Another woman, less shy, seemed encouraged that somebody had actually spoken and started a conversation with me about geography. The man she was taking her daughter to visit was a big football fan and loved Brazil’s national squad. “I’d love to go to Brazil,” she said to me.
Her daughter was probably about 16 or 17, had a dollar sign tattooed at the base of her right thumb and having squeezed herself into an outfit that wasn’t much larger than a sock cut off at each end, was dressed to please. Ever since 9/11 she’s been scared to fly, but if she could drive anywhere in the world she told me she’d visit either Australia or Newfoundland. As she was telling me this two very tough looking men in their early 60s approached the building. They looked like they knew trouble and what to do with it– like they were born angry. One guy, covered in tattoos and with a powerful, wide upper body, pulled his shirt on as he entered the room, as if a statement of violent intent. The other man was in a sleeveless, white undershirt, his ashen hair greased back. They sat there like furious, black clouds.
The girl who was scared to travel passed slowly in front of them and then back again, at which point her mother grabbed her by the arm, hissing, “ Jesus Kat, you really gave those two an eyeful, didn’t ya?”
Walking into the prison visiting area is a little bit like passing through security at the airport. You empty your pockets and then walk through a metal detector while largely disinterested officers idle by. Once inside there are two U-shaped seating areas with the red-suited prisoners on one side of the protective glass paneling and the visitors on the other.
A woman who was wearing a hijab began to weep after speaking with her son. She was emotional and talking with her hands, her husband trying hard to steady her from beneath a heavy, masculine mustache. A young man blew streams of kisses at his infant daughter. The child’s mother, waving the little girl’s hand at her imprisoned father, was backing out of the room, stealing as many moments as she could. Nearby a prisoner sat waiting for his visitor. The man had vulnerable, heavy eyes. He was just sitting there in front of the phone, his mind God knows where, and the pull toward his loneliness was so vivid and intense that I had to stop myself from just picking up the phone and starting a conversation.
On my way out of the building I passed through a cluster of people smoking. One woman said, “I thought for sure that my other boy would be here, too, but at 24 he still hasn’t been incarcerated, praise be.” And then she added, “But he’s still just 24, so I gotta keep my prayer on!”
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July 1st, and on Bloor Street some people were dressed to celebrate Canada Day, others to support Italy or Spain– who were to clash later in the afternoon for the Euro Cup final– and even more were dressed for the Pride Parade, an event that would see 1, 000, 000 lining the streets of the city on a scorching hot day.
Near Bloor and Yonge a young beggar sat on the sidewalk beneath the shade of an awning. He had his shirt off and he was pale, bruised and unpredictably tattooed. He seemed messed-up, and as people passed by he reached out for each one, as if taking a swipe at their legs. People were avoiding him like the plague, but a beautiful woman in provocative red hot pants with a Canadian Maple Leaf on each ass cheek stopped in front of him and bent over as if posing for a Page 3 shot. She then put both her hands on his face and kissed him.
The Time Warp blared from a float and a riot of middle-aged men in tank tops and red pom-poms exploded in front of us. Joyously performing a carefully choreographed dance number, their teeth could not have shone any brighter. Teenaged girls, their bodies covered in glitter, wove through the crowds as the scent of pot wafted by indifferent, happy police officers. Drag queens, like Barbie Dolls melting in the sun, smiled bravely from their flotilla perches, waving past us like the celebrities they’ve always known themselves to be.
The palest Goth girl in the world sat in a wheelchair that was being pushed along the sidewalk by a large Indian man in a kilt. All in black and wearing a Hijab, a small woman with bony, root-like hands squeezed through the crowds smiling and taking photographs.
A hopeful young man wandered about armed with two massive water guns. As if performing a public service, he asked everybody, “Free water spray? Free water spray?” He delighted when an elderly couple declared that they wanted one. Smiling and still holding hands, they raised their arms and closed their eyes as if on a roller coaster, and the young man sprayed them cool, the nearby crowd cheering encouragement.
A mother was taking a photograph of her daughter standing beside a wall of Pride Posters. The girl was perhaps 18, and both she and her mother were wearing the convenient, floppy hats of tourists. The girl held a Rainbow flag and even though she was smiling, her eyes were inflected with a touch of melancholy. Who knows what journey led the two of them to this place in time? The song Like A Prayer rolling down Bloor Street, the two of them walking away now, arm in arm.
