10: Conclusion

It was a little less than 7 years from when I stepped out the door of my family’s house on a cold night in October, 1960 until a warm August evening in 1967 when I stepped off the train at Montreal’s Windsor Station to begin my life as a university student. When Faye and I stood atop Mount Royal that first evening I felt a rush of excitement, joy, anticipation, and a love of this new city. Those first few weeks were an unfolding adventure. We spent our days at Expo 67, or simply exploring the city. We bunked with friends until we found a squatter’s house beside Sir George William’s main building. Byron was staying there as well. I then found a one room basement apartment on Lincoln Avenue, running between de Maisonneuve and Sherbrooke streets just a few blocks from campus. I lived there my first two years in Montreal, my home becoming a gathering place for the many new friends I was making.

I took to university life as though I had been born to it. I had promised myself that I would never miss a class if I could help it. I took careful notes, then typed them in the evenings, putting them into binders, one for each course. I slaved over research papers, striving to make footnotes and bibliographies as extensive and correctly formatted as I could, retyping complete pages if I found a single error. My professors noticed me, some befriending me as we gathered over beer at the many nearby pubs. I met heroes, like Irving Layton and Mordecai Richler, who were writers in residence when I was a student, Clark Blaise, who was teaching at Sir George, and Leonard Cohen who hung out in some of the same pubs I did. The world unfolded before me with avenues leading in any directions I chose to follow.

I started a major in English Literature, but was deeply demoralized and depressed following the police riot on the campus in 1969. I dropped a key course on Shakespeare, which I loved, and switched to a major in Comparative Religions, finishing my four-year degree a decimal point away from a citation for highest average in the department. I took a year of graduate work and then was given a teaching post while I completed my master’s thesis. I mumbled and stumbled my way through a course on “The History of the Relationship Between Science, Philosophy, and Religion in the Western World.” Relationships flourished and fell apart and I was lost at the end of that year, the thesis mainly untouched. Casting about I lucked into a job teaching general subjects to a grade seven class in a small town a short distance from Ottawa. I got used to finally having a decent income and bought my first car. I returned to Montreal for a year at McGill to get my diploma in secondary education and then wound up teaching high school English in Maniwaki where I stayed for seven years learning more from my students than I taught them. I joined Mensa to find avenues outside of the little town and met Ann. We married, moved to Ottawa, and raised three children while I worked for the federal government, first as an employee, then as a consultant. I was, at one time, one of Canada’s leading experts in midi-computer performance issues, giving talks at conferences across the country. I worked in almost every department of the government on short term and long term contracts. We retired to running a bed and breakfast in a village on the Rideau Canal. I supplemented our income for six years preparing income tax returns, and then, here I am, soon to be 70 years old, retired, our home and business on the market, looking forward to living out the remainder of our lives together with simple needs and simple pleasures.

Cite Etudiante de la Haute Gatineau, Maniwaki, Quebec, where I taught for seven years. Sometimes, during the winter, my students and I would say "to heck with it" and don cross-country skis to explore the trails near the school.

Everything that followed 1967 was a result of Sir George Williams University’s basic philosophy of giving people a second chance at an education. The cost to taxpayers to turn me from a non-skilled drifter into a highly skilled and highly paid contributor to the world about me? About $3,000—five years at $600/per, plus a $2,400 bursary for my year at McGill. I paid almost $3000 in income taxes my first year as a professional teacher. More than ten times that annually in my final years as a consultant. And that is where my deeply felt passion for social justice lays. It pays dividends when society spends a little bit of money and effort to give people a fair chance.

And what of those I knew during my seven years in Toronto? I’ve already noted that Mac Belt died a year before I entered Sir George. I visited Roy and Irma Strickland from time to time, especially when my sons were growing and whenever I was in Toronto on business. He died more than 10 years ago and Irma entered a facility to guide her through her declining years. The last time I spoke with her, she refused to tell me where she was going because, she said, she didn’t want anyone to see her as her mind left her. I visited John Lee when business took me Toronto. The last time I saw him he apologized for the way he had treated me, but I saw him only as someone who always stepped forward when I asked for help. His widow, Jean, and I correspond by telephone and email from time to time. I hope we can visit with her next time we are in Toronto. Marvyne and I are still friends. We visited each other every few years, though, as we age, travel is much less frequent. I visited the Heap family from time to time during my undergraduate years. There was a long gap, then I encountered Don at the Ottawa airport as I was returning from a business trip to Edmonton and he was headed for Toronto from his job as a Member of Parliament. I followed news about him until he died a year ago. Byron left Montreal a few months after I arrived, leaving his stone carving tools and pieces of soapstone with me. I carved a small figurine that is still on my desk beside me, though much chipped over the years. I don’t know what became of him.

And Faye….We remained lovers for about a year after I left Toronto, visiting for weekends and over Christmas and Easter. I spent a month with her between my first and second year, but I became involved with someone else early in my second year and, though we always remained friends, we were headed in very different directions. She became a devotee of her guru and, after she gave birth to a daughter in 1970, eventually took off on a round world trip, following her teacher to India, Nepal, Bangladesh, and, eventually, to New Zealand where she settled. We wrote often and sometimes talked by telephone. She visited here five years ago as she made a world tour to visit family and old friends. Though I always treated her passion for Eastern mysticism and rejection of Western science and medicine with silent respect, when she became an ardent anti-vaccination crusader I could no longer remain silent. Now the silence between us grows.

And, what of my father? We spoke briefly on the phone a few times over the years and then, in 1982, with wife and new-born son, I made a determined effort to breach the gap. Our visits were friendly and respectful. He appreciated what I had done on my own and, in a way, it was similar to his story. He too had had no family support as he made his way out into the world, working and studying to make a place for himself. He told me his story as we drank beer in his garden. I was always appreciative of the opportunity I had to make my peace with him. He died in the late 1980’s of a heart attack. I got to know my mother when I located her in 1975, visiting her twice in Omaha where she owned a rock n roll bar called Penelope’s. She and her husband visited my young family as well. After her husband died she spent a week visiting me, telling me her story, shortly before she died in the mid 1990’s; she is buried in Tilden, Nebraska. The rest of my original family is estranged. They are like a distant troubled dream.

I am deeply aware of how lucky I was in many ways. I was something of a pioneer because, in 1960, young people did not leave comfortable middle-class homes and try their luck on the streets. But I had grown up reading books by people like Horatio Alger (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horatio_Alger,_Jr.) and Charles Dickens (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Dickens) both champions of the poor and underprivileged, though with overly-simple recipes for their success. Still, I believed that honesty and diligence were key attributes. There were times in my life when the only defence I had against being unjustly accused or suspect was my reputation for veracity. For years, when I could afford it, I donated to Coventry House in Toronto, an organization set up to help young people such as I was, though social services are now overrun with young people needing help and guidance. After 1960 the number of young people leaving comfortable homes grew exponentially. No one, as far as I know, has undertaken a serious in-depth study of why so many14-year-olds don their shoes and jackets and head out the door into a potentially dangerous and very uncertain world.

I know why I did it. It wasn’t the unexpected beatings whenever I tried to express an opinion that contradicted my father’s view of things. It was that I was not allowed to be myself. I felt stifled and opposed at every turn. No one ever asked me what I wanted. Adults made all the decisions and it was up to me to accept what they wanted, unquestioningly. But, I didn’t know what I wanted—all I knew is that I did not want what they had decided was “best” for me. It took a long time for me to find my path, aided by people like Roy Strickland, Mac Belt, Don Heap, and John Lee who stood by ready to help, but who never interfered in my lonely search. One of the lessons I learned from the Algonquins in Maniwaki is that we do not own each other. Children are respected as autonomous creatures, in need of guidance, yes, but fully capable of making their own decisions. When I resided at the Toronto Psychiatric Hospital a resident doctor asked me how I thought people should raise their children. “Just leave them alone,” I answered, “Let them explore and find things for themselves.” And that is all I really wanted: to find out who I am.