Efforts in two weeks produced satisfactory results. As we rested for the Dominion Day weekend, I was batting five hundred.
Before meeting any of the performers at the Zanzibar, I attended Greenwood Raceway to meet Jersy. As was promised, he kept court at the base of the stairway marked “A5”. Spotting him from a distance, I wondered if I should laugh. He was the repulsive stereotype of a pimp. He was black with rough matted hair suggesting the grease had not been washed out. His bright pink floral shirt had a thin strip of fur inside the collar. The gold chain and broad gilded ring clearly suggested he had no knowledge of poverty. Then there was his tanned cane with the ivory handle.
All of my conclusions based on first impressions were so totally wrong. Jersy provided for homeless youths. Unlike the pimps who fed off the immorality of Yonge Street, Jersy kept teenagers away from the sexual dens. He treated lost teenagers as human: offering sympathy, help and understanding. Inheritance had given him access to a five-unit apartment that he converted into more rooms, enough for fifteen youths seeking basic shelter. Jersy had a network of assistants, firms and companies that could provide part-time or minimal employment. Unfortunately his work was limited to the east-end. He would not confront the bikers or any other element that could adversely affect the lives of those already in his care. It was not in my realm to grant him sainthood.
Jersy’s very presence gave me hope. His information was even more reassuring. Like Graves he knew of Paul, the bouncer, and had heard rumours that many wanted “the babies” out of there. He never answered my query about the lack of police involvement. Out of the blue, totally unrelated to the flow of the conversation, Jersy asserted he was, “More concerned about the government doing nothing.” He then went on at length about the porn shops, declaring his condemnation of the magazines that portrayed images of child pornography.
Before I returned to the Zanzibar, Graves had arranged for appropriate protection with additional bouncers at the rear. Success came quickly. Three girls who were less than sixteen years old begged to get away from the club and the industry. Contrary to his earlier advice, Jersy stepped in to provide temporary residence. Graves met the next day with the respective pimps to deliver the appropriate payments from his biker gang.
The fourth girl denied everything: particularly her age. She repeatedly swore she was in her twenties. Bitten finger nails suggested she might have just graduated from junior high school. She was more brazen than the others, trying to embarrass me by remaining topless. However, after more than a week of the same thing, it was candidly all too boring. She advised time and again that she had a place to stay, and didn’t need my help. In this case, the pimp was all too willing to dump her. Paul had had enough of her. Apparently she did not get on well with the other girls. A lot of that temperament had to do with job titles. No girl ever called herself a ‘stripper’. They were hired as a ‘dancer’. If promoted they became an ‘exotic dancer’ or a ‘feature dancer’. It was at that time that I realized there was more to that profession than just wanting to stay or leave. This girl, who dismissed her nudity, thought more of what she had to do to get that next promotion.
After the week ending July the 9TH, I rested several days before considering the final three. Seven girls were able to leave the claws of depravity. The fate of the other five remained in their own hands.
The next two grabbed the offers to escape street life. By that time I was relying on Covenant House for assistance in providing shelter. Jersy had reached his limit. Government assistance seemed limited to hostels and food banks such as the Victor Mission and St. Vincent de Paul Society that were designated to help only the older men. However, many churches were becoming an inspiration to those less fortunate. The parable of the Good Samaritan was bringing to life some assistance in such a monumental task.
Graves was pleased: nine out of the fourteen were no longer a problem. Out of the five that he considered “an impact,” three were not his problem, and one was working for a club that would soon be closed.
I recognized the girl right away, not because of her naked features, but from her short stature and her uneasiness. Like the others, Emily tried to impress me with her nudity. I took off my shirt and told her to cover herself. The fact that she did it right away told me that she was not yet sixteen.
She concealed information as if it was to her benefit not to be honest. That was a common trait in that profession. Honesty like all other virtues only got in the way. When I asked about her parents, she evaded any response. Then when I asked about her mother, she fought to withhold the tears. Conclusions are achieved quickly in that profession. I surmised she was either raped or abused by a family member. Realizing her frailty, I pledged to return the next day. In a child’s voice she whispered, “Thank you.”
Before meeting with her on July 21ST, a brief discussion with her protector was compelling. Stressing the reality that the girl didn’t even know his name, and that she had been “seized from Quebec” allowed me to suggest the obvious conclusion that she had been kidnapped. A terse lesson on the Napoleonic Code assured him he had no defense. Thereafter, he pushed the idea that Emily was no longer welcome at the Zanzibar. Clearly he was not about to admit fault for keeping her there.
The meeting with her on the 21ST was eventful. Details flowed from her heart. Her candid tone was that of an adult even though she was still two weeks shy of her fifteenth birthday. She fled the native reserve but avoided talking about the exact reason. Emily didn’t know if her mother was still alive. She provided a vivid description of the impoverished state of her aboriginal community, suggesting the issue of sustenance caused her flight. In the latter course of that conversation her enthusiasm ebbed, having been replaced by a distraught expression. Anything would do as an alternative to her present situation. Her commitment was complete. Emily quietly bid farewell to the other girls that evening.
The next morning, I skipped work to meet Emily and take her to the train station. She assured me that she would be okay. That I doubted, and accordingly notified the appropriate railway staff to safeguard a minor during her trip. The Department of Indian Affairs had also been contacted to await her arrival in Montreal.
Emily was more apprehensive than I expected when we shared breakfast that morning. She smiled, but her tone was distinctively cautious. Just as we were about to leave the restaurant and cross the street to the train station, she dropped her bombshell.
“I am not going home.” Her statement had me aghast. “He won’t shove it up my ass again.” Emily couldn’t have been more direct. She admitted that she had in fact been raped and sodomized. Her sobs were endless. Tears flowed, dropping from her cheeks onto the napkin. “Please?” she begged.
I couldn’t blame her in the least. Trying to console her was difficult standing on Front Street across from Union Station. My mind demanded reason. What now? Emily was still counting on me.
Her tears did not respond to any attempt at compassion. “I’m sorry,” was not sufficient.
I continued stating that I understood and would do whatever was possible to accommodate her needs. At the same time I privately cursed our Prime Minister and his statement four years prior that had been often repeated on the nightly news: “The Government has no business in the bedrooms of the nation.” Looking at Emily with as much sympathy that I could feel, I personally condemned Pierre Trudeau and vowed to never vote Liberal again. The government had to be involved to stop such sexual activities and to prevent children such as Emily from being attacked.
Emily did not take the morning train. A telephone call to Montreal notified them not to expect anyone at the train station there. The counter clerk was also alerted to not provide supervision on the train. Meanwhile the ticket was changed for passage on the mid-day train.
We talked for the next hour, both of us searching for any sense in life. Emily finally started considering alternatives even though they may have been just wi
ld dreams. Having been paid the day before, I handed her my weekly salary. She had my telephone number and address. I pledged to do whatever I could to help her. She gave me a hug and then boarded the train; it was the last time I saw her or heard from her.
“Ten!” Graves was surprised. He was never told that a report to the government and police was being planned. I personally couldn’t count on the Hell’s Angels or any biker gang or conglomerate of pimps to do what was best for such young innocent people. Every child is entitled to a childhood.
Before the end of the summer, Graves’ ugly character controlled several conversations. He vowed that one day he would die in a shootout with the police. His activities in the drug culture were becoming too insecure. He had stupidly spoken too often to too many people whom he thought were his friends. By the end of that summer he could trust no one. I returned to university in September and never met Graves again after Labour Day.
Years later, the news stunned me, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. Peter Graves did die, having been shot in an exchange with the police. An alias was used so the death record never conveyed his name. A poor-man’s burial was his farewell to this earth.
The age of majority was reduced to eighteen. Those who would have been considered ‘minors’ suddenly became legal. As the city continued with the pedestrian mall each summer, more and more young teens flooded into desperate situations. A shoeshine boy was found murdered six years after Emily left the city. The depravity had not changed.
The man named Kent, whom Graves had described as “Our man in Niagara”, died after his vehicle left the roadway and somersaulted into a field. The brake line was cut.
Paul at the Zanzibar passed away in 2003 after many years of extending care to those who sought his protection. Pimps and dancers came and went, but his commitment to assist the young never died.
Jersy was not present at Greenwood Raceway throughout its Centennial Celebrations in 1975. Enquiries affirmed no one recalled him. His silent virtue and discreet acts of kindness will only be remembered by those he helped.
I never met nor spoke with Agnielle. Reports on First Nation communities confirmed the abysmal conditions. Children would go missing, and women would mysteriously disappear. Regarding those who may have been found, chances are they were not alive. Each had a tale. Each had a family. Each had dreams that were never fulfilled.
I never heard about Emily again. My one letter received no response. Did she return to the native community? Did she stay in Montreal, or move elsewhere in the province? What was she doing? Was she even alive, or did she suffer a horrible death? Where was she?
Prayers are still said for the many young women such as Emily who lose their innocence to predators, who wander the streets, or are held captive in the vulgarities of hellish depravity. It is never forgotten that the last day I saw her, spoke to her, and gave her hope and a hug was the Feast Day of St. Mary Magdalene.
4
BRENT
Hold on to what is good
even if it’s only a handful of earth.
Hold onto what you believe,
even if it’s just a tree standing by itself.
Hold onto what you must do,
even if it’s far from here.
Hold onto your life,
even if it’s easier to let go.
Hold onto my hand,
even if I’m away from you.
The insurance clerk paused, having read this Pueblo Prayer to himself. It was his daily mid-morning ritual being drawn to the simplicity of the verse amid the tensions created by unrealistic managerial expectations. After glancing out the third floor window, he meticulously placed the laminated prayer card inside his jacket pocket and continued with the next file.
The pile of new correspondence had been unusually light that week considering the staff vacation schedule that compelled remaining workers to double their tasks. Customers’ needs still had to be addressed. There was the inevitable reality that more time would always be spent answering telephone complaints if correspondence wasn’t answered promptly. Brent accordingly devoted the time necessary to keeping the customers satisfied.
People were experiencing a strange angst that summer of 1973. Inflation was starting to escalate prices while wages remained stagnant. There was an incredible hike in the price of fuel, a situation created by a previously inconsequential group called OPEC. In the Middle East, hatred had sparked another war. Strikes were rampant in Britain, with similar activity threatening this side of the Atlantic. South of the border, the United States was ready to impeach its President. The war in Vietnam was no closer to resolution as pictures of body bags and coffins continued to occupy the evening news. Seven years had passed since Expo 67 and that enthusiasm was near dead. Canada had just barely beaten the Soviet Union in hockey nine months before. That spirit of dominance would last just another year. In New York, a horse called ‘Secretariat’ accomplished what no other steed had done in twenty-five years. There was much to raise one’s enthusiasm, yet more to generate concerns.
Nationally, Prime Minister Trudeau and his minority government were continuously engaged in aggressive negotiations with the steadfast Progressive Conservatives. Abortion was legalized in an ‘omnibus bill’. For the aboriginal communities, not much was being accomplished or even planned. The interest of the government focussed on controlling prices and inflation, rather than improving the lot of the average Canadian.
Everyone has an opinion on perceived government inefficiencies. Brent had his views, very solid opinions of what should and could be done. He struggled to appreciate any of the Liberal Government’s efforts to help those who required assistance the most. Native Canadians were basically abandoned with the selection of the particular Minister of Indian Affairs. Jean Chrétien, even though he would more than two decades later become Prime Minister, appeared, in the eyes of many in the aboriginal community, to be just babysitting a time bomb. Brent loathed the man as much as he deplored the repulsive title. Native Canadians were not just an ‘Affair’.
Brent never brought his tribal card to work, or carried it in his wallet. Just knowing it was available if ever needed was important. Brent was of Mohawk descent, born in 1947 into the ancestral community bordering the eastern coast of Lake Simcoe. About his parents, he was forever admiring their lifestyle and decisions. They understood the inherent peril of being recognized as “Indian” in a white man’s world. His parents didn’t need long detailed lectures to realize the consequences of that particular abhorrent phrase in the British North America Act that segregated members of the native community into the same restrictive group with the insane. They willingly took the chance that life away from the reserve would be better while remaining true to meaningful principles respecting nature and humanity.
Their house had no basement. It was basically a wooden structure built upon an elevated block foundation. Even in his earliest years, he knew he was fortunate. The lot was incredibly large. He could run for minutes to get to a line of trees, and then be able to scamper through the brush to the stream bordering the farthest extremity of someone’s property. There were no fences, just freedom to explore. They had a well. Purification techniques had been supplied. Hydro was available. Heating was an oil furnace with regular fuel delivery. An antenna assured reception of five channels on their black and white television. The fridge was small, but functional for the three occupants of the two-bedroom house.
Off the reserve, in a rural setting occupied predominantly by non-tribal residents, his parents inevitably experienced the double standards of society in the early 1970s. Tribal card holders were paid less, if they could ever find employment. That wasn’t a sudden occurrence. It had always been the case. Brent’s father commenced attempts to overcome that obstacle by investing in hair colour. Grooming was more essential than ever to assure the desired appearance. A lighter shade of brown hair did the trick. Acquired plumbing
skills from the reserve generated employment. Brent’s mother too was able to land a clerical position after disguising her appearance. In his heart, the child cursed that reality: that a person had to become who he or she wasn’t in order to just put food on the table. Regardless of what he may have thought in his youth, once he was in his teens Brent also abandoned his native appearance to promote possibilities of personal success. He had no plan to return to any reserve permanently. He already had learned so much from his parents: about the beauty of nature with all of the myths and lore of the indigenous communities.
After completing grade eleven, during the summer of 1964 he naively left the family home expecting immediate employment in Toronto. All he found was temporary accommodation at a hostel. Brent was too presumptuous to realize he was lucky. It took only a day for him to despise so much about everything in the big city. There was no comfort, no compassion, and very little hope. Fortunately, a woman, doing charity work on behalf of an organization called Covenant House, offered a glimmer. Initially her assistance was no more than better clothing. At least he had an umbrella and pants that were not in shreds.
Her devotion to his cause became more than just clothing. He had been called a ‘vagrant’, but the woman never used that term. Brent actually preferred the term ‘vagrant’ compared to the prospect that someone might call him ‘Indian’. He never specifically mentioned his parents although he had to reveal his prior residence. Using “Beaverton” for the name of the town obscured many realities.
Brent clearly understood there were others whom she was also assisting. With that thought, he was suddenly sensing competition. The teen wanted the jobs the woman might offer other vagrants. He wanted to be the one to be employed. Patience was not his virtue. It didn’t exist. Brent had to overcome that coarse disposition but had difficulties as he didn’t even know it was an issue. It took the woman’s stern lecture to finally convince him. Later in life he was thankful that he chose to listen. Suddenly his impetus changed, generating opportunities.
13 Lives Page 5