Our place is beginning to look less like a garage sale
and more like a home. Most of the boxes are emptied; books are in shelves, and
objets await their designations; there are even pictures on the living room
walls and in my office. Sitting here in my big recliner (a remnant from Mark’s
former office), I had the lovely fantasy of having a flying visit from a Mary
Poppins-type character, who with a song and a bit of magic would command all of
the remaining bits and pieces to rise into the air and to disport themselves in
an orderly fashion into suitable resting places. It won’t happen but that’s OK.
We are day by day claiming this apartment even as we sort out, sometimes with a
few assorted “words” our disparate views on how things should look.
The weather continues to be stubbornly chilly,
unusually for this late in March. Because we haven’t gone through the long
winter acclimatizing ourselves to the cold (poor us!), we may be more sensitive
to its rigours than some of our neighbours. But everyone exclaims about the
weather. The sunny days (like yesterday) are encouraging. They transform the
otherwise rather dirty and gloomy streetscapes into places of activity and
energy. We walked east on Bloor to the Manulife building at Bay, hugging the
sunny side of the street, covering our ears with scarves, to visit some of our
former haunts from when we lived on Cumberland. How everyone longs to be able
to walk about with leisure, enjoying the city without defending against
frostbite! But still, soon we’ll be complaining about the heat.
On Friday I walked west along Bloor to make a deposit
at my bank at Euclid. On that stretch of about a mile, there and back, I
counted five people begging for change. None of them looked very well. To be
sure, each of them has a story that would explain how they have come to this
pass. I don’t speak to them and I don’t give them anything. This is the
received wisdom of dealing with people who are begging. It will only encourage
them, etc. But I know from my brushes with members of this population in a
former life when I was studying homeless women and the hostels set up to assist
them here in Toronto, that the underlying causes of people thus located are
complex and multiple and the possibilities of alleviating their conditions are
not great.
Up along Eglinton Ave near our Croydon Rd home there
were no people begging, not that I ever saw at any rate. Bloor along this
stretch holds an extremely diverse community which perhaps lends itself better
both to people in need and people who are willing to give a little to help. One
tends to find a niche where one can find a needed resource – a basic law of
evolutionary biology. In Puerto Vallarta one never saw young, able-bodied
people begging. There were a few older women who would sit on the malecon
looking dusty and sad, tiny and pathetic, who would gaze at passersby,
wordlessly soliciting their charity. Gringos tended to ignore them though I saw
a number of young Mexicanos putting coins in their cups, seeing women who
doubtlessly reminded them of members of their own families.
In the old days one horror of life in Mexico, as in
India and other countries, consisted of the mutilation of children, the damaged
products used to elicit income from the compassionate. On Olas Altas, the main
(though but several blocks in length) corridor of human traffic in the Zona
Romantico area south of the River Cuale, an attractive and presentable young
man sits on a regular basis in a wheelchair in front of one of the ubiquitous OXXO
convenience stores. His right leg is twisted in an uncomfortable-looking
manner, being looped over his left, clearly marking him as impossibly crippled.
Was this an inflicted condition or simply one of the many thousands of
congenital malformations that the health system in Mexico has never had the
necessary resources to correct in a child’s early life? Last year I encountered
this fellow often as we lived close by his customary spot. Never did he ask for
money or even indicate in any fashion that that was the purpose of his day-long
vigils. It took me a while to twig to that idea. In the meantime we had
established some friendly rapport as he spoke English rather well. I never did
give him anything, feeling perhaps foolishly that the relationship that we had
established was more of a friendly acquaintance and that for me to suddenly
treat him as an object of my benevolence would change the nature of our
exchange and rob it of its freshness and delight. This year I saw him only
toward the end of our stay and found myself avoiding him out of some
embarrassment of my own. This coming winter though, I will go back to talking
with him and ask him directly about his life and situation. I have seen that he
has friends who care for him; he clearly has a life of some personal happiness.
Well, enough said for this morning’s letter. Press the No Comment spot at the end of this letter to say hello, or. stop bothering me with your drivel, or anything. And now
back to the domestic tasks at hand. Cheers.
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