“Do it!” she spat at us in a stage whisper. We flinched. We repeated the address. She continued.
“When you are ready to hide, you will meet someone by the name of Liv there. Can you remember her name?”
I jumped to answer. “Liv. Meet Liv at 72 Homewood Street.”
“If she’s not home, she said you need to let yourself into the backyard and hide among the recycling bins. Do you understand?” We nodded in disbelief. She reached out and melted into my embrace.
“I love you, Queen Kay. Do you hear me? Do you understand how much I love you?” If I had known it was the last time I would ever see her, I would have said, “I love you too.” I would have said, “Thank you for housing me. Thank you for forging that note. Thank you for naming me.” Instead I watched her run towards a Lincoln Continental waiting just beyond a set of yellow metal barriers left behind from the parade. The car drove away, and we were left dumbfounded by the exchange.
I couldn’t feel my face in the cold of Nadine’s sudden and confounding departure. You and I cautiously walked towards a streetcar stop, heading eastbound on Dundas. Had that conversation actually happened? When the streetcar arrived, we tried to get on, but the driver closed the doors in our faces. We waited for another streetcar. Same thing. No admittance.
In the bitter cold, we walked east towards home, occasionally warming our hands in heated bank ATM lobbies. We also tried our luck at each machine, hoping to retrieve some funds using our Verification Cards. Nothing but error messages.
By the time we hit Yonge Street, yet another political march was in full swing. This time it was almost impenetrable, with Black and Brown folks linking arms. It was hardly a march since the crowd could barely move.
“Jesus. How are we going to get home through this?” You stood on your tip-toes and looked over the growing crowds. “I’m freezing.”
I shook my head at the commotion.
“I mean . . . we’re all fighting for the same things, but I wish they’d at least create a path for people to get by,” you said, trying to speak despite your lips being numb.
We had to push past one group banging on pots and pans and screaming, “FUCK THE FASCIST GOVERNMENT! FUCK THE FASCIST GOVERNMENT!”
A Black woman with forearm crutches spoke as the crowd attempted to march past, her friend helping her be heard by holding a megaphone to her mouth. “Random raids! Denial of access to basic services! Mass deportations! If you’re like me and have been issued a Verification Card, ask yourself, ‘When was the last time I was able to enter the store and buy food? When was the last time I was treated by a doctor?!’” I covered my ears at the piercing treble of the megaphone’s speaker.
In the alcove of one store, a white reporter, lit by a bright light on a stand, held a microphone and attempted to deliver to the camera despite the racket. “Following the assassination of US President Pryce, an estimated six thousand protesters are present here today to march against what some are calling martial law, right here in Toronto.”
We wove through the crowd, past a large banner reading “Two Nations, One Vision: Excuse for Apartheid in Canada.” Two Indigenous women wavered under the weight of its poles, while one of them spoke on a megaphone, shouting, “Genocide since 1492: Forced sterilization! Land theft! No access to water!”
One protester’s sign was a photo of the Canadian prime minister and the American president shaking hands, with red paint splattered over it to look like blood. A series of Brown women held signs with the words “The Far Right on Both Sides of the Border.” A group of Black men wearing red targets on their jackets held up their arms.
You told me to look up. Above us, cops in riot gear stood at the edges of store roofs with their guns at the ready.
“Come on! Let’s go!” I grabbed your arm and led us down an alleyway just as we saw a banner being set aflame. I could hear glass breaking from the store windows. We ran through a maze of cars in a parking lot, with the muted sound of chanting transforming into screams not far behind us. “Figures. All of these people protesting violence by using violence. It’s absurd,” you said.
When we arrived back at my apartment, we found Nolan positioning the rabbit ears on his television to get a clear picture of a press conference being held at the White House. We all sat down on Nolan’s bed to watch.
Pryce had been shot. An assassination. Most likely a Black extremist group based in Detroit, founded after the water crisis. Several threats from this group in the last six months. Details to follow. Riots in Washington, New York, San Francisco, Toronto, Montreal and other cities against the rise of a violent right wing.
Nolan changed the channel to Canadian news. Prime Minister Dunphy began his speech.
“We Canadians do not condone terrorist groups who believe that bullets will justify their cause . . .”
Fanny picked up Sedgewick and began pacing. “Do you think shit will go down here too?” She walked to my bedroom, opened the window and looked out at Church Street.
“Girl, things are already going down! Can’t you hear them on Yonge Street?” Nolan said while putting tin foil on the antennae. You and I hadn’t even removed our jackets or hats. We stood waiting for the best time to tell them what Nadine had told us. “That president represented all the hate white people have spent decades pretending isn’t there. Now that he’s dead, there’s no pretending anymore.”
I looked outside the window. “Compared to Yonge it’s quiet out there. Too quiet.” Fanny joined me at the sill to confirm my observation. Nothing but the buzz of the Pizza Pizza sign below. No one cruising. No blaring music from the clubs. No one lining up to wait for entrance to events. No one walking their dogs.
You and I didn’t have the heart to tell them what Nadine had told us. We didn’t believe it ourselves. Not yet. We still didn’t believe it even as the curfew was put into place.
“We are declaring a state of emergency,” said Premier Ogilvy at a press conference. “When day after day of demonstrations have left a scar on our beloved province, we must take action. When looting occurs under the guise of marches, we must intervene. When protests are no longer peaceful, we need to employ the help of peacekeepers.”
“Please let me pass,” you said to a Boot at the Wellesley and Yonge checkpoint early one morning. You held out your Verification Card, like an obedient child displaying last night’s homework. “I need to make my way to my mother’s house in Parkdale. I’ll be back before curfew.” I stood beside you, fearful and tongue-tied.
“No. Stand back.” The Boot did not make eye contact; rather, he scanned the barriers on all four sides of the intersection while blocking your way with his rifle.
“Evan, please. Let’s go.”
“I will. If you let me pass now, I’ll be back before eight. That’s the rule. I’m following the rules.”
“The rule is you do what I say. Now go.”
“Listen, sir. I’m not a protester. I’m just a normal man trying to make my way to Parkdale to see my elderly mother. I mean no harm. I just need to pass.”
“Evan,” I whispered.
“Where in Parkdale?” The Boot’s posture changed.
“Excuse me?”