Life at 17

I live a busy life. Like many of you, I wear a lot of hats in our community. I have a really hard time saying ‘no’ to people, causes, and commitments that intrigue me.

Which is how I found myself parked in gridlock on Toronto’s busy Lakeshore Drive one drizzly, grey, and miserable November evening … trying to make my way home to Waterloo from a series of meetings in the downtown. As usual, I was late. Also, as usual, I had been parenting my youngest son from afar via BBM … What’s up? Good day? How was football practice? Have you eaten? What homework do you have? Did you put the dog out? Always ending with: I love you, Peter. I love you too, Ma.

Peter’s responses were predictable. At 17, he was happy to have the house to himself. Sitting in my car, I could picture him in my mind: He came home from school, dumped his gear behind the sofa, gave the dog some love, headed straight to the fridge, and then upstairs to have a hot shower. He was likely comfortably lounging in our family room, making his way through the multitude of sports channels on cable. I knew he was safe, warm, fed, and had his beloved furry companion by his side.

As I inched my way towards a grey and dreary intersection on Lakeshore, I spotted the inevitable dance of captive motorists being courted by ‘squeegee kids’ with their proactive offers of clean windshields. Despite a 1999 provincial law that outlaws it and recent City of Toronto calls (2011) to come down hard on panhandlers, squeegeeing is the norm in Toronto: Cars stop at a light and nervous drivers avert their eyes or uncomfortably acknowledge the young people who approach their cars. I’ve been in this dance before, always leaving the dance floor with a sense of unease and emptiness.

I did the quick calculations. I was going to be the first car in line at the intersection. I had some spare change in the car, but I also needed a coffee. It was raining. I didn’t need my windows cleaned. I turned the radio up and did my best to pretend that I was an island.

I pulled up to the red light. Thoughts of Peter passed through my head: I hope he’s doing his homework.

I looked up and saw a young man standing on the boulevard. He looked nervous. He also looked wet and cold. His green eyes instantly reminded me of Peter. What if?

I couldn’t stop myself. I rolled down my window and called him over. His name was Joel. He was 17. I told him that I knew that. We chatted. I bypassed the spare change, reached into my designer handbag to open my designer wallet and gave him paper money. I gave him my business card. I asked him to call his mom. I got honked at. He very quietly thanked me. He packed up his backpack and crossed the street in front of me. He waved, walked, and then ran back to my window. He thanked me again and told me that he was going to get something to eat and that he would call his mom.

I turned off my radio. I wondered if Joel would follow through. I knew the chances were slim, but I had to believe that maybe, just maybe he would. I knew that many would ridicule me for thinking so. I had to hope.

I headed home to my son, who was still safe, warm, fed, and had his beloved furry companion by his side. I thought about my busy life and wondered if my work – the politics, the teaching, the community building, and the volunteer work – was helping or hindering my own social fabric. I love you Peter.

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