This morning I stopped by my old boxing club in the downtown east side of Vancouver. The club is gone and in the building now is a clinic that provides methadone and other aids to those who are struggling. I walked from the terminal Skytrain station 11 blocks and I dealt with a few demons standing in that doorway.
For a few minutes I was a kid again, going to and from the boxing club, getting to know the homeless people, listening to their stories. There was Judy, who had three kids and worked in a fashion store until her husband left her and she went from using pain medication to cocaine, then heroin. John was a guy who waved to me every time he saw me. I always made a point of going over and shaking his hand. They were so nice to me and I always wished I could help them in some way.
Judy disappeared one day, like many do.
That boxing club. My first night there and the sweat that dripped from me after 20 minutes of skipping, sit ups until my ribs felt broken, and push ups until I dropped. Mr. Pollack shouting to me to keep my ass down and my body straight when doing push ups, then shouting at the big guy sparring in the ring to keep his left hand up when throwing jabs. I remembered my sweaty wet clothes and wobbly legs when I walked to the bus stop. I remembered everything.
I wondered how many of us in that club made it to the other side, how many are still alive and continuing on a journey.
I bent down and leaned a copy of my book “The Unbroken” against the window of the boxing club- turned-clinic. In the front cover was an inscription and indication that it was a gift to whoever found it. When I stood back up, I saw posters for missing women. I zipped my jacket up against the rain. Just then the song “Somebody’s Daughter” by Tenille Townes started to play through my ear buds and I began to cry.
I walked away and then suddenly faced the Dominion Building. 207 W Hastings. When I was a kid, my dentist was on the 3rd floor. A childhood memory punched me right in the face and I could smell that unique dental office smell as I stood there. I so hated the dentist.
When I was 10 years old, I had 3 cavities and he told me if I “didn’t smarten up all my teeth would fall out”. Because I was a pissed-off little kid, I decided that I would go on a tooth-brushing strike and refused to brush my teeth until the next visit. Because my diet consisted of Coca Cola, Oh Henry bars and Swanson dinners, I had 16 cavities 6 months later. I thought to myself as I looked at that building, “What a dumb-ass I was.” But in reality, who did I have to teach me any different? Did anyone say to me every evening, “Steve, did you brush your teeth? Did you wash your face? I will tuck you in and read you a story in a few minutes…”?
And I was one of the lucky ones.
I kept walking and saw a kid. A girl. Maybe 15 years old. She had a black eye and a fat lip. I bought her a coffee and an egg sandwich and she was very grateful, very articulate. I cried for blocks afterwards. Somebody’s daughter.
My mind turned to all the “down and outers” I see in my profession and through my journey. The thought hit me that many of the people I saw today were already gone. In a few days someone would call because they haven’t moved.
And then I stopped suddenly and looked around me and I thought about the date. September 30th. National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. I wondered how many Indigenous people were here in this neighbourhood because of the legacy of residential schools. I thought about how we can collectively own this truth.
And I thought about healing.
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