless, mindless race,
defending something he couldn’t own ~
he never touched, didn’t even come close,
to anything like the American Dream.
It was an important time for anyone to be a human on this Earth. More next time.
*A plaza, for those who might not be familiar with this term, was the forerunner of the mall. The sidewalk that ran along beside the stores was covered on top, but open to the air at the sides.
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