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Tough Love

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A former addict has opened a recovery centre to help others overcome their demons.

By Rachel Saarony                                                                                    

David Rosenberg gazes out over the frozen lake at Bonvie Recovery, the rehabilitation centre he cofounded, nestled about two and a half hours east of Toronto in Kingston, Ontario. It is March 2025. The ice sparkles like crystal in the morning sun; the air hangs crisp and still. Across from me in a consultation room with soft-silver decor, Rosenberg breathes in short, uneven bursts—the toll of a five-year cocaine addiction that cost him a lung and almost his life, twice. His back slides into the hollow of a wooden chair, short frost-white hair frames his lowered, chestnut eyes. He wears a grey hoodie, hands idle on his stomach, shredding a Starbucks cup sleeve.

Once a desperate man who stole from his father’s business to fund his cocaine dependence, Rosenberg, 57, now reshapes recovery. His philosophy rejects the traditional impersonal nature of rehabilitation; instead, he favours structure, accountability, and long-term support. Bonvie Recovery, opened in August 2024, aims to be that alternative. And the need is pressing—Ontario’s opioid crisis has escalated, with overdose deaths surging 200% since 2016, according to Social Planning Toronto. In 2023, 2,647 Ontarians died from opioid overdoses, yet the government closed nine supervised consumption sites at the end of March 2025. Bonvie offers another way—one built on community, trust, and empathy.

Rosenberg has struggled with severe anxiety and undiagnosed learning disabilities since childhood. After dropping out of business school around 20, he joined his father’s successful Toronto business, Heritage Fine Clothing. He did well but felt unfulfilled. By his early thirties, he had built a seemingly picture-perfect life: a big house in Willowdale, a wife, and three kids. But this image of a stable life was funded with money siphoned from his father’s company—a betrayal that shattered their relationship. The business went bankrupt in 2004, and Rosenberg was left staring into the void of an uncertain future, terrified for the well-being of his wife and children.

The pressure to maintain their comfortable lifestyle, coupled with estrangement from his father, lifelong anxiety, and a growing sense that he didn’t deserve any of it, tormented him. With nowhere to turn, Rosenberg sought his cure for emotional pain in crack cocaine: a release from the shame, fear, failure, and the crushing weight of holding it all together.

Within five years, Rosenberg went from a million-dollar home to a park bench, consumed by his addiction. “I ran out of everything: no money, no clothes, no family,” he says. “[I was] a complete destitute, a bottom.” At 37, he entered rehabilitation at Jewish Addiction Community Services (JACS), where he learned recovery isn’t about willpower or hope but ongoing management. After months of treatment, he reconciled with his father, reconnected with his children, and began working as a fundraiser for the organization. A year later, he became JACS’ director of operations. By 41, he had earned a master’s in addiction and codependency from McMaster University. At 44, he opened a private practice, which he ran for twelve years. Then, at 57, he launched Bonvie Recovery.

Bonvie (from the French bonne vie, meaning “good life”) challenges the clinical feel of traditional rehabilitation. “Our personalized program speaks directly to the individual,” says Lyz Dick, Bonvie’s clinical lead and intake counsellor. “It’s not about fitting them into a rigid box; it’s about them figuring out what they need to do to live a sober life.” Many public rehabilitations follow one-size-fits-all models—more lecture hall than healing space. Bonvie treats each resident as an individual with a unique history, offering tailored, responsive, and personal therapy.

Bonvie incorporates an optional 12-step program—spiritual, not religious—focused on accountability, self-reflection, and personal growth. It’s the same framework Rosenberg used to rebuild his life. But support doesn’t end at discharge. “We check in with them, offer continued support,” Dick says. “They’re not left to figure it out alone.” A 2023 study published in the ASCP Journal suggests structured programs focusing on self-management and recovery training, like Bonvie’s, result in 94% of participants maintaining abstinence, with significant improvements in mental, physical, and social well-being.

Rosenberg calls his counselling approach ‘tough love,’ relying on his field experience more than his formal education. He recalls the desperate call from a Russian mother whose son, Alex, had exhausted every treatment option for his cocaine addiction. When Alex stopped answering his phone, Rosenberg—known for his direct involvement—drove to his apartment, kicked in the door, and found him in the fetal position, blood leaking from his nose and mouth. Cocaine overdose. Rosenberg called 911 and met the mother at the hospital. When she arrived, panicked, he told her to go home—he needed to speak with Alex alone.

Standing over Alex—who was barely conscious after the overdose, tubes in his arms—Rosenberg didn’t offer comfort. Instead, he leaned in and said flatly, “I’m done. Go fuck yourself. You want to die? Then die. It’s your choice. I’m not wasting any more of my time.”

Then he walked out. Later, when the hospital called asking Rosenberg to pick Alex up—he was the clinician on file—Rosenberg refused. “Not my problem,” he told them.

Soon after, Alex called him, furious. Rosenberg cut him off: “Why should I give a shit about you when you don’t give a shit about me or my time?” He hung up.

When Alex called again, his voice had changed—softer, shaking.

“I don’t want to die,” he said through tears.

“Then do what you’re told,” Rosenberg said.

Alex entered transitional housing soon after. Today, he’s three years sober, working in California—and still in touch.

Stories like this shape Rosenberg’s philosophy. He opened Bonvie not for redemption, but accountability—no miracles, just daily discipline to face your past and improve. According to a 2020 study by the National Institute on Drug Abuse, a U.S. federal research agency, relapse rates for substance use disorders—ranging from forty to sixty percent—compare to those for chronic illnesses like high blood pressure and asthma. Relapse is not failure but a sign that treatment needs to be resumed or adjusted. Addiction, like these illnesses, requires ongoing management rather than a one-time cure.

Sunlight slices through the blinds in the consultation room, catching steam curling from his coffee. Outside, chickadees flit between branches, their song breaking the stillness. A gentle breeze rustles the budding maple leaves. Rosenberg leans back and exhales. “Give up,” he says to those fighting addiction. “You’re not winning.” From his view, recovery begins with surrender to the illness, to the chaos. And for families? His advice is blunt: “Don’t comfort someone taking poison.” Rosenberg only helps those willing, as healing cannot be forced.

That’s the difference between sympathy and service: one enables, the other saves. You can reach out a hand—but people must choose to take it.

The World’s First PC Was Canadian 

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 An exhibit at York University tells the story of the groundbreaking MCM/70.

By Yuwai Brian Wong | Photo taken by Yuwai Brian Wong

On October 4, 2023, recently retired computer science professor, Zbigniew Stachniak, examines a curious-looking black leather attaché case at the York University Computer Museum (YUCoM), where he is curator. The attaché is visibly aged, with minor scuffs on its exterior, and is missing a latch. Inside the attaché, on the bottom compartment, sits a keyboard, a one-line 32-character screen, and a cassette drive — all meticulously engineered into a metal case; it looks like a computer gadget out of an early James Bond film. 

Stachniak takes out a new homemade latch from his pocket and attaches it. The machine is sitting on his desk and the desk is covered in promotional pamphlets for an upcoming exhibit: The MCM/70@50. One of the pamphlets is open to a 1973 black-and-white photograph of a man sitting outside with that same attaché on his lap. The attaché is a prototype of the world’s first personal computer (PC) — and arguably the first laptop — the MCM/70. Canadians at Micro Computer Machines (MCM) built the first PC, and it would have been forgotten without Stachniak. 

The success of Apple, IBM, and a myriad of other home and personal computer manufacturers dwarfed MCM’s bold first step, covering the MCM/70’s story in dust for almost three decades. Many historical institutions consider other computers like the American Kenbak-1 (1971) or the French Micral N (1973) as the world’s first PC. Stachniak would challenge this in 2003 with his article “The Making of the MCM/70 Microcomputer,” published in the IEEE Annals of the History of Computing, in which he declared the MCM/70 as the first of its kind.

Stachniak argues that the MCM/70 was unlike any computer that came before it. For him, the Kenbak-1 was merely an educational toy due to its limited hardware configuration, while the French Micral N was a special purpose computer not intended for personal use. Stachniak considers neither of these computers as the first PC even though they were released before the MCM/70. He says the MCM/70 is the first PC because it was a versatile, all-in-one package built around the first microprocessor (Intel’s 8008) and was specifically designed for personal use. 

Stachniak’s work led to an influx of attention from a variety of Canadian publications, such as the Toronto Star, The Hamilton Spectator, and The Globe and Mail, which hailed Mers Kutt — MCM’s first CEO and the inventor of the MCM/70 — “father of the PC.”

“[Stachniak] has made it his calling to tell our story,” says José Laraya, an 80-year-old retired engineer and one of MCM’s first employees. Stachniak’s newest exhibit, The MCM/70@50, pays tribute to MCM for its contributions to personal computing and commemorate the first PC — the MCM/70 — unveiled in Canada 50 years ago. 

The story of MCM begins with Mers Kutt, a brilliant mathematician and computer scientist. In 1969, Kutt helped found the Department of Computer and Information Science at Queen’s University with Beatrice Worsley — the first female computer scientist in Canada. At Queen’s, Kutt was director of the computing centre and one of the youngest full professors in Canada, at age 32. Kutt’s charisma and inventive drive attracted Gordon Ramer and José Laraya, who were also interested in pushing the boundaries of current computer technology. 

Kutt met Ramer while Ramer was visiting Queen’s for a lecture. At the time, Ramer was the assistant director of York University’s computing centre. Ramer was the first software engineer in Canada to successfully develop and implement a dialect of APL (A Programming Language) named York APL. APL was unlike traditional programming languages in its use of non-standard characters that made it look like mathematical notation. This special syntax made for concise code and a dedicated cult following. Overall, APL has had an important influence on the development of concept modeling, spreadsheets, functional programming, and computer math packages.

“The simplicity of the APL language allowed users to learn it quickly and easily,” says Stachniak. “Making such a novel language available to the first microcomputers was, perhaps, Ramer’s biggest contribution to personal computing.” 

Laraya was working as the computer hardware engineer for Queen’s computing centre when he met Kutt. Originally from the Philippines, Laraya studied engineering at the University of Tokyo. After his ground-breaking post-graduate research on transistor technology, Laraya would end up immigrating to Canada in 1967.

The Canadian computing landscape in the 1960s and 1970s consisted exclusively of large and expensive mainframe computers and smaller, but also expensive, minicomputers. By 1971, there were only 3,548 computers in Canada — according to the 1973 Canadian Computer Census. Most were inaccessible to the public and certainly not for personal use. Then, in late 1971, Kutt, Ramer and Laraya set off to change this with the first PC — an inexpensive, small, digital, general-purpose computer, owned and operated by individuals. 

The MCM/70 prototype work began in Laraya’s basement just outside of Kingston, Ontario. The small team at MCM grew to about 10 people who worked tirelessly with the latest — albeit primitive — technology of the 1970s, in hopes of building Kutt’s dream PC. 

“The trend in the computer field toward usage of more small computers and a limited number of large computers, could result in the MCM/70 in a few years becoming as familiar as calculators are today,” Kutt said in 1973.

On September 25, 1973, the MCM/70 was unveiled to Canadian press in Toronto at the Royal York Hotel.  This launched the age of personal computing. The MCM/70, although slow, was powerful enough to run simulations for the Pickering nuclear power plant. 

The original MCM/70 did not sell in the thousands. Its cleaned-up version, the MCM/700, sold well in 1975 and created a fair-sized market niche for personal APL computers, especially within the education, insurance, and actuarial markets. The computer could be purchased for $4,700 – $9,800, depending on the hardware configuration, equivalent to $30,000 – $60,000 today. After MCM’s short sprint in the mid 1970s, the company swiftly dissolved by 1985 due to internal turmoil. 

On November 14, 2023, Stachniak unveiled the MCM/70@50 exhibit at the Steacie Science and Engineering Library on York University’s Keele campus. The exhibit is free and open to the public indefinitely. It features six glass display cases, approximately seven feet tall, housing a complete line of MCM computers, from their first MCM/70 prototype to their last computer — the MCM Power. Behind these artifacts are large pictures: the unveiling of the MCM/70 in Toronto, MCM employee Ted Edwards with the MCM/70 Executive Model, and Laraya reunited with the MCM/70 prototype decades later.

About half of the former MCM employees were in attendance. Notably absent was Kutt and all attempts to reach him were unanswered. Ramer and Laraya attended. Laraya brought his family and was able to share his accomplishments with his grandchildren. Some MCM employees had passed away and did not get to see their contributions acknowledged by the world, but their legacy will remain on display indefinitely at York University. Ferdows Laraya, Jose’s son, attended the event and was very pleased to see the exhibit.

“I was very proud to see my father’s achievements being recognized. I feel like a lot of people don’t know that the first PC was made in Canada. Now there’s an exhibit I can point to and show people,” he said. 

He also felt that the MCM team finally got the credit they deserve. Canadians in the history of computing are often overshadowed by their American counterparts. Yet, many Canadians were first in technological paradigm shifts like the PC, communications technology, and cryptography. But much of Canada’s computer history remains understudied; it is an uphill battle to preserve its stories for future generations. That is why it is important that Canadians engage with and support historical institutions like YUCoM so that their history is never forgotten.

Brian is a Freelance Writer and can be reached at Y.brianwong@gmail.com

A Special Place

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A Whitby café offers work—and other opportunities—­to people with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

By Yuwai Brian Wong

On October 18, 2022, Hillary Myhal hands out colourful miniature aprons to children as news crews gather to witness the grand opening of Melly’s Market + Café in Whitby. Parents from the Lucky Few, a Down syndrome advocacy group, smile and talk about how their children will one day be working at Melly’s.

The Lucky Few are a group of parents raising children with Down syndrome and other intellectual/developmental disabilities. The Down Syndrome Association of Toronto reports that approximately one in every 781 babies is born with Down syndrome in Canada.

Melly’s has been a passion project of its directors, Ellen Elizabeth McRae and Aimee Ellen Ruttle, for years.

“It all started with my daughter, Melanie, who has Down syndrome. She wanted more to do. This made us think about all the adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities in a similar position as Melanie,” says McRae. “We wanted to give people with disabilities the chance to fulfill their own personal goals, work towards independence and feel like a part of society.”

Aimee Ruttle, Melanie’s sister, has been working as a director for adult employment programs for years. Through their collaboration, mother and daughter were able to develop a new program that could provide people with intellectual and developmental disabilities meaningful and sustainable employment; They named the café after Melanie.

The news cameras turn towards the front of the café where the children and workers are getting into place. Quadre McFarlane-Wilson, one of Melly’s first part-time workers, cuts the red ribbon and Melly’s is officially open for business.

Two-year-old Charlotte Myhal excitedly bounces around in her bright blue miniature apron outside Melly’s. Charlotte smiles, her mouth covered in blue icing while she munches on cake. She looks up at 34-year-old Melanie Ruttle. Ruttle reaches out and picks up little Charlotte. “We have the same eyes,” she says.

Melly’s is a socially conscious café and not-for-profit charity that exclusively offers adults, over the age of 21, with intellectual and developmental disabilities, a work experience program. Created by Down syndrome advocates and parents, Melly’s work experience program is unique because it can be tailored to fit each worker’s unique accessibility needs.

Myhal supports local organizations like Melly’s because she believes people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, like her daughter Charlotte who has Down syndrome, deserve every opportunity to work towards and fulfill their own personal goals.

“People with intellectual and developmental disabilities are too often overlooked and they just need to be given the chance to show how capable they are,” says Myhal. 

Higher Unemployment

Unfortunately, people with intellectual or developmental disabilities face higher levels of unemployment than the general population.

In 2017, Statistics Canada reported that adults with disabilities (ages 24 to 64) were less likely to be employed than those without disabilities. The severity of disabilities also had a major impact; those with mild disabilities were more likely to be employed than those with very severe disabilities.

Recently, the Ontario government has made commitments to help students and families with special education needs through donations and partnerships,

“We are fully committed to improving educational outcomes and job prospects for students with special education needs, which is exactly why our government is funding new partnerships to better support children with Down syndrome, autism and other developmental and intellectual disabilities,” says Stephen Lecce, Minister of Education.

But despite these commitments, there remains a negative perception of people with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

McFarlane-Wilson recounts growing up with autism in Scarborough. “From a young age there was a lot bullying from peers and teachers,” he says. “Kids would pick on me and even one of my teachers said I’d never amount to anything, no college or university.”

A Safe, Welcoming Space

Melly’s provides its workers a safe space and a welcoming environment for all who come visit.

In the backroom of Melly’s, where the workers take their breaks and socialize, there is a shelf full of colourful jars. They are filled with pictures and trinkets meant to represent each of the workers’ dreams and goals. McFarlane-Wilson’s jar is filled with pictures of world class martial arts titles and fighters because he is working towards becoming one of the world’s elite fighters.

McRae and Ruttles’ advocacy for Melanie and their aspirations for her to feel included as a member of society, resulted in place that would do that and more—not only for Melanie, but for others with special gifts as well.  Thanks to Melly’s and its business inclusion partners, McFarlane-Wilson will be starting a new part-time position at CrossFit Oshawa.

Hillary and Charlotte Myall frequent Melly’s because it’s a place that empowers and gives hope for future generations of people with intellectual disabilities. Like McRae, Hillary has big aspirations for Charlotte: “We want Charlotte to grow up believing she can be anything she wants to be. If she dreams of going to college or university, we will do everything in our power to make sure that happens.”

Freelance writer Yuwai Brian Wong can be reached at Y.brianwong@gmail.com

York University’s Gospel Choir Keeps on Singing

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For twenty years, students at York University have been able to take courses in gospel music. Its choir sings the praises of the woman who founded it and her successor.

By Royce Luu | Featured image via Pexels

Karen Burke saunters through the unusually hushed corridors on the second floor of Accolade East, a building at York University, in northern Toronto, that hosts some of the performative arts. Her footsteps clack over the coarse flooring as she ambles by various beige, lime, and tangerine doors and past a few concrete pillars slumped against the pale walls.

The rosy Apple Watch wrapped around her left wrist tells her it’s about 6 p.m. She probably stands just over five feet tall, topped with short salt-and-pepper curls. She shifts through a marigold doorway and into a spacious room to check on the York University Gospel Choir, which is approximately four weeks away from a concert in December.

Burke, 61, forged the first post-secondary gospel curriculum in Canada after joining York’s faculty in 2005. To this day, the gospel choir courses continue to bring together students who share a passion for singing.

York may be one of the only universities in the country to offer these first- to fourth-year courses, which last through the fall and winter semesters and are run by the music department under York’s School of the Arts, Media, Performance & Design.

To join, students typically must pass an audition. When they complete the first-year course, they can move onto the second-year version, and so on. But regardless of what year students are enrolled in, the choir rehearses and sings as one.

“Gospel music works best when people think of themselves as a community, not just a collection of singers,” Burke says.

“I am lucky to have the chance to rub shoulders with so many like-minded people on a weekly basis,” says Shay Lee, a 24-year-old music major in the third-year gospel choir course. His goal is to continue honing his gospel performance and singing skills.

After almost two decades of piloting the choir, Burke is now on the sidelines, having passed the torch to 46-year-old Nicole Sinclair-Anderson, a former top 30 Canadian Idol contestant who’s chatting with some of the students in the room.

There are about 25 students inside, most of whom are likely in their late teens to early 20s, susurrating together by several matte black chairs and empty stands. The other half of the class has vanished on break.

Burke’s dark brown eyes flicker to the choristers, who call and wave to her seconds after she steps in. She still likes to occasionally tune in during rehearsals even though this isn’t her class anymore.

Despite the chaos that comes with being the newly inaugurated chair of York’s music department, Burke keeps beaming her toothy, genial smile, typically accompanied by a jovial laugh and peppy tone.

Sinclair-Anderson, who’s in an obsidian dress and has short black hair that’s neatly slicked to one side, paces over to whom she impulsively dubs as “Sister Karen.” They trade greetings before reviewing blueprints for the choir.

Aside from the upcoming school concert, the choir will also soon be performing at Grace United Church, in Brampton, Ontario. Sinclair-Anderson says the choir has been getting several requests to perform at different venues.

About 10 minutes later, the rest of the students trickle back from break. Sinclair-Anderson reconvenes the choir in tight rows at the centre of the room.

Burke stations herself near the corner, not far from the glossy grand piano occupied by the choir’s pianist, another music professor at York who works with the gospel choir.

Sinclair-Anderson invites a young woman with long straight hair and a shy smile to stand with her, facing the choir, for the next song. The student tiptoes away from the first row, earning a roar of encouragement from the choir as her light complexion becomes slightly blushed by her pinkening cheeks.

The piano begins to croon, prompting the student to start her slow solo of Youthful Praise’s “Close to You,” a worship song.

Most of the choir aren’t Christian, Sinclair-Anderson says, but she feels grateful that students from many diverse backgrounds are coming together under the umbrella of gospel music to sing and enjoy each other’s company.

York’s Metalheads

While York’s choir is coalesced by gospel music, there’s a remarkably different group on the same campus that also intends to build community.

Connor McCann and Spencer Chadderton are the long-haired metalheads who co-founded the Rock Metal Association after meeting on a Facebook page associated with York. The club was ratified in January 2019 and aims to congregate York’s rock and metal fans.

“Starting this club was life changing,” says 23-year-old McCann, a fifth-year media arts student at York. “I’ve met so many different people and local bands.”

Chadderton, a 23-year-old history major and English minor at York, frequently rocks his signature battle jacket, which is emblazoned with patches of different bands, including Megadeth and Metallica.

“Metal speaks to me,” he says. “I don’t know how to put it into words. There’s an emotional connection.”

For McCann, aside from attending local shows, part of his connection to metal comes from growing his playlists, a process made easy by digital media. For instance, he discovers new songs from around the world through YouTube, Spotify, and ads on Instagram.

Chadderton encourages people to keep an open mind when exploring new music: “Just like with foods, give everything a shot. You never know, you might like it.”

McCann and Chadderton likely reflect 63-year-old Jeffrey Taylor’s outlook on how the intersection between the internet and music can be an asset for young people nowadays.

Taylor is the head of the music department at Maple High School, which is situated down the street from Canada’s Wonderland in Vaughan, Ontario. He has over 30 years of experience as a composer and music director.

“When I was in high school, my music was whatever I could afford to buy on vinyl records, but more likely whatever they played on CHUM-FM,” he says. “And what they played on CHUM-FM were white boys playing rock music.”

Rather than living in a “monoculture and monolingual world” like his generation had, Taylor asserts that digital platforms make it easier to browse through a wider catalogue of music, which can create opportunities for young people to build intercultural knowledge and empathy.

For instance, a band that played a pivotal role in McCann’s journey through metal is Alien Weaponry, a trio in New Zealand that performs songs in their Māori language. Metalheads like McCann are more likely to find bands from a vast variety of communities and cultures thanks to digital media.

McCann also uses the web to do some digging into bands to get a glimpse beyond the headbanging. He encourages others to do the same to determine if the bands are worthy of support. When people stream music on Spotify, for example, he says those artists could get a royalty, even if it’s a miniscule amount.

“It’s really a question of what you feel you want to open yourself up to,” McCann says. “For me, I don’t want to be the sort of person who gives money to people who are espousing hate.”

“It’s totally valid to not listen to an artist or a band because a member did shit that was fucked up,” Chadderton says. However, he thinks second chances could be permissible.

Harris Ahmed, a 19-year-old first-year student studying graphic communications management at Toronto Metropolitan University, is a rock and metal aficionado with similar thoughts.

“I feel like if someone says something that’s very clearly racist or homophobic, then yeah, I think some action should be taken,” Ahmed says. Nonetheless, he believes “people can change” and “can become better over time.”

He names “Brown Sugar” by the Rolling Stones as an example, which he says is about slavery. While it might have been a “different world” 50 years ago, Harris says that the Stones have, appropriately, retired this song from their concerts.

Taylor says young people today “have so much more understanding of the people on their planet.” Exposure to diverse music and having conversations about lyrical content, he says, can make them more open-minded.

At the end of the day, Chadderton says, “The one thing that can unite us is a good song,” a message that isn’t limited to metal.

A Thirty-Year Devotion

“I have my foot in the door and I’m keeping the door open,” Burke says, describing what her job feels like now. “I’m looking for others to walk through that door.”

She says the people she’s taught and worked with in the past 30 years are opening the door wider, joining her mission to get the next generations to learn and revel in gospel through workshops and programs.

One person who’s advancing this mission is Sinclair-Anderson, who’s picking up where Burke left off with York’s choir. But this isn’t the first time they’re joining forces.

Sinclair-Anderson recalls following the JUNO Award-winning Toronto Mass Choir, co-founded by Burke in 1988, as a groupie and having dreams of joining it. Her friend in the choir, a keyboardist, eventually encouraged her to tryout. Sinclair-Anderson got the job in 1998 as a principal soloist until she became the creative arts director at Malvern Christian Assembly, in Scarborough, Ontario, in 2012.

“Working with Karen has been a blessing,” Sinclair-Anderson says. “I would consider her my mentor in life. She has always been in my corner. She’s believed in me and what I can do, even if I couldn’t see it myself.”

Burke’s musical pioneering sprouted from the seed that her grandmother, Florence Jones, planted. She encouraged Burke to keep practicing music at age 12 when she was on the fence about continuing music. After she kept at it, Burke “wanted to be the best.”

“My grandmother was the one who kept me connected to my musical roots,” Burke says. “She was my musical buddy. Our bond through music was extra special.”

Jones was a church musician at the daffodil-bricked S.R. Drake Memorial Church, in Brantford, Ontario — Burke’s hometown — for about 40 years. Burke calls her the musical matriarch of the family who passed down knowledge about church music, gospel, and spirituals, which have become Burke’s fortes.

“Spirituals were created because enslaved Africans who were brought over from West Africa were separated from their families and languages, so they couldn’t rebel and escape,” Burke says. “In order to survive, they had to have community. So, they devised a way to communicate through music. In a way, the job of gospel and spirituals is to create community when there isn’t any.”

The S.R. Drake Memorial Church was named after Burke’s great-grandfather and Jones’ father, Reverend Samuel R. Drake, who Burke says was the general superintendent of the BME Church Conference from 1908 to 1927, a collection of churches — maybe 15, she estimates — “built by escaped and freed slaves who made it to Canada in the 1800s.”

Usually during summer nights, the windows of the church would be open. Burke and much of her family would be singing, sometimes drawing the attention of nearby locals who would dawdle outside and listen.

Burke says this upbringing kept her connected to her Black and musical heritage. “What’s a choir without a beautiful musical community?”

Passion and Wisdom

The soloist is slowly trickling out of her shell, unclutching her fist into an open palm and drawing into the air as if to animate the notes. After a few lines from her, Burke and the choir flare up a quick encouraging applause.

“Keep going, keep going!” Sinclair-Anderson cheers.

“I love having them as my professors,” Shay Lee says, referring to Sinclair-Anderson and Burke. “They ooze passion and wisdom.”

Earlier, Lee approached Burke during the break to describe a car crash he recently walked away from with nothing but a few bruises.

Sharing this kind of personal information isn’t uncommon. Burke says some students who have, for example, suffered from injuries or the passing of loved ones still find their way to this room. In her 17 years of teaching the gospel choir courses, low attendance was virtually never an issue. Today, like other Tuesdays between 4:30 and 7:30 p.m., gospel choir is the nest that Burke has heard many students call home.

“We’re so much stronger together than apart,” Sinclair-Anderson says. “When I see York’s choir singing their hearts out, and there’s Black and White and Chinese and Indian, and everybody is all together, I see them stronger together as a family. I love it; I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

For almost two minutes, the soloist owns the spotlight. Burke leans forward, seemingly magnetized by her canorous vocals.

Then, the rest of the choir joins in on beat, in unison to Sinclair-Anderson’s cue.

“In the right hands, music can be a tool for building pathways and sharing culture,” Burke says.

But when musicians intend to perform music outside of their own culture, she says research and working with practitioners of that genre will help them “get it right.” She frequently lends a helping hand to musicians, even beyond the choir, who seek her expertise.

For example, she had worked with Amy Hillis, 32, who’s an assistant professor of music at York and a professional violinist. Hillis is one-half of meagan&amy, a Montreal-based piano-violin duo from Saskatchewan; they partnered up in 2011 and periodically tour across Canada.

meagan&amy recorded “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child” by Florence Price, an African American composer, at Chapelle historique du Bon-Pasteur in February 2021, a venue in Montreal they had booked. Two out of four cameras show Hillis drawing her bow over the 1902 Enrico Rocca violin, a “generous loan” from the Canada Council for the Arts’ Musical Instrument Bank.

The duo wanted to produce and upload more videos of pieces by racialized composers. While this arrangement was created for violin and piano, the original is an African American spiritual, likely from the 1800s.

Aside from conducting her own research, Hillis had been previously immersing herself in spirituals with Burke, whom she asked for the history and meaning behind Price’s pieces.

“As someone who is engaging with different types of art from different communities, I think it’s really important to not do it by yourself,” Hillis says. “Do it through research that’s community engaged.”

“I realize I’m in a very privileged position,” Burke says. “My roots are deep in Canada. I have a Canadian perspective, but I also see the world through the lens as a Black woman, which is different, especially in academia.”

A 2018 report by the Canadian Association of University Teachers found that only 2% of university teachers in 2016 were Black, up by 0.2% from 2006.

Burke is grateful when people ask her about cultural appreciation, which she says happens “all the time.” Although some come to her with anxiety, Burke tells them that asking is “already half the battle.” The issue is when people don’t ask, going “guns a-blazing thinking they know everything.”

The power of music, she says, is its potential to uplift and connect people, which is common at York.

Back in the rehearsal space, Sinclair-Anderson undulates her arms at a graceful tempo, gathering the air with her palms and casting commands.

She invigorates the choristers to express with their bodies, not just their voices. They listen, harmonizing and swaying as one mellifluous unit under the rows of light from the high ceiling.

Burke watches the choir with eyebrows lined in concentration.

“Yes! Come on!” she shouts, bobbing her head to a crescendo as the choir continues rolling lyrics off their tongues.

When the song ends, the room erupts into two lengthy applauses: a choir-wide celebration and another for the young soloist who quickly rejoins the bigger group with a sweeping grin.

Sinclair-Anderson bestrews the choir with encouragement and advice, taken with nodding heads. After five minutes, they break off into the next song.

Meanwhile, a smiling Burke is quietly slipping out of the room through open doors, hearing the music reverberate down the halls.

Freelance writer Royce Luu can be reached at https://sites.google.com/view/royceluu.

Humanize the Hood

Published on by paulmclaughLeave a comment

Lawrence Heights, a neighbourhood in northwest Toronto, can be a dangerous place to live. One young man hopes to change that.

By Ryan Fernando | Featured image courtesy of Serge van Neck via Unsplash

On August 24, 2010, Dejazmatch James and 10 friends shot hoops at a net owned by a neighbour in Lawrence Heights, an area in the northwest of Toronto, much to the chagrin of the elderly Asian man who lived next door.

‘‘Hey, it’s 3 o’clock in the morning. You guys go inside!’’ the man said.

‘‘Shut up! We’re not going inside,’’ a few of James’ friends said as they played for at least another hour before heading home.

Later, the teenagers spent the balmy and sunny afternoon and early evening on one of the group’s front yards. Summer break was drawing to a close and James would soon return as a senior at Sir Sandford Fleming Academy, a public high school in Lawrence Heights.

As James and his comrades lolled about, a car skulked towards them. The teens immediately became alert. ‘‘Whenever we see a car drive, we literally stop whatever we’re doing and we just pay attention,’’ James says. ‘‘We start asking, ‘Who’s that? Why are they driving so slow? Has anyone seen that car before?’ All these paranoid questions. And sometimes, the reality is that the person driving the car is just a taxi driver or a lost Uber driver looking for a number. But sometimes it’s exactly what we’re anticipating.’’ 

When the car stopped, a man stepped out. At first, it seemed like he was heading straight towards the teens, but he veered to his right and started shooting his gun. Some of the teens ducked for cover, others retreated inside a friend’s house. But James and a Somali friend, Bashiir (a pseudonym), vaulted over a fence and ran as fast as they could away from the commotion. Running for their lives, their calves burning, James and Bashiir made a beeline for the latter’s house. Bashiir’s mother, having heard the shots, quickly ushered the boys inside. 

‘‘Come! Run in here!’’

James hyperventilated from exhaustion and pulsating adrenaline as he continued to hear gunshots. As it was Ramadan and almost time to break fast, Bashiir’s mother offered James samosas to calm his nerves, and he graciously wolfed down the fried pastries. Ten minutes later, when the shots ceased, James and his friends, all unharmed, reconvened at their friend’s yard where they bantered about who ran the fastest. But then, one of them spotted a body on the ground a few yards away. They found a young black man whom they hadn’t noticed earlier. His head had been pierced by a bullet and he was bleeding profusely. 

The young man, 24-year-old Randy Malcolm, was rushed to the hospital in critical condition but later died. A security camera near the shooting captured the suspect, a black man dressed in an oversized white T-shirt, running and getting into a Nissan Maxima. At home the following day, seeing the news of Malcolm’s death on TV, James’ dark brown eyes brimmed with tears and his usual ear-to-ear smile curled into a frown.

“Toronto police often attribute shootings to animosity between city gangs, who typically form as a response to socio-economic troubles.”

This turbulent episode from a decade ago is one of many instances on now 27-year-old James’ ever-growing list of experiences with gun violence in Lawrence Heights, a diverse neighbourhood in North York. This area is where James spent years meticulously planning at which hours he should go out and what routes to take, choosing his friends wisely, looking over his shoulder, flinching at loud noises or sudden movements and mourning deaths in his neighbourhood. 

Despite being located near Toronto’s famously bustling Yorkdale Shopping Centre, Lawrence Heights is beset by poverty, drug trafficking and gun violence. In 2020, Toronto police reported 449 firearm shootings, resulting in 39 people dead and 174 injured. 

Toronto police often attribute shootings to animosity between city gangs, who typically form as a response to socio-economic troubles. ‘‘It’s about the convergence of poverty, neighbourhood, education, socioeconomic disadvantage, life choices, options, mentorship and safety,” Carmela Murdocca, an associate professor in the Department of Sociology of York University, says. “These factors in our city lead people to being more susceptible to violence as they are more susceptible to social determinants of health.’’

Marcell Wilson understands how such complex factors contribute to gun violence. The tall and heavyset 42-year-old (195 cm, 99 kg) is the founder of the outreach organization, One By One, and the former leader of the Looney Toons gang, a Toronto offshoot of the Bloods gang. Of mixed race, Wilson grew up in the community housing complex of Swansea Mews in southwest Toronto near Parkdale. 

“Wilson believes that too many programs are futile if they don’t meet the needs of communities and are operated by people with no personal experience with marginalization.”

Wilson first experienced gun violence at a young age. While he was play-wrestling with friends, a short Jamaican man in his early twenties, only a few centimetres taller than Wilson, challenged the nine-year-old to wrestle him. When Wilson grabbed the man by the waist, he felt something hard and metallic and stopped immediately. The man laughed, pulled out a handgun and shot several clapping rounds above the kids’ heads. Wilson didn’t play outside for a month. 

Growing up in poverty and in a troubled single-parent household, Wilson ran away from home, became homeless at 13, found himself in parts of downtown where he met other lost, abandoned or abused kids. ‘‘There were a lot of Neo-Nazi skinhead groups in this era in the early nineties, like the Heritage Front, who’d walked in big groups of 50 in the city and beat up minorities,’’ Wilson says. ‘‘Us kids were terrified and made our own protection groups. And that’s how the ball started rolling.’’ 

As an activist with direct experience of violence, Wilson says that when addressing gun violence in marginalized neighbourhoods such as Lawrence Heights, it’s imperative to understand the unique circumstances of communities and their inhabitants. Wilson believes that too many programs are futile if they don’t meet the needs of communities and are operated by people with no personal experience with marginalization. ‘‘Contact is one of the hugest things,’’ he says. ‘‘The city pays all these people for community engagement, who make 90 grand a year with benefits, but have never talked to a community member their whole goddamn life. Even getting into a position where you can have a conversation is just half of the battle.’’

Jahtara Hutchinson-Bobb, a case worker at the Jane and Finch Community and Family Centre, shares the same sentiment. ‘‘You can have a hundred programs, but if they’re not meeting the needs that people want, they’re useless,’’ she says. ‘‘It becomes tricky when you don’t represent the people you’re trying to offer service to because they’re less inclined to accept.’’ 

It’s no small wonder, therefore, that people wouldn’t be thrilled at Mayor John Tory’s proposed $6-million budget for anti-violence. In response to such initiatives that promise big bucks but little effectiveness, Louis March, founder of the Zero Gun Violence Movement says, ‘‘You can’t design programs by bureaucrats and politicians. The chance of success is like buying a lottery ticket. We don’t trust the academics or politicians to come up with the right answers if they do not engage the community. The first word in community safety is community, not police or politicians.’’ Dejazmatch James agrees.

James, a black male of Jamaican descent, has a lean, athletic frame and short, kinky hair. Articulate, outspoken and amiable, he wears his beaming white smile as if he never grew up in the rough Lawrence Heights neighbourhood. He understands the importance of good programs in marginalized communities because basketball, while he was growing up, helped him avoid the dangers of the streets. It opened the door to him attending George Brown College on a basketball scholarship, which further led James to Algoma University, where he graduated cum laude. 

James says that basketball helped him develop skills in leadership and teamwork, taught him hard work and tempered his occasional unruly attitude. ‘Silvia Skoutarou, a case worker at the Jane and Finch Community and Family Centre, concurs. “How many times have I heard people say, ‘Sports saved my life,’” she says. “These things build confidence. You see your skillset. You see yourself contributing to a community. You’re literally a part of a team.’’ 

James’ positive experiences with sports and post-secondary education, as well as having been exposed to gun violence, have helped him understand the inner workings and sentiments of his community. These factors have galvanized him into becoming an ambassador of change in Lawrence Heights, where the second youngest of working-class Jamaican-born parents has lived since his birth in 1993.

James’ father worked in a store that sold West Indian food products and he undertook intermittent factory jobs to make ends meet, while James’ mother remained home to take care of him and his six siblings. For the James family, it was either having a home of their own in a neighborhood fraught with danger or languishing on the streets. ‘‘It’s kind of like, pick your poison and this is the poison we pick, the slow dying poison,’’ says James. 

On top of contending with financial struggles, several people in James’ community, including Malcolm and others James knew personally, have either been shot at, incapacitated or killed in shootings. James lost three close friends, 18-year-old Abdikarim Abdikarim in 2008—‘‘Name so nice, mama named him twice,’’ says James, 24-year-old Marvin Engelbrecht in 2012 and 22-year-old Said Ali in 2017. 

James also recalls walking to his factory job in 2012 during his last year of high school and stopping to chat with a 38-year-old neighbour, Paul Fitzgerald Benn.

‘‘Where you headed?’’ asked Benn.

‘‘To work. I’m saving up for a basketball tour in Europe this summer,’’ James said.

‘‘Keep it up,’’ Benn said. ‘‘I’m happy to see that the path you’re on is different from the conventional Lawrence Heights life.’’ That was the last time James spoke to Benn. He was shot dead the following day.

Even when James was studying Community Economic and Social Development at Algoma University, in Sault Ste. Marie, the impact of gun violence remained with him. James’ instincts once kicked in when he was sitting on a bench in a courtyard with a white friend. Upon seeing a black kid running, James immediately shot upwards, fixing to run away. Then he realized, ‘‘Wait, I’m in Sault Ste. Marie.’’ 

‘‘What was that?’’ James’ white friend asked.

‘‘Honestly, if I was in Toronto, whoosh! I would’ve ran.’’

In 2020, his final year at Algoma University, James wrote as his thesis: The Qualitative Impacts of Gun Violence in Lawrence Heights. This capstone research paper focused on, and included, the testimonies of residents from Lawrence Heights and the effects of gun violence on their life. James would be up at 4 a.m. writing in the computer lab, rivulets of tears hitting the keyboard as he remembered those murdered in his neighbourhood. 

‘‘People who’ve passed away before, their energy lives on with me forever,’’ he says. ‘‘Whenever I do certain things, I think of them. Even my thesis on the impacts of gun violence, I did it because of the life that I lived and the people I’ve come across and lost.’’

James’ paper, which received an A, showed him that he had been mum for too long. After graduating in 2020, James became a member of the Lawrence Heights Changemakers, a grassroots organization comprised of Lawrence Heights residents with diverse skillsets, and parents who had lost a child to gun violence. 

On September 22, 2020, James coordinated a safety walk where he, Marcell Wilson, Louis March, Councillor Mike Colle and Lawrence Heights residents marched through Lawrence Heights to address gun violence, the lack of youth programming and the need for improved safety measures, like better speed bumps, lighting and cameras. Wearing a gray mask, James led the procession and chanted into a megaphone: ‘‘Humanize the hood.’’ 

Yusuf Ali, a high school friend of James, says, ‘‘There’s a stigma in our neighbourhood that we’ll only either be rappers, ballers or gangbangers, but Dejazmatch exceeded all of those stigmas. We needed someone that grew up in our community and understands our community to talk about our community.’’ 

Two weeks later, on October 8, 2020, at 7:30 a.m., James awoke to three missed calls from a coworker at a summer youth program called 37 Kids. Anxious, he texted her, ‘‘Hey, sorry I missed your call.’’ No sooner had the text been sent, the coworker called him.

‘‘They got Shane. They killed him,’’ she said.

‘‘You mean Shane right across the street from me?’’

‘‘Yes, they killed him last night.’’ 

Hours before, he had heard news of a shooting in Lawrence Heights, but he didn’t imagine the victim was 33-year-old Shane Stanford, a close friend and brotherly figure to James who worked as a personal trainer, camp counselor and aquatics specialist at a downtown YMCA. 

After coming home from the YMCA, Stanford was shot dead on the night of October 7 in his Acura sedan. Despite the arrests of two suspects and a search for a third, the motive for Stanford’s murder remains unclear; police believe he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

After weeks of mourning and talking to media outlets about Stanford, a fatigued James cancelled another safety walk that was to happen on November 6. After conferring with Councillor Colle about honouring Stanford, James created a petition on change.org to name a future park in Lawrence Heights after his friend. It garnered over 2,000 signatures.

‘‘We don’t know why these things senseless acts of violence [happen], but all I can say is that I’m taking the strength from [Shane’s passing] and I’m going use it to become the best person I can be,’’ says James. ‘‘We got to keep looking at the positivity and realize if we’re still here, we’re here for a reason, and that’s what keeps us going, what keeps us hopeful and resilient and praying that one day things will change around here.’’

Ryan Fernando, a Toronto freelance writer, can be reached at fernandoman@live.ca

A Hero Among Us

Published on by J.writesLeave a comment

Retired psychotherapist Louisa Lai continues to help those in need.

By Julia Vaiano | Featured image courtesy of Orna Watchman via Pixabay | Updated April 21, 2020

 Her buzzing iPhone stirs 68-year-old Louisa Lai, a retired Toronto psychotherapist, from her peaceful slumber. She rolls over and retrieves her burgundy-rimmed glasses. She puts them on and sees that it’s 11 p.m.

She’s greeted by a flood of incoming texts from a patient, Emma (not her real name; she asked not to be identified for privacy reasons), saying she can’t sleep because of how anxious she feels. She asks if Lai would be willing to speak with her. Without hesitation, Lai answers Emma’s late-night call because her principle is that whenever someone approaches her for assistance, no matter what time, she will never refuse them.

Although no longer officially practicing at the time, Lai took Emma on as a patient in 2012 and has continued to support her ever since. Since then, Emma has maintained a close relationship with Lai and refers to her as being more than a counsellor but a true friend and “unconditional support.” 

“Louisa is an angel sent from heaven,” says Emma, “and with her, I learned to see things from a psychological, spiritual and emotional point of view with great compassion, love, wisdom and professionalism.”

Lai is not only a guiding light in Emma’s life but in that of many others. Since her early retirement in 2009, she has decided to see patients, without charge, based on referrals from people in the Greater Toronto Area and direct referrals from Catholic priests. She provides free therapy to people of all ages who are dealing with mental illness and personal problems.

Lai’s decision to give free therapy is a remarkable act of kindness because not everyone across Canada, who is affected by mental illness can receive the help and proper treatment they require because of how expensive therapy sessions are. The average cost of a private therapy session in Canada ranges between $125 to $175.

According to a report published by Statistics Canada, “In 2018, roughly 5.3 million people in Canada mentioned they needed some help for their mental health.” However, 1.1. million people did not receive assistance. . One of the most reported reasons was the cost.

Lai recognizes such a dire need. This petite woman has pin-straight, raven-black hair that rests just below her jawline.  She always wears a smile despite growing up in a household filled with great sadness. Unshakeable grief loomed over her family for years because of the double suicide of her grandparents that resulted from the severe persecution they faced from the communist Chinese government before she was born.

 “Growing up with such a dark cloud hanging over my family made me perceptive to when other people around me were feeling upset or were grappling with something,” she says. “And because I was so observant, I felt like I developed a huge need to want to help people who were struggling.”

Even though Lai felt a natural calling to help people, in 1971, at age 18, she decided to enroll at the University of Kansas to major in biology. After experiencing a personal crisis, she says, “I realized at that moment in time that my true purpose in life was to help those around me.”

She switched to psychology in the spring of 1973. After she graduated, she studied clinical psychology at the University of Western Ontario where she was one of seven students admitted into this highly competitive program. After graduating in 1977, she returned to her home in Hong Kong and found employment as a clinical psychologist at the Hong Kong Christian Service.

Lai always had a desire to better the community. That led her to start a pilot project called Infant Stimulation and Parent Effectiveness Training Program in Hong Kong, which she  provides for free.

Lai spent three years overseeing the project, which identified developmental issues in children from ages zero to three. A mother and child, for example, would come in once a week, and a social worker and nurse would evaluate the child and decide if they were ready to move on to the next set of exercises that involved improving their gross motor, fine motor, language, cognition, and social skills.

The program celebrated its 40th anniversary in 2018 and is now used all across Hong Kong. Yet the media coverage and massive success of the program is not what ultimately pleases Lai.

“I’m beyond proud of the program because of how many children’s lives it continues to change,” Lai says. Her warm, chocolate brown eyes shine with passion. “When I witnessed how much this program helped the children, it brought me the greatest joy because I helped make a positive and profound difference.”

In 1995, Lai started a private practice called Ivy Health Services in Scarborough. The practice was dedicated to helping patients with post-traumatic stress disorder that resulted from serious car accidents. Many times, Lai would see patients beyond the allotted hour session, even up to two to three hours, yet only charged them for one.

“Seeing a patient for an hour wasn’t working because as soon as a patient and I were onto something, the hour would end. I could tell that it was incredibly frustrating for the patient, and I couldn’t turn someone away who needed my help,” she says. 

 The year 2020 marks the 11th year of Lai’s retirement, yet she continues to devote much of her time to helping people. She typically makes sure to check in in on all her patients by exchanging daily text messages, and that has not changed during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Lai is still speaking to her patients and makes herself available for daily phone calls. “I’m happy to help and support all my patients, especially during these scary and uncertain times,” she says.

Real-life heroes don’t fly in the sky with a billowing red cape trailing behind them;   instead, they can be seen sitting right in front of us. Emma couldn’t agree more when she says, “I consider Louisa to be a real-life hero, and I really can’t thank her enough.”

Julia Vaiano, a Toronto freelance writer, can be reached at aianojulia@gmail.com

Under the Roof of Africa

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How a Whitby woman is helping a community 12,000 km away.

By Charlotte MacDowell | Featured image courtesy of Pixabay | Updated April 21, 2020

Louise Berube’s gentle nature is contrasted by her platinum blonde hair, tinted pink lips and eyes boxed by thick black glasses. She seems to always be smiling and have a black coffee in hand.

Berube grew up in 1960s Oshawa, a town driven by the working class and General Motors. Like many of her peers, her first job was delivering newspapers on her bike. Her main stop was the local retirement home, Hillside Manor, now called Hillside Estates. She always went the extra mile, often stopping to chat with the residents or keep them company while they ate their breakfast.

About 60 years old, she now lives in Whitby and drives her cream-coloured Mini Cooper five days a week to Toronto for work at Nabs charity. At Nabs they are dedicated to the well-being of those working in the marketing, media and communications industry in Canada, as many people in the communications field have a poor work-life balance and suffer from stress. Nabs offers them tools to cope with mental health issues as well as financial support, should anybody suffer trauma or injury.

Nabs is a completely self-funded charity, so it uses creative ways to raise money. In 2015 a team of 18, including Berube, traveled to Tanzania to fundraise for Nabs. Their goal was to climb the highest peak in Africa, Mount Kilimanjaro, often referred to as the Roof of Africa. All 18 employees summited. It was such a success that the following year Berube and a team of 10 ventured to Mount Kilimanjaro again with the same goal and, once again, they summited.

During the climbs, Berube got to know her guide, Elias. Elias was struggling to support his wife Costansia and their three children. With Berube’s help, Elias was able to become a farmer. She then realized that vanilla was going to be grown in the Kilimanjaro region for the first time. This was a major opportunity because vanilla is more valuable than gold as it is so hard to come by. Berube helped Elias make connections and now he is on track to be one of the top 10 vanilla farmers in the area. Elias has worked tirelessly, hand-building greenhouses and tending to his vanilla plants. In a few months, the first 100 plants will bloom and be ready to sell.

On a detour in Nairobi, the capital of Kenya, Berube met Jennifer, a young woman selling handmade jewellery, bags and shoes. After talking with Jenifer, she was motivated to help with her business. She took Jennifer’s business card and contacted her when she returned to Canada. Jennifer sent Berube crates filled with product. Impressed by the amount Jennifer had sent her, Berube looked through her contacts and began selling. She sold to friends, family and associates; eventually the stock was gone. Berube was able to send $30,000 back to Jennifer to buy land for a school for orphans.

Now, Berube is helping to refurbish Kyomu Primary School in the town of Moshi, in the region of Kilimanjaro. The school’s many needs are things Canadians take for granted. Desks are falling apart, and walls are barren and have chipped paint. The teaching supplies are limited to a beaten-up chalk board and not much is given to make learning a fun and interactive experience.

For lunch, students are served beans cooked in a large pot. There are not enough dishware for each child, so they share. This is a major aspect of the school Berube hopes to change. She wants to collect enough dishes for everyone and, at the same time, add more protein to the lunches. According to Berube, to feed a single student lunch for a month would cost $8.96 Canadian.

Loraine Brown, Berube’s friend of 10 years, has joined her on her journey as they both share a love of Africa and the people who live there. “Louise follows projects through.” Brown says, “Visitors come and see the dire straits they are in and say they will help. Then when they get back to their western culture lives, they forget. Louise commits to a project and sticks with it. She is totally committed to making a better world for this community and the children in Africa.”

Berube hopes to have the school completed in the next three years. Her next steps are reaching out to larger corporations who could help. She is offering to name each classroom after the companies who help with restoration. She has also received support from local dentists who have donated toothbrushes and toothpaste for students and teachers of the school.

Last September, Berube and Brown went to Moshi to visit the school, bringing gifts for the students. As they trekked the dirt path to the school Berube was determined to change, they were met by a solemn young boy. He was a student and escorted the two women the rest of the way to the run-down school. Upon their arrival, 300 children applauded them. Children sang them songs and each student proudly wore a Timmies jersey and waved a mini Canadian flag. The children played with the soccer and basketballs they had brought them. For these students, school is slowly but surely becoming a place of fun and enrichment.

Berube and Brown hope to return to Moshi in the fall with supplies to refurbish the school. Sadly, COVID-19 might delay their annual trip. Regardless of the obstacles that Berube faces, she is determined to enrich the lives of the students at Kyomu Primary School.

Charlotte MacDowell, a Toronto freelance writer, can be reached at charlotterosemac@gmail.com.

Reading the Tarot

Published on by J.writes2 Comments

What was supposed to be a fun evening involving tarot cards surprisingly leads to some interesting insights.

By Shannon Attard | Featured image courtesy of Alina Vilchenko via Pexels | Updated April 20, 2020

Last March, 22-year-old Adynn Montgomery skips to the mahogany table with a bottle of Girls’ Night Out Strawberry Sangria in her right hand and a worn-down pack of tarot cards in her left. It’s the 22nd birthday of our best friend Marena Phillips and I’m staying for the weekend at the place she and Adynn share in Peterboroug. As we sit at a mahogany table, Adynn says: “You know what we should do? I should give you guys a tarot reading to hone my skills.” Marena and I roll our eyes and smirk to each other while Adynn pours the pink fizzy substance into three red Solo cups. Adynn has always been intrigued with tarot cards and has played around with many different divination practices. Little did I know, this tarot reading would change my perspective on how I view life.

Adynn removes the tarot cards from their paper casing. They are slightly larger than normal playing cards.

Adynn, who has done this many times before, introduces Marena and I to this divination tool to kill some time before we go out for a night of pointless intoxicated fun. Surprisingly, along the way I learn a few things about these tempting pieces of thick paper, despite my Catholic family’s opposition to tarot cards.

Sitting at the table in Peterborough, I experience both excitement and an eerie forbidden desire. I was raised in a Catholic household and went to church at least once a month until high school. My dad made his opposition to tarot cards clear after I had told him, one time, that Adynn dabbles with them.

“Tarot cards aren’t a game. It’s spirits that are telling you which cards to choose so you’re basically summoning spirits,” my dad said, “and you don’t know if those spirits you’re summoning are evil or not.” This made me want to receive a tarot card reading even more. We can call it a forbidden desire.

In Peterborough, I take a sip of my sangria and we all laugh as I tell them what my dad had said. Our boots huddle by the front door, soaked in spring’s mud and rain. Adynn shuffles the cards and spans them out in front of me like a tantalizing outstretched fan. “Pick three cards that you feel are calling to you,” she says. “The first one you pick will represent your past, the second is your present, and the third one will be for your future.” I run my fingers along the fanned-out cards and pull out three. Adynn pushes the rest of the cards away from us.

Marena giggles. “This should be funny Adynn, because you don’t know anything about Shannon’s past. This is like the ultimate test on your reading skills.”

Adynn flips over the card I picked for my past. It says “DEATH” across the bottom. A skeleton in silver armor sits on a white horse while a bony arm holds a black flag with a white flower splattered on its center. The Death card usually signifies new beginnings, not an actual death. This card focuses on the transformation a traumatic experience can bring.

“Not necessarily a death, but similar to a death,” Adynn assures us, after seeing our furrowed brows at the word DEATH. “You suffered a great loss during your childhood that affected you deeply and experiences from that have mended you into the person you are and will become.” I look down at the table as she says this. I thought of my broken family unit. My parents got divorced when I was 12. It changed how I view people and handle relationships.

“You had one special person in your life who was always constant and there for you,” Adynn says. My eyes dart towards Marena’s ocean blue eyes. She and I were inseparable since meeting in the first grade.

“Tarot cards aren’t a game. It’s spirits that are telling you which cards to choose so you’re basically summoning spirits.”

Flashback to elementary school where days were filled with officials in courtrooms and strangers trying to tell me to pour my feelings out to them, leaving me hollow and quietly holding everything in. I would always be dropped off by either my dad or my mom, depending on which weekend it was, at Marena’s comforting home where we would play flashlight tag in her yard at night with her younger sister Melanie. This helped whisk my family drama away in the wind behind me.

At the table, Marena nods her head. “Actually, that was pretty weird and accurate about your parent’s divorce,” she says.

 “See I told you guys I’m psychic!” Adynn pouts her glossy lips making me and Marena tipsily throw our heads back as we laugh. We brush off her insight because Adynn is the type of friend who knows what is going on in your life without you having to tell her.

For example, in September 2018, Adynn and I were sitting on my mom’s burgundy couch catching up on each other’s lives as we had not seen each other for three months because of our busy schedules with school. Adynn fluffed her hands through her espresso-colored bangs and said, “What’s your mother’s real name?” 

I laughed out loud. My mother had recently had to legally change her name on her identification cards because they had not matched. “That’s very weird,” I said. “It’s Sofia, but she just went to legally change it to Sophie.” 

In Peterborough, Adynn smiles to herself before she takes a celebratory sip from her Solo cup. She used to tell me before: “One of the reasons I like giving tarot card readings is because I like seeing people’s reaction when I give them a reading. Whether it’s spot-on or completely off.”

Adynn’s mother and grandmother both went to psychics, and they performed tealeaf and palm readings during family gatherings. At one family dinner, her grandmother lifted Adynn’s teacup from the table when everybody finished eating. Gently twirling the ceramic mug, she squinted at the tealeaf remnants at the bottom. “A star is a sign of good luck,” she said.

Adynn smiles when she thinks back on this because she felt happy when her grandmother told her she would have good luck. Adynn started researching more about Wicca because of her family’s influence and stumbled upon the process called divination.

Divination is one of the primary practices used by shamans, seers, priests, sorcerers, wiccans, and witches. It refers to the practice of fortune telling or to gain insight into the unknown by supernatural forces.

Wicca is a modern pagan religion, developed in England during the first half of the 20th century. There are many different aspects to the religion’s core structure and it’s constantly evolving over time. It has a number of different lineages, known as traditions, each consisting of their own specific structure of religious beliefs, traditions, and practices. There are over 50 ways divination can be practiced, the earliest originating in the medieval period, including Norse runes, crystal balls, tealeaf readings, pendulums, numerology, and tarot cards. 

Back in Peterborough, Adynn flips over the second card I picked. The words “THE FOOL” are written on the bottom, under a man whose head is tilted back to gaze at the sky. A white dog does the same to his right. This card explains new beginnings, being inexperienced, and gives hope for what is to come.

“You are living a sheltered kind of life right now, but it will get more exciting. It’s not time yet, but soon, when you start to open up and let people past the walls you build up around yourself life will change,” Adynn says.

“That is also very true,” says Marena. She’s usually a skeptic about these sorts of things. A chill runs down my spine at how weirdly accurate these observations are, and how closely connected they are to each other: both talking about new beginnings.

Sarah believes there are forces that can be derived from the universe and doing spells and divination processes are like manipulating these forces for selfish desires. 

Adynn flips the third card: the future. It is the Seven of Wands, depicting a man awkwardly lifting one of the seven wooden sticks that surround him on the ground. This card symbolizes challenges, resistance, and obstacles up ahead, continuous fight, and never giving up.

“You may be thinking how your desired career is hard to reach, but through hard work and sacrifice you can achieve it. It won’t happen overnight. It will take some time,” Adynn says. 

“Not your best,” Marena giggles. “That sounded very cookie-cutter. Everyone says that about the future.” Adynn rolls her eyes in response.

Marena combs her hands through her silky blonde hair. “Okay girls, let’s get the Smirnoff bottle,” she says. Adynn and I smile in agreeance. Adynn collects the cards while Marena and I saunter towards the fridge with our empty cups in hand.

Later that night, after having been on the town for a few hours, I sit in the car with Adynn and Marena on our way back to their place. Looking out as the trees blur pass the windshield, I realize how general Adynn’s statements were. Tired from the night’s events, I sleepily find myself reflecting on Adynn’s reading from earlier in the evening. The cards are supposed to read me, when in reality I ended up reading the tarot cards. I started thinking about how I would get chills when Adynn would say something that was accurate and spot on. After reflecting on the accurate statements and hearing them over and over in my head, I realized there is nothing creepy about it. In fact, Adynn’s words were simplistic in meaning but I inferred them to mean so much more.

Since I’ve gained more knowledge about divination tools, I see that people use variations of divination without even realizing it: flipping a coin to decide a course of action or having a lucky number, to name two.

The practice of divination, I’ve learned,  has existed in every historical period. In Mesopotamian times, astrology – a divination practice – was one of the first sophisticated forms of divination. The Greeks had oracles who told the future. In 1000 BC the Chinese also had an oracle, “I CHING,” consisting of yarrow sticks. 

An interesting aspect about tarot cards is they weren’t originally used as magical tools until the late 18th century. In northern Italy during the late 14th century, the cards were used in a game called tarocchi. A man named Antoine Court de Gebelin argued the symbols on the tarot cards contained the hidden wisdom of a god called Thoth. According to author-illustrator Robert Michael Place’s 2009 book, The Vampire Tarot, in 1785 Jean-Baptiste, a French occultist, was the first professional in history to be known to use tarot cards as divination tools.

Sarah (not her real name; she didn’t want to be identified), a 48-year-old licensed consulting hypnotist in Toronto, has explored many of the different Wicca practices. This includes many versions of tarot cards. She stopped practicing Wicca because she started feeling emotionally drained after conducting tarot card readings. “Whether you work with nature [or] Egyptian gods, there’s still magic and manipulating energy to get a result,” she says. Sarah believes there are forces that can be derived from the universe and doing spells and divination processes are like manipulating these forces for selfish desires. 

Bruce Lipton, an American development biologist, was born in New York in 1944. Lipton is best known for supporting the theory that gene influence can be altered, via epigenetics, by environmental factors. Epigenetics is the study of changes in organisms caused by the gene’s expression rather than a change in the genetic code. In his research, he explains how the mind is powerful and how belief is power. Lipton, a renowned cell biologist, in his book The Biology of Belief, published in 2005, discovers: “The biochemical effects of the brain’s functioning show that all the cells of your body are affected by your thoughts.”

The different divination tools, in actuality, are very arbitrary. For example, the reading part is the most important aspect in tarot cards. The person who is getting the tarot card reading will interpret the cards, without the help of spiritual guidance. The same card will have different meanings to each individual.

As I reflect back on the evening with the cards, I realize I disagree with Sarah and with my dad. I don’t think there were any spirits guiding my cards during Adynn’s reading. If anything, I was the one guiding my cards.

Who knew a girl’s night would turn into philosophical thoughts on life and religion that made me change my thoughts on the Catholic view that tarot cards are so evil and forbidden? I guess I read the cards correctly in one sense: new beginnings indeed.

Shannon Attard, a Toronto freelance writer, can be reached at shannonattard7@gmail.com

Women Reinventing Ink

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AN ALL-FEMALE TORONTO TATTOO SHOP IS HELPING TO COUNTERBALANCE AN INDUSTRY THAT HAS TRADITIONALLY BEEN MALE DOMINATED.

By Alexa Gregoris | Featured image courtesy of Adrian Boustead via Pexels | Updated April 20, 2020

Behind the Tinkerbell-green door of the HeartStrong tattoo shop, a small team of female artists are making a name for themselves in Toronto. The owner, Tiff Lee, created this safe space for her fellow artists and clients in the third-floor tattooing sanctuary located above the clamour of Bloor Street West.

White walls contrast the warmth of the greens and pinks of the tropical wallpaper that greet clients at the reception area. The cozy studio is embellished with a variety of art, unique to each artist’s tattooing style. One station exhibits everything pink, floral and bunny-related, framed in gold. Lee’s station is covered in skeleton portraits, a cross-stitched cartoon of death, and the art her wife does not want in their brightly decorated home. HeartStrong fuses diverse aesthetics and artists to create a collaboration of female-artistry in a seemingly unlikely profession.

HeartStrong challenges the expectations of what, to many, can be an intimidating environment, especially for women. I experienced this in early August 2017 when I walked into the Ink & Water Tattoo studio in Toronto’s west end. The modern shop was filled with bright lights that reflected off white walls, and there were plants scattered throughout room.

At first, I felt welcomed by the space; it helped to soothe my nerves, which had been building up at the anticipation of getting my first tattoo. The consultation I had with the co-owner, Michael Percherle, had gone quite well five months earlier. When I met him, he seemed kind and excited to create my tattoo. The day of my appointment, however, he was not so friendly; rather, I felt as if he saw the exercise as nothing more than a paycheque. He was rude, impatient, and patronizing about my pain.

The buzzing of the tattoo machine rang in my ears as he worked on my tattoo. I was getting an all-black pair of bloomed roses, with their stems intertwined. Although not in colour, it involved many fine details and covered the length of my rib cage on my right side. 

I experienced a bit of pain, but I was more hurt by the fact that he was ruining this long-awaited experience. Years later, I am still wary of having another male artist tattoo me, in fear of facing another bully.

The tattoo industry is still male-dominated, due to studios continuing to operate under the traditional ideals and hyper-masculine stereotypes of tattoo artists. However, with the example set by female artists and shop owners like Lee, space is being created for women to enter into a profession that has traditionally excluded them. 

“I can either get angry or laugh and move on and continue being glamourous.”

“I think I’ve always wanted to tattoo since I was very young,” says Lee, “I would [literally] draw on my peers as a child, so I think it was a pretty natural progression.” Lee initially started working towards a degree in advertising at Humber College, before she found her way back to the idea of tattooing professionally. She did quite well. “I figured out it was really corporate and somewhat soul sucking and figured I should try something that I actually really care about, rather than focusing on what my family and others would think.”

Lee has been tattooing for the last seven years, having started her career at age 21. She opened HeartStrong in October 2018, and in the short time since, Lee’s team has already found success. For example, HeartStrong won Toronto Star Readers’ Choice award for best tattoo studio in Toronto in early 2019.     

Lee chose HeartStrong as her studio’s name because she hoped it reflected her values without being too over-the-top or aggressive. She didn’t set out to become an all-female and all-queer shop. “It just so happens that the people that I get along with really well, and [who] needed a job at the time and were invested in this project, happen to be women, happen to be queer,” she says.

Lee feels that being a queer and female tattoo artist has made her experience in the industry easier in some ways. In the early years, she was the only female artist working among only male co-workers. She found that as a queer woman, the men were somewhat protective of her, due to the lack of any romantic potential. “A lot of the males that I’ve worked with were like, ‘You’re gay, you’re just one of the guys,’” she says, although she acknowledges this sense of ease is not true for all queer or all female artists in the industry.

For example, tattoo artist Lorena Lorenzo De Carvajal has been told to her face that women are ruining the industry. The 32-year-old, who was born in Cuba, is the president of Indigo Art Incorporated. She’s been working in Toronto for the last 12 years, creating pieces as colourful and bright as her own character. “Are you scared boo-boo?” she likes to say when confronted with misogyny. “I can either get angry or laugh and move on and continue being glamourous.” She presents herself as a confident woman. “A lot of the men can be feisty. If you’re a woman, you have to have a personality, be outgoing [and] strong, have a backbone, or you won’t survive. I kick ass!”

Despite the resistance from some male artist, females continue to change the way the tattoo industry operates and looks at women. However, the climb to the top can still be difficult and, sometimes, dangerous.

“I’m trying to say this in the most diplomatic way,” says Lee. “It wasn’t good, a lot of the experiences I had.” As a young woman who looked younger than her age, she often encountered a patronizing attitude. She recalls some male artists saying things such as: “‘Aw, look at you. You wanna be a tattoo artist honey?’”  

It’s not only women who find themselves treated badly within the industry. Tattoo artist Adam Spivak, a close friend of Lee’s, shed light on his own experience in unprofessional shops during his apprenticeship. Spivak, 27, has been tattooing for three years and is currently working at Wolves Throne Tattoo in Etobicoke. Spivak has a background in fine art and traditional oil painting and earned a BA in graphic design and creative advertising from Humber College. He says his skill set and education were taken advantage of during his first apprenticeship at a small street shop in downtown Toronto. “After being hired I was quickly tasked with designing and drawing all of my mentor’s tattoos and meeting with all of his consultations, being led to believe this responsibility was a great achievement. My mentor was piling all of his work on me,” he says. “I was scared to leave, fearing that I wouldn’t be given a chance at any other shop because of the competition.”

Spivak was shocked by the lack of education his mentor provided to his many apprentices. “I felt unprepared to handle the tattoo equipment, especially when pressured to prematurely tattoo walk-in clients,” he says. At one point, Spivak’s own tattoo got infected, and rather than receiving advice from his mentor, he was pressured into ignoring it even after requesting to leave for the hospital. A doctor later confirmed that Spivak’s infection had elevated to a staph infection, and if he had stayed at work for a day longer he would have had blood poisoning.

“The final straw before parting ways with this shop came from witnessing my mentor’s judgments and racist comments being directed at clients,” says Spivak. “I realized I was the only one taking my apprenticeship seriously and was being held back in the toxic environment.”

He says he wouldn’t be a tattoo artist if “it wasn’t for the female artists around me. Female artists were the ones predominantly encouraging me to enter the industry and not feel discouraged for not fitting in with the traditional tattoo personas.”

Unsafe and unprofessional client experiences are evident in the industry, including verbal, physical and sexual misconduct. As a result, many female tattoo clients have a preference for female artists. Lorenzo De Carvajal says that many women have come to her for tattoos and a sense of comfort, due to poor past experiences with male tattoo artists. “[Women] have had to leave studios with a half-done piece. It’s not right!”

“The final straw before parting ways with this shop came from witnessing my mentor’s judgments and racist comments being directed at clients.”

Having undergone an unprofessional tattooing experience, I too intend to have any future tattoos done by a female artist, or a male artist, like Spivak, who works alongside women in a respectful environment. Percherle, who did my first and only tattoo left me with a reminder of my uncomfortable experience permanently on my skin. The two roses I got tattooed on my ribs as a symbol of my sister and myself are now something I try not to look at in the mirror as they remind me of how he treated me. His fellow male co-owner, Prairie Koo, truly solidified the shop’s lack of professionalism towards female clientele through his flirtatious advances over social media prior to my tattoo appointment. Due to their behaviour, I am looking into redoing and editing my tattoo at HeartStrong to reclaim the experience I had hoped for, in the absence of sexualizing or patronizing attitudes.

Interestingly, Taylor Schmid, a tattoo artist at Golden Iron Tattoo Studio in Toronto, says that most of her difficulties with sexism in the industry have come from her male clientele, not other artists. “Things like men who’ve sexualized my job or who walked in the shop and assumed I work the front desk,” Schmid says. “That shit pisses me off.”  

Schmid has been tattooing for three years, having started her apprenticeship at age 22, and now specializes in black-ink florals. She is unsure if the tattoo industry is still male dominated. Schmid thinks the industry has made great strides in making safer spaces for vulnerable clientele. She says her love of tattooing stems in part from how safe she feels in a tattoo shop. Schmid gives thanks to her two male mentors in the industry, who have never showed her anything other than support. “They looked at me as an artist first and I’ve appreciated that.”

But Thomarya Fergus, also known as Tee Fergus, is certain the tattoo industry in Toronto is still male dominated although she thinks it’s becoming a bit more open thanks to the push for diverse representation. She feels that a greater range of diversity is being represented as a new generation of artists and clientele are taking over the industry. At age 33, Fergus is a tattoo artist in a private studio in Kensington Market. One of her favourite tattoos of her own has the words boy and girl crossed out, with the word experience above them both. She feels it defines her.

Fergus, who is black and queer, says, “At the time, there wasn’t someone that looked like me in that position and I thought it would be cool to be that figure.” Tattooing wasn’t a path that Fergus chose, but rather a plan she believes the universe had for her. Fergus knew of a small group of black men in the tattoo industry, but there seemed to be a lack of tattoo artists who were black, female and queer like her. Being one of very few, she had to work hard at the beginning to gain clients and the respect she deserved as an artist.

“I always felt that if you didn’t fit in anywhere else you could walk into a tattoo shop and no one there would judge you. It’s a beautiful thing,” Schmid says. “I just want that feeling to be protected.  If you’re a judgemental asshole there is no place for you to do this work. I want everyone to feel happy and comfortable getting tattooed.”

“Things like men who’ve sexualized my job or who walked in the shop and assumed I work the front desk.”

Greater diverse representation is a major change Fergus thinks needs to be made in Toronto’s tattoo industry at large. With more representation, Fergus says, “more people will have access, people will hopefully want to learn, and those people who have always thought about it can see that they can do it and create those spaces.” However, Fergus says it is going to take time.

Lorenzo De Carvajal believes that the future of Toronto’s tattoo industry needs to be approached with “less ego, more work, more love for the artwork, and way less pride.” She thinks that, at times, especially during Toronto tattoo conventions, male artists can get very cocky. She plays the role of a “mama goose,” reminding others to be humble and collaborate, rather than try and live a rock-star lifestyle. Lorenzo De Carvajal is adamant that artists cannot be in the tattoo business for the money. She feels that tattoo artists need to have the passion and creativity to be the person who makes their clients’ dreams a reality.

Tiff Lee’s shop and career are dreams come true for her. She’s proud to have shaped her business in a style that treats customers the way she would want for herself.  Women may still be a minority in the tattoo industry but HeartStrong is one large step towards changing that imbalance, one tattoo at a time.

Alexa Gregoris, a Toronto freelance writer, can be contacted at alexa98@my.yorku.ca

Selling Sex for Degrees

Published on by Victoria SilmanLeave a comment

SOME TORONTO FEMALE UNIVERSITY STUDENTS TURN TO ESCORTING TO PAY FOR THEIR EDUCATION.

By Anastasiya Ivanova | Featured image courtesy of Pixabay | Updated January 7, 2020

On a March afternoon, Rosie* greets a 35- year-old Russian man at the door of the two-bedroom condo in downtown Toronto where she works. “Milan” hands the 24-year-old Ryerson University student a cup of tea and a single red rose. Every Friday, he brings her tea and flowers. They kiss before he sneaks into the master-bedroom shower and Rosie positions herself on the queen-sized bed, waiting. She takes off the blanket-like patterned scarf, letting the ends of her curly black hair brush her shoulders. Without the scarf, she is half naked: her plain grey underwear contrasts against her olive skin and shapes perfectly her slim body.

After “Milan” exists the shower, for the next half an hour they have sex. For the remaining half an hour, they cuddle, talking about the strangely warm March weather, politics, and Rosie’s school.

When their time is up, Rosie watches Milan get dressed. As soon as the door behind him closes, her eyes search for the $320 he left for her on the kitchen countertop. She retrieves her phone and types “He’s gone,” to Carolyn, her manager. Then she heads to the shower. Her next client is on his way.

 Rosie has been working as an escort at Sassy Angels, one of Toronto’s prominent “incall” agencies, since 2016 when she first enrolled in psychology at Ryerson University. No one knows exactly how many Rosies there are out there, but Rosie and four escort agency managers say this student/escort phenomenon is common. (A colleague of hers at the agency, a student at York University, didn’t wish to come forward for this piece. She was afraid I would recognize her on Keele campus.) But Rosie is brave enough to battle the stigma of such a double life that silences many girls like her.

“[Escorting] is not for everyone. Many girls in the agencies do it because they want to, not because they are forced.”

It’s a mid-morning Thursday in March. Rosie smiles into her paper coffee cup at the Second Cup at Yorkdale Mall. She looks like any other freshman enthusiastic about the future: ponytail, light lipstick, black-framed glasses, pink dress shirt, and dark jeans.

“Last semester my GPA was 3.9, so I am doing fairly well in school,” she says. “I also work two jobs: my escort job and another one at a delivery company.”

But with that job, even when she worked full-time, she found she couldn’t afford her tuition and the downtown cost of living. She could have applied for OSAP. But after graduation, she would have to spend years to pay off her debt, which she compares to a down payment on a house she wants to buy one day.

But Sassy Angels isn’t her first time as an escort. At age 18, straight out of high school, Rosie began working as an independent escort in Toronto.

“While I was in high school, I always saw these girls with expensive bags and shoes. Even if they wore sweatpants and their hair was in a messy bun, they still had perfect makeup,” she recalls. “Everyone knew what they did. They didn’t have the money for all this stuff. So, I wanted to try it out, as well.”

 Rosie found work through websites like xfinder.ca and Toronto.backpage.ca. She posted photos of herself under a nickname and described the services she provided.

“I didn’t like it because I quickly grew tired,” she reflects. “I had to spend a lot of time marketing myself and screening clients.” But the way out came when at the age of 20, Rosie was diagnosed with Lupus. She spent the next four years taking care of her health.

In 2016, Rosie decided to return to escorting, but this time she didn’t want to be her own manager. So, she began working for Sassy Angels.

“I went into this for a purpose: to provide for my education,” she says. “I know I will not do this forever.”

There are about 35 well-established “incall” escort agencies in Toronto. Incall means clients visit the escorts for services at properties rented by the escort agency, usually during the late morning until early evening. This differs from “outcall” agencies, where escorts provide services to the clients at the clients’ locations during the late evening and at night. The agencies say they follow ground rules to ensure the safety of their girls and clients. 

“Unethical escort agencies conduct practices such as exploiting the girls, coercing them to perform sexual acts for free, supplying drugs, charging unfair fees, and others,” says Don, the owner of competitor Top Drawer Ladies. “Ethical escort agencies operate like a professional business that doesn’t exploit the girls, treats them with respect, and has reasonable fees for services provided.”

But the main reason Rosie chose Sassy Angels was because it is female-owned and managed. She believes women in the business are more sensitive to the safety and comfort of female escorts. For example, Rosie fully trusts Carolyn, her manager, to properly screen and match Rosie with safe and suitable clients – a confidence she doesn’t have in male agency owners.

“[Escorting] is not for everyone. Many girls in the agencies do it because they want to, not because they are forced,” says Rosie, taking a sip from her coffee. “It is about who you are, what you are comfortable with, and where your boundaries lie.”

Rosie works three or four days per week, between 11 a.m. and 6 p.m., depending on her school schedule. Carolyn’s commission is 40%, so Rosie’s weekly salary, after Carolyn’s cut, varies between $1000 and $1500 cash. A regular session with a client on average lasts between an hour and two hours.

“Escorts are required to provide clients with the girlfriend experience,” says Michael Casa, a former manager at a number of Toronto agencies. “They treat clients as if they are coming home to their girlfriends or wives.”

On a physical level, ‘the girlfriend experience’ includes oral sex without a condom and a sexual intercourse with a condom. The client can also ask for additional services, which he’s supposed to clearly negotiate with the escort.

“Pleasing the client is our priority because we heavily depend on reviews by customers,” says Rosie. “If a girl gets even one bad review, she is almost guaranteed that clients won’t come to her. Then, she has to change her nickname and sometimes even her appearance so the agency can continue to market her.”

Two of the most popular review boards for escort agencies in Toronto are Terb.cc and st411.cc. Clients often visit the boards to shop for the top or new girls in the business. There, the agencies generate numerous threads to market their girls, services, and promotions that can be decoded at https://escortdirectoryreviews.blogspot.ca/2008/10/common-abbreviations.html. Often such threads accompany promotional prices that are negotiated during booking time. But the clients are the ones who dictate the particulars of the services to the point of what the escorts wear during the session.

“I like that I experiment with my lingerie and makeup for clients,” Rosie says, blushing. “Also, I am quite a submissive girl, so I don’t mind dominant clients.”

 Rosie describes most of her clients as good-looking, middle to upper class, and many in relationships or married. She says they treat her with respect and always communicate with her their sexual preferences. But most clients prefer to be dominant during the sexual intercourse, while some want to explore their sexual fetishes. She remembers particularly the client she served last Sunday. He was a short, unpresentable man in his mid-fifties, who wanted to lick each other from head to toe.

“He was my worst experience at work,” says Rosie, giggling at the memory. “But most of my clients don’t come just for the sex. They come for the affection and attention I give them. Often, we would just talk and cuddle for most of the session’s duration.”

           

“I went into this for purpose: to provide for my education.”

Clients often get attached to Rosie and specifically book services with her. She cares for her clients, but she also knows that their relationship is strictly business. Escorts don’t see clients outside work, and clients aren’t allowed even to inquire about the girls’ real names, unless they decide to offer them.

 Rosie doesn’t seem ashamed of her work and doesn’t seem to find it immoral. But she says some of her colleagues are not comfortable with what they do.

“When I look at them at work, it is obvious. They just cannot relax,” she says. “But to do this kind of work, you have to know yourself. You have to listen to your body. You have to know your boundaries and know when to say no. I am a very open person, so I have no problem with what I do.”

The job comes with a lot of isolation. Rosie picks on her coffee cup in silence, contemplating the secret she cannot share with anyone close to her. She says she often wishes to take her mom to a nice restaurant and to pay for her sister’s college this coming September. But she can’t because she would have to explain where the money comes from.

“We are constantly worrying about covering our tracks and keeping what we do secret,” she says grimly. “A lot of the girls have anxiety because of this secrecy.”

Rosie even avoids getting into a committed relationship. Currently, she has a man in her life, but she says the only reason is because he knows about her work and supports her. The girls also support each other in their solitude.

“At work, we hang out in the apartment, and after work, we often go shopping together. We are very close,” says Rosie.

Rosie and her colleagues are also in constant communication with Carolyn. She not only manages, promotes, and connects them with financial advisors, but she also protects them. She has installed panic buttons in every room of the agency’s condos to alert her immediately if something is wrong. Rosie says she has never had to use the panic buttons, but she is more confident in dealing with clients, knowing she has the option. Also, Rosie says Carolyn requires the escorts to always use a condom and immediately fires those who do not. On the other hand, she tells them they can leave the job anytime they want, no strings attached. But the one thing that still concerns Rosie is the unclear legal nature of the business in Canada.

In June, 2014, six months after the Supreme Court of Canada struck down pre-existing laws governing prostitution, the Parliament tabled new laws through Bill C-36, making illegal the solicitation for services and the purchase of sex.

“Unfortunately, in its current form, Bill C-36 continues to disadvantage and marginalize sex workers due to its punitive attitude towards prostitution,” writes Manpreet Abrol, a Political Science post-graduate from Western University.

Escort agencies and escorts tiptoe around the law.

“As long as we charge by the hour, it is legal,” says Rosie. “But it is illegal to charge for a sexual act. Some girls take that risk, but I am not one of them.”

Casa says that generally police turn a blind eye to escort agencies, unless escorts are underage or physically abused. Otherwise, they are on their own. Rosie admits that when she or her colleagues run into a problem, such as clients stealing from them or refusing to pay the escort agency, they don’t feel comfortable reporting to the police.

 The stigma surrounding the sex industry also puts their health in danger. Dr. Kate Shannon, the Director of the Gender & Sexual Health Initiative in Vancouver, says sex workers have the highest mortality rate among workers in Canada. That’s because they don’t have access to clinics, where they can get regular routine checks, treatment, and information about their health risks.

“I try to go to my family doctor for check-ups as often as I can without raising suspicion,” says Rosie. “But I wish there were established clinics for sex workers, where we can go and check ourselves regularly without having to lie or explain ourselves.”

Rosie also worries about young women who are forced into the industry. She says these women often begin unknowingly dating pimps, who later coerce them into prostitution. She wishes that women in the sex industry weren’t as afraid to stand up for these young women and tell them that they can say no; they can set their own boundaries.

On a personal level, Rosie plans graduate and go on to specialize in childhood education.

“I want to find better ways to teach children so that everyone finds what they are good at in life,” says Rosie, her faint smile returning to her lips.

She seems to believe that goal makes her life as an escort worth it.  

“Rosie” is not her real name.*

Anastasiya Ivanova is a Toronto-based freelance writer. For inquiries, please contact her at anastasiya.ivanova@hotmail.com.