A Canadian Immigrant Story Part III
Brian Sankarsingh weaves a tale of a Canadian immigrant
It was sweltering outside, and the humidity settled in like an oppressive uninvited guest. This was not unusual for Toronto for this time of year. Smog blanketed the sky, and the mugginess was thick and overwhelming. Vijay had no air conditioning in his little room. He didn’t like calling it an apartment, because, he thought, the name of a thing should never be bigger than the thing itself. His little room was a foyer, living room, dining room, bedroom, and kitchen. Thankfully, he had his own small stand-up shower and toilet and did not have to share those amenities. The tiny window of the room was open. He had jerry-rigged a small fan right by the window to help cool the room, but the blowing hot air was stifling anyway. On particularly humid Toronto-summer days, you could cut the humidity with a knife.
Vijay sat on a milk crate stool using two milk crates stacked on each other for a makeshift table. Dinner tonight was roasted chicken and sliced bread from the Independent Grocers up the street. There was no need for plates, so he ate the chicken right from the container and mopped up the grease with bread. He hadn’t eaten all day, and this sustenance was much needed. His stomach protested at first but then happily accepted the offerings. After the first five hurried mouthfuls of bread and chicken, he was able to slow down. The hunger that had been gnawing at him all day was partly satiated. Oh, how he wanted to finish that entire chicken in one sitting; but he knew it would be prudent to save some for tomorrow. Instead, he started picking at the bones he had already mangled. Reluctantly, he licked his fingers savouring the last bit of drippings, packed the rest of the chicken and put it in the little fridge in a corner of the room.
Sauntering back to the milk crate dinner table, he reached for his journal. Lost in thought, he stared out his little window. He could see cars go by on the street outside and the smooth waters of Lake Ontario reflected the brilliant sunshine. Opening his journal, he read the last paragraph he wrote the night before.
August 12, 1988
The damn man was trying to tell me he could not pay be because he did not think I would come back to work the following week. Little did he know that, in truth, I did not plan to come back to work. But I had to make him feel I was going to. He was taking advantage of me because he knew I did not have my work permit. He said he was “doing me a favour!” This was no damn favour. I worked from 8:30 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. with only a half hour lunch and now he was saying he could not pay me. I lied and told him I needed the money for rent and if I did not pay, I would risk getting kicked out, and then definitely could not come to work. Finally, he relented and gave me the money he owed me. Still however he noted that he would be keeping back forty dollars for taxes. It was only after I’d left the damn place that it occurred to me, he did not have to pay any tax because I was being paid under the table. I shook my head and vowed never to be hoodwinked like that again.
Vijay paused and put the journal down in front of him. Reflecting on his walk back home. He could not afford to take the TTC, so every morning for that week working at the diner, he had trudged from his little room at the corner of Jamieson and King to the corner of King and Toronto streets. The walk was a little over an hour and it gave him time to think. When he lived in Trinidad, he was accustomed to walking, so this was nothing new to him. In the late 80s the Toronto neighbourhoods on his walk were still predominantly White with little pockets of non-White immigrants. These pockets were generally inclined to consist of the same types of immigrants. Little pockets of people from Trinidad, Guyana, Polish and Greek living cautiously beside each other. This was no melting pot; neither was it a multicultural mosaic. It was just segments of people cohabiting close to each other because of necessity.
Across the hall from him, was a young man from Afghanistan. He had only just moved in and was very quiet. Vijay met him on the stairs a few weeks after and introduced himself.
“Hi.”
“Hi”
“I’m Vijay, I live right opposite you.”
“Yes” he replied in a fairly thick accent, “my name if Imran.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you Imran. Seeing that we’re neighbours, feel free to knock on my door anytime.”
Imran nodded and smiled, but Vijay was not convinced he actually understood what was said. Anyway, he kept on going.
“Well, see you later then.”
Stay tuned for the continuing story…
Bio: BRIAN SANKARSINGH is a Trinidadian-born Canadian immigrant who has published several books of poetry on a wide range of social and historical themes including racism, colonialism, and enslavement. Sankarsingh artfully blends prose and poetry into his storytelling creating an eclectic mix with both genres. This unique approach is sure to provide something for everyone.
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