When I was 5 my mom and dad took me downtown for a day of window shopping and local tourism. We would often find ourselves downtown on warm summer days, just for the hell of it. On this particular day, however, we passed a couple of vagrant youth panhandling for change outside of the Much Music building. This couple, a girl and boy in their mid-late teens and dressed to the hilt in punk-rock attire; complete with large, colourful, Knox gelatin chelsea & mohawk, army issue combat boots and studded leather abound, caught my attention and the attention of my father when they asked him if he could spare them some change. I wanted him to give them some money but, my dad, he refused them with visible disgust and contempt. Whilst I was being dragged away from the boy began to follow us, on all fours, barking wildly like a rabid dog -the girl laughing histarically. And then, he cursed us. He said, "It'll be your kid someday" before fading into the horizon with the afternoon sun.
I thought about them for some time after that. I was caught in the grip of the sight of two people who looked like nothing I had ever seen before. And I knew I wanted to dress up in their clothes and try on their looks.
Fast forward:
I am 15. I listen to punk music and dress wierd. My hair is a multitude of colours and lengths. I have been asked to leave my group home and try things out with my parents once again. It doesn't work out and I find myself downtown. On the corner, kids fitting my description are washing car windows for petty cash. I am home.
I have been told that one should not romanticize life on the street; it's no picnic. I have shared living accomodations with murderers, crackheads and junkies, theives, perverts and drug pushers. I have slept in parks, under bridges, on sidewalks and in an assortment of condemned buildings without heat, running water or electricity. I have had to scavenge for food in filthy dumpsters and live off of other peoples generousity and waste -whichever came first. I smoked cigarette butts found on the pavement and dropped acid and PCP to shelter myself against the cold. I lost all sense of time and space and, I'll admit, I enjoyed it. I know that's not what you want to hear. You want to hear how awful it was (and it was pretty awful). You want to hear me say that I regret living my life that way. You want to hear that I was raped, ravaged, used and abused (and I was). You want me to apologize for taking advantage of people's charity and welfare and snorting it up my nose or injecting it into my veins, for wasting away my talents, my academic career, my childhood. I can't do that. I am in love with the idea that what I had to go through has made me a better daughter, sister, mother and lover today. If I didn't romantacize it, I would not have survived it. If I didn't live it, I would not know the meaning of nessecity and invention and honour among thieves. There's always something. I learned that anything can be patched, sewn, fixed and altered with safety pins, duct tape, vaseline, and dental floss. I learned that a single tree branch and a heavy blanket can be shelter enough from a storm and a door to keep the wind and snow out. I learned that a dog is a nomads best friend. I learned how to administer injections and what to do in the event of an overdose. I learned that I am strong, hearty, and capable of anything. I won't go back, and I don't wish anyone to be there, but I won't apologize for having been there, either. I dunno, criticize me all you want but I am in love with the outlet I have found in order to be creatively free and inspired and humbled, truly humbled. I am in love with the notion that I have found a niche somewhere in this great wide universe that enables me to feel comfortable in the knowledge that so long as I surround myself with positive things I can be happy just living my life.
In a way, I believe that my curse was also my blessing, and my best friends are the ones I made in those dark and lonely places.
