The boy lived in a small Canadian city. His family had been in Canada for a long time, their origins lost in the ether of history long ago. He grew up in a modest house on the edge of town with his mom, Margeret. He never saw his dad. His mom had to divorce him because he was toxic. The boy spent a lot of time by himself, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed playing in the woods behind his house and watching over his house. He felt it his duty as the man of the house to look after his homestead, to be aware of any intruders that might harm his mom.
Nor was he bitter about not seeing his father. He actually had no memories of him at all and only knew him through a few old photos he found. If he ever asked about Dad, his mom would become very angry with him. Mostly, the boy saw himself as a child of Canada. He loved the stories of the fur-traders and the pioneers. He would act out their exploits in his forest. In the spring he was Simon Fraser shooting down the rapids on the torrential river that would bear his name. In the winter he was Samuel Hearne trudging through the barren tundra towards the Arctic Ocean. Or maybe a soldier getting ready to take Vimy Ridge and finally give the allies the chance to break the line!
As he grew older his forest gave way to a large townhouse and apartment development. The rustling of leaves in the wind were replaced with the sound of crying children, revving engines, and bass music. The hum of streetlights and power boxes were cast over the landscape.
Undiscouraged, the boy concentrated his efforts on the house. With all this change, his home needed his care more than ever. He diligently mowed the lawn and shoveled the driveway, maintaining a series of tidy forts and a treehouse in his yard. One of his favorite accomplishments was painting their entire fence in alternating red and white fenceboards. He was looking after his mom and looking after the only thing he had got from his dad. Like his mom always said, “The only good thing to come from your dad was this house.”
Overall, the boy was pretty happy with his lot in life. There were a lot of things that he wished were better, but he didn’t dwell on those things. His only real hang up was that his mom didn’t let him do a lot. He didn’t get to play any sports or go camping and hunting. Instead, he was encouraged to stay around the house, drawing, playing video games, watching TV. His mom wanted him to be safe and she also worked late at her job quite often, so she liked him at home. Another thing he didn’t like was the rule that he was not allowed to leave his room at night. His room was in the basement and wasn’t even allowed to go to the bathroom at night and had a little kid training toilet in his room in case he had to go. His mom said it was because she didn’t want to have to worry about him getting into anything and hurting himself at night-it was to keep him safe.
A while ago his mom took him out to dinner to celebrate her getting a new job as a case manager for the town’s Newcomer Society. She was beaming with pride and her son was very happy for her. Her job was to help refugees and recent immigrants find housing and access social services in our city. She warned him that it would be very demanding, with long hours, but the money would help them lead a better life. The boy was excited, his mom seemed very happy and there was the prospect that they might make enough money that he could afford to join a hockey team or go skiing someday.
Time went on and the boy saw less and less of his mom. They only really spoke when she brought home that day’s takeout dinner, though she mostly talked about her clients. She would explain how terrible it was that her clients weren’t receiving enough money to meet their needs, or that they were having to deal with racism at their new job placements. All her stories would end with her saying “People just don’t understand what my clients have been through.” He respected his mom’s passion for her work, but also began to resent it. He tried to excel in school to get her attention, but when he brought up a good test score of his, she would use it as an opportunity to tell him about the difficulties the children of clients have in dealing with institutional racism in the schools. “You have no idea how lucky you are, son.”
He began having trouble sleeping at night. Something about not being allowed to leave his room at night began to bother him. And he began hearing things, thumps in the night.
His mom was making more money and it mostly went to remodelling the house. She had the boy’s room renovated with more soundproofing to help with his sleeping. The modest house began to look more modern. All the wood furnishings and cabinets were removed and replaced with a black and white marble motif, although nothing was actually made from marble. It was all plastic vinyl.
The decorations around the house began to change too. The photos and mementos that were so treasured by the boy began to disappear. The portrait of Queen Elizabeth, the decorative plate with the flags of all the provinces, the wooden pioneer-wagon model, had all vanished one by one. Later the boy woke up to see that their shelf of old figurines was gone too. He enjoyed studying those figurines over breakfast. There was the little John A Macdonald figurine, the blue and white windmill, the mini-voyaguer canoe made of real bark and leather—all gone. Most of the family pictures were taken down too. He would have liked a chance to keep some of these items in his room, but when he asked about it his mom would give him a fed-up look and tell him “They’re gone now” and then walk away.
The old decorations were replaced with photos of New York, paintings of Indian totem poles and African landscapes, little statuettes of African craftsmen, and Eskimo soapstone carvings.
Their large bookshelf began to change as well. New books were added. Beside Anne of Green Gables was White Fragility; White Fang was buttressed between Decolonizing Methodologies and Black Skin, White Mask. At first, they coexisted, allowing the boy to revisit his favourites, but after awhile all the old books were replaced, leaving only the Apprenticeship of Dudley Kravitz and a Jordan Peterson book about lobsters.
Outside, his backyard was cleaned out and redesigned into an environmentally friendly Buddhist rock garden. Gone were the little forts he had constructed, the mud pit where he played soldiers. The entire back lawn was dug up and replaced with black volcanic rocks shipped all the way from Hawaii. Only his treehouse in the old maple tree remained now.
The boy did not like the way their home was looking. It didn’t look like his home at all. His mom told him that the changes were necessary to make their home worth more money, “besides I’m sick of looking at all the boring old stuff anyways. Now our home looks vibrant and welcoming.”
One day she came home later than usual. His mom came in beaming with happiness as he played his video games in the living room.
“Guess what I got today?”
The boy was excited, perhaps she bought a dirt bike or a bb gun!
“A pony.” He replied jokingly.
She gave him a withering glance.
“Not quite. I got a tattoo today!”
Not knowing why, the boy felt angry at this and said nothing, shifting his attention back to the TV.
“Well don’t you want to see it?” she said as she pulled up a leg of the loose fitting slacks she was wearing. She pulled off the bandages to reveal some kind of Native art canoe design on her upper thigh.
“It’s based on a design by Haida artist Bill Reid!”
His eyes fixed on the tattoo and began to well up with tears. He fought them back and mumbled, “I don’t like it.” He looked away.
“Well, good thing it doesn’t really matter what you like then isn’t it?” She snapped as she marched towards the bathroom.
Later that week, the boy went to visit his treehouse in the backyard and found two African kids sitting against the base of the treehouse. Not expecting anyone to be in his backyard, the boy stared at them in bewilderment. The two Africans were older than him, both boys. They looked back at him plain faced, saying nothing.
“What are you doing in my yard?” the boy struggled to say.
“Your mom hired us.” They said
“To do what?” Said the boy
“Picking weeds.” Said one of the Africans.
“Raking rocks.” Said the other.
“Doesn’t look like that’s what you’re doing.”
The Africans slowly smiled, not breaking eye-contact with the boy.
“We are on a break.” Said the first African
Just then the boy’s mom came into the backyard, carrying a pitcher of lemonade and a platter of foreign looking snacks the boy had never seen before. She smiled at everyone and put the refreshments down at the feet of the two Africans.
“Oh, so I see that my two new friends have met my boy.” She giggled.
He marched back into the house without saying anything. The boy was angry. He just wanted to be left alone in what was left of his backyard and the presence of these strangers offended him. Worst still, it was the boy who felt like an intruder, like he was in their space. Everything about his life felt smaller and restricted lately.
And why were they doing chores at his house anyways? He knew how to look after his home himself.
Stern-faced, his mom stomped in after him, grabbed him hard by the arm and pulled him close to her, “What is your problem?!” She said sharply. “That was completely embarrassing!”
“Why are there strangers in my backyard doing my chores?” He shot back.
At first, she was taken aback by the boy’s temerity. But quickly her eyes fixed upon his and she let out a shrill laugh “Do you think this is your house?! Do you think you have ever done anything special here!? Playing around in the backyard makes it yours? God, you are a toxic little fraud like your father was! You think you have it bad? I should make you come to work with me and listen to some of my clients. Then you’ll see how tough you are! You have no idea!”
“And unlike you,” she continued, “Those guys actually work for their money!”
The boy glanced out the window to see the two Africans sitting against the tree with their lemonade, laughing and sharing a joke.
“They don’t whine about their hands hurting like you always do. They don’t ask me stupid questions. They just work. A quality that most people in this country know nothing about.”
The boys said nothing, staring hard at framed photo of some old judge-lady with the letters R.B.G. emblazoned across the bottom that replaced their QEII portrait.
She shoved a fifty-dollar bill into his chest and pushed him towards the downstairs. “Here’s what you really want, not that you even need it. Now just get into your room and stay out of their way! I won’t have you embarrassing me!”
The boy said nothing. He went down to his room.
Something was changing in the boy. He just never felt relaxed anymore. His fresh face and bright eyes became sullen and downcast. And even with his room soundproofed, he still couldn’t get to sleep at night. He always felt a sense of activity going on around him. He no longer felt at ease anymore.
Then there was the smell.
Everything was new and shiny in the house, but there was always garbage lying around now. The mom never cooked anymore, so they mostly had ethnic takeout delivered to the house. An underlying pungent, acrid sour sweet smell had taken over the home. But there was more than that to it. There was a smell of strange people like the boy remembered from taking the subway the time he went to the city. Even when the subway was empty, he could feel all the people pressed in on each other. It was less of a smell than a sense of presence, like when you can feel someone in another room without seeing them.
He barely left his room anymore and only went outside when he had to. He had a subscription to all the latest video games and his own Netflix account. Mostly, he read over the books he still had from when he was a kid and watched old movies. Oftentimes, he would see the sun coming up over the back fence through his window before he finally went to sleep. He still wasn’t allowed to leave his room at night.
One night he felt particularly restless, tossing and turning all night. There was a faint deep thump coming from upstairs. His hair stood on edge and he felt a rush animating his tired body out of bed. With all the soundproofing in his room, something substantial must have happened to make that sound. Knowing his mom was upstairs alone terrified him. What if some intruder was attacking her? Before he knew it his hand was on the doorknob. He tried to turn it. It wouldn’t move. Was the door locked? He shook it, pulled it, nothing. It must have been locked. Locked from the outside. He knew his mom had locked it.
The adrenaline in his body subsided. He crumpled onto the floor by the door. Tears ran down his cheeks as he gritted his teeth. He punched the floor until his knuckles bled. He felt so stupid, so insignificant. Locked in a room in a basement. Defeated and exhausted, he fell over into his bed and slept deeply. Not even bothering to wipe his tears or runny nose.
In the morning his mom stood over him, shaking him.
“Get the hell out of bed! What is wrong with you?”
With a start, the boy awakens “Wha..?”
“Get your butt out of bed! You’re going to be late for school and I have to get to work! I’m going to be late because of you.” She turns to leave, “You can get yourself ready for school. I am so over this garbage!”
He remembered the loud thump from last night.
“I’m sorry. I heard this loud thump last night and I was worried that something happened.”
She stopped, without turning to face him and asked “You didn’t try to leave your room did you?”
“No.” He answered.
She turned to him cheerily, “Son it is very important to the running of our household that you stay in your room at night. I need my sleep and can’t be stressed about you running around the house at night looking for imaginary cat-burglars.”
“But Mom, like, sometimes I worry…I worry about you. What if you needed my help or something?”
She laughed abruptly, “Trust me kid, I don’t need your help with that. Your mom can handle herself just fine. And what good would you be anyway? A pampered little guy like you?”
He didn’t know what to say to that. She made her way to the stairs, “Now get yourself ready for school, kid! I gotta get going.”
Weeks go by. The noise and the smells keep getting worse. The boy can’t sleep, can’t eat. Has become very ill and sullen. His mom never asks about it.
Even his teacher, Mrs. Harper begins to worry about him. She tries to contact the boy’s mom, but with no reply. Finally, Mrs. Harper sees his mom on the street and tells her about her concerns. His mom laughs it off, calling it “first world problems”.
“To be honest, he is a spoiled sheltered little boy that just isn’t adjusting to the changes in his life very well. And honestly, I have a hard time taking his little complaints seriously after hearing some of the tragedies my clients at the Newcomers Society have to deal with. You people have no idea.”
“But aren’t you concerned about how his grades are slipping? According to his student history he has always been a very competent student and now his grades have fallen off a cliff. I mean, this is a time that is crucial for his future,” implored Mrs. Harper.
“Hah! Are you kidding me? He’s a white male in Canada. He’ll be fine.”
Smiling, Mrs. Harper responded “Well, you do make a good point there.”
And with that they parted ways.
*****
