[URBAN NOTE] Toronto's Unsightliness
Jan. 20th, 2005 10:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rfmcdonaldFrom the Toronto Star:
* * * * *
Around the turn of the millennium, I noticed perhaps a half-dozen people in Charlottetown who, if not homeless, at least spent much of their time on the streets wearing old clothes and asking for money. Curiously, although well over 99% of Prince Edward Island's population is non-Mi'kMaq, a hugely disproportionate number of these people were Mi'kMaq. I don't recall anyone talking about this; perhaps it was one of the Things We Don't Talk About tm.
It was my second summer working for the Prince Edward Island government's Department of Tourism, as a Visitor Information Counsellor telling visitors to Charlottetown what to see, where to sleep, where to eat, in 1999. I'd my routine in the morning set: get dropped off on the corner of University Avenue and Kent Street in downtown Charlottetown at around 8 o'clock on his way to work, head to Tim Horton's for a muffin and a large coffee, then slowly amble across the downtown via Queen Street and Great George Street.
Usually, one of Charlottetown's aforemention homeless or pseudo-homeless sat outside the Tim Horton's. I'd seen him there before and did nothing. This particular summer morning, I was feeling perhaps particularly rich, and perhaps particularly generous, and perhaps also particularly well-meaning, and so, before entering, I asked him what he wanted. I existed with a medium coffee, double-cupped to spare him the heat. One thing led to another, and we ended up walking south, towards the courtyard at the front of the Confederation Centre Public Library. He was Mi'kMaq, he told me, he did go to a residential school, and his entire life was dominated--ruined, he'd said--by alcoholism. His relationship with his family, his performance with a First Nations dramatic troupe, his life on the Island, all were ruined. The most disturbing thing for me was his calmly resigned tone as he recounted his life events.
I left him, shaking his hand and waving goodbye as I renewed my southwards march at a quarter to nine, feeling faintly queasy. I don't know for sure what happened to him. Possibly he was the one who I heard, much later on, had died. Certainly I haven't seen him in recent years.
* * * * *
After arriving here in Upper Canada, one thing that struck me about the urban landscapes of Kingston and Toronto was the relatively greater prominence of the homeless. Regularly in downtown Kingston, at least one person was stationed outside the Shopper's Drug Mart at Princess and Bagot. More, the homeless I encountered were somewhat more assertive than their Island counterparts, in that they actually asked you for some money.
I gave nothing in Kingston. After all, I was an impoverished graduate student. I had excuses for doing nothing.
During my previous visits to Toronto, I'd noticed a rather large number of homeless people. During my visit last January, I noticed a lot of people sleeping on heating grates. It was only when I permanently established myself in this metropolis, though, that I really took note of all of the people based out of Queen Street West storefronts, or positioned on Yonge Street streetcorners. I didn't know about the sheer numbers of people sleeping at Nathan Phillips Square, though; or rather, I hadn't truly assimilated the fact of their numbers.
Before I began buying Metropasses in September, I really liked to walk across Toronto all the way to Yonge Street. I liked to follow the precedent of Michel de Certeau in assimilating my knowledge of my new home via my inscriptions of the streets into my mind by my feet. (I also liked to save money that I lacked almost completely.) One warm July night, I was walking south along Yonge towards Queen Street. It was well after midnight, and I was looking south at the skyscrapers of Bay Street and environs when I decided to veer westwards towards City Hall. Surely at night, there would be something to see?
I saw one person huddled in a sleeping bag, asleep. For a moment I thought that he was camping wild, a student traveller sparing himself a hostel fee. Then I saw the next person, and the next person. Dozens of people were sprawled beneath the shadow of the centre of Toronto's municipal government, asleep. I tried to walk quietly past them as I looked around at the scene illuminated by ambient streetlight and the moonlight from far above. That's when I truly assimilated the scale. As I passed one of the pillars, east of the pool, I saw what I thought at first was a grossly obese person sleeping facedown. As I got closer, though, the one person turned out to be two of opposite genders, facing each other--
I walked away as quickly and quietly as I could, shifting to a bit of a jog towards a streetcar stop when I thought I was out of earshot. The $C2.25 seemed like a good investment at the time. I just wanted to go home and hide.
* * * * *
As the Star article noted, the homeless people sleeping in the shelter of City Hall will be turfed out. Rather symbolic, I suppose, that these, perhaps the most marginalized people in the GTA, will be physically removed from the most visible sign of Toronto's civil identity, in order to minimize the burden of their existence on the consciousness of Torontonians. Symbolic, too, that the reaction of the Torontonian left isn't to try to establish programs to try to integrate these people and their counterparts into the mainstream of city life, but to defend their right to be left to sleep out in the open in winter's chill.
There are times when an excess of symbolism is de trop, I fear.
The city moved one step closer yesterday to banning homeless people from sleeping in Nathan Phillips Square, despite a public outpouring of opposition.
Mayor David Miller assured a small crowd that had gathered to protest the move the ban would only be a "little nudge" to move people along once they get the supports they need from outreach workers.
"Nobody is proposing arresting people. I don't think that's acceptable. It's not illegal to be poor in this country and it shouldn't be," he said after the city's policy and finance committee overwhelmingly approved his plan to end street homelessness in Toronto.
"However, the strategy is to get people the services they need where they are, on the street, particularly in Nathan Phillips Square, and find them housing options. And once they're offered options, to let them know they need to move on."
The report will now proceed to city council at the end of the month, where it will likely be approved.
Around the turn of the millennium, I noticed perhaps a half-dozen people in Charlottetown who, if not homeless, at least spent much of their time on the streets wearing old clothes and asking for money. Curiously, although well over 99% of Prince Edward Island's population is non-Mi'kMaq, a hugely disproportionate number of these people were Mi'kMaq. I don't recall anyone talking about this; perhaps it was one of the Things We Don't Talk About tm.
It was my second summer working for the Prince Edward Island government's Department of Tourism, as a Visitor Information Counsellor telling visitors to Charlottetown what to see, where to sleep, where to eat, in 1999. I'd my routine in the morning set: get dropped off on the corner of University Avenue and Kent Street in downtown Charlottetown at around 8 o'clock on his way to work, head to Tim Horton's for a muffin and a large coffee, then slowly amble across the downtown via Queen Street and Great George Street.
Usually, one of Charlottetown's aforemention homeless or pseudo-homeless sat outside the Tim Horton's. I'd seen him there before and did nothing. This particular summer morning, I was feeling perhaps particularly rich, and perhaps particularly generous, and perhaps also particularly well-meaning, and so, before entering, I asked him what he wanted. I existed with a medium coffee, double-cupped to spare him the heat. One thing led to another, and we ended up walking south, towards the courtyard at the front of the Confederation Centre Public Library. He was Mi'kMaq, he told me, he did go to a residential school, and his entire life was dominated--ruined, he'd said--by alcoholism. His relationship with his family, his performance with a First Nations dramatic troupe, his life on the Island, all were ruined. The most disturbing thing for me was his calmly resigned tone as he recounted his life events.
I left him, shaking his hand and waving goodbye as I renewed my southwards march at a quarter to nine, feeling faintly queasy. I don't know for sure what happened to him. Possibly he was the one who I heard, much later on, had died. Certainly I haven't seen him in recent years.
After arriving here in Upper Canada, one thing that struck me about the urban landscapes of Kingston and Toronto was the relatively greater prominence of the homeless. Regularly in downtown Kingston, at least one person was stationed outside the Shopper's Drug Mart at Princess and Bagot. More, the homeless I encountered were somewhat more assertive than their Island counterparts, in that they actually asked you for some money.
I gave nothing in Kingston. After all, I was an impoverished graduate student. I had excuses for doing nothing.
During my previous visits to Toronto, I'd noticed a rather large number of homeless people. During my visit last January, I noticed a lot of people sleeping on heating grates. It was only when I permanently established myself in this metropolis, though, that I really took note of all of the people based out of Queen Street West storefronts, or positioned on Yonge Street streetcorners. I didn't know about the sheer numbers of people sleeping at Nathan Phillips Square, though; or rather, I hadn't truly assimilated the fact of their numbers.
Before I began buying Metropasses in September, I really liked to walk across Toronto all the way to Yonge Street. I liked to follow the precedent of Michel de Certeau in assimilating my knowledge of my new home via my inscriptions of the streets into my mind by my feet. (I also liked to save money that I lacked almost completely.) One warm July night, I was walking south along Yonge towards Queen Street. It was well after midnight, and I was looking south at the skyscrapers of Bay Street and environs when I decided to veer westwards towards City Hall. Surely at night, there would be something to see?
I saw one person huddled in a sleeping bag, asleep. For a moment I thought that he was camping wild, a student traveller sparing himself a hostel fee. Then I saw the next person, and the next person. Dozens of people were sprawled beneath the shadow of the centre of Toronto's municipal government, asleep. I tried to walk quietly past them as I looked around at the scene illuminated by ambient streetlight and the moonlight from far above. That's when I truly assimilated the scale. As I passed one of the pillars, east of the pool, I saw what I thought at first was a grossly obese person sleeping facedown. As I got closer, though, the one person turned out to be two of opposite genders, facing each other--
I walked away as quickly and quietly as I could, shifting to a bit of a jog towards a streetcar stop when I thought I was out of earshot. The $C2.25 seemed like a good investment at the time. I just wanted to go home and hide.
As the Star article noted, the homeless people sleeping in the shelter of City Hall will be turfed out. Rather symbolic, I suppose, that these, perhaps the most marginalized people in the GTA, will be physically removed from the most visible sign of Toronto's civil identity, in order to minimize the burden of their existence on the consciousness of Torontonians. Symbolic, too, that the reaction of the Torontonian left isn't to try to establish programs to try to integrate these people and their counterparts into the mainstream of city life, but to defend their right to be left to sleep out in the open in winter's chill.
There are times when an excess of symbolism is de trop, I fear.
