Chapter Seven - Part Two.
Once I had joined COPE I realized its internal set-up. COPE brought together communists and left-leaning social democrats. The communists like Bruce Yorke, Fred Wilson and communist sympathizers like Harry Rankin ran COPE because they had founded COPE back in the late 1960's. But social democrats like Libby Davies, Bruce Eriksen, Jean Swanson and the health economist Dave Schreck gave COPE a wider appeal. Unfortunately neither Jean and Dave ever got elected to city council though both of them ran for council quite a few times.
I was now launched on a 14 year involvement in the political world. While belonging to COPE, I also volunteered for the New Democratic Party. This double role caused me some tensions.
"We can't get close to COPE," Gerry Scott, one of the N.D.P.'s chief organizers told me in 1980. "They've got communists in there. We've got to keep them at arm's length." I stayed active in COPE and in the N.D.P. too. When people asked me what the N.D.P. was like I usually replied, "It's an organization like any other. There's a top, a middle and a bottom.I'm at the bottom."
At the top stood the provincial secretary and the party leader. During most of the 1970"s and into the 1980's, Dave Barrett, the charismatic former social worker from east end Vancouver led the party. A great organizer Yvonne Cocke, was the provincial secretary for some time.
In the middle of the party you found the elected Members of the Legislative Assembly and the federal Members of Parliament or M.P.'s. Near the top of the party also were trade union leaders like the head of the B.C. Federation of Labour, the heads of provincial public sector unions and the then-head of the International Woodworkers of America. Then at the bottom sit the rank-and-file N.D.P. members like myself along with the 40,000 other members of the provincial party. I was just one of tens of thousands of anonymous members who basically showed up to canvass, and lick and stuff envelopes. Nothing I or other canvassers did, really affected election results. I used to tell people, "My dad was a salesman for a cable company. I'm a salesman for social democracy."
I divided the prominent N.D.P. members into two groups:Those I knew and those I didn't. I never knew Dave Barrett, the hard driving M.L.A. from New Westminster Dennis Cocke, or Bob Williams the tough intellectual from Vancouver-East . Barrett led the N.D.P. to victory in 1972 and served as premier from 1972 to 1975. The New Westminster -based Cocke was B.C."s Minister of Health under Barrett and did a very fine job. His wife Yvonne was for a time the provincial secretary, as stated before. Then there was Bob Williams. These four people basically set the directions for the N.D.P. in the 1970's and early 1980's.
Thursday, 25 August 2016
Wednesday, 24 August 2016
Exits and Entrances: A Journey Through Many Landscapes: by Dave Jaffe. Chapter Seven Part One.
Chapter Seven - Part One
A young woman's voice with an English accent came over the phone. "This is Libby Davies from the Downtown Eastside Residents Association," she said. "Do you want to come and work with us?" It was August 1979. I wanted to do something useful. I was tired of living on welfare, having book proposals rejected and selling things on the phone. Also Eric's demands were wearing me out.
I contacted the Downtown Eastside Residents Association or DERA as it was called. I ended up working in DERA's office often praising DERA's tall thin no-nonsense leader Bruce Eriksen. I worked alongside Elizabeth 'Libby' Davies, who 20 years later became the N.D.P. Member of Parliament in Vancouver-East.
I became friends with Jean Swanson, a tall committed activist who even to-day (2016) speaks out for the homeless and the poor. A former iron-worker, the Winnipeg-born Bruce Eriksen joined me up in the progressive civic party, the Committee of Progressive Electors or COPE. Here I met long-time city councillor Harry Rankin, whose acute legal mind impressed me. His friend, Bruce Yorke, was a committed communist and economist. He was another pillar of COPE. So too was Fred Wilson, a short bearded organizer for the B.C. Communist Party. At that time, Wilson loathed the N.D.P.. and he and I sometimes clashed over policies.
The downtown eastside however, always brought me back down to reality. In those days, back in the late 1970's, the streets of the downtown eastside were chockful of poor people, working people looking for a drink in the many taverns, alcoholics down on their luck and strangers passing through the neighbourhood. Many of these people lived in run down hotels that had a tavern on the hotels' grounds floors. DERA worked hard to improve the lives of the area's residents. At the time I showed up at DERA, Bruce Eriksen and Libby Davies were continuing to press the Vancouver city government to open the Carnegie Centre as a community centre for the downtown eastside.
Eriksen had started this campaign way back in 1972. Soon he would succeed and the centre finally opened to the public in 1980. "We went back and forth so many times to city hall," Davies once recalled. "We just met so many politicians giving us the run-around.
In the end Eriksen and Davies decided to run for office too under the COPE banner. They were elected to city council. But it took time. Eriksen became a city councillor in 1980. Davies won a seat on council in 1982. Joining DERA meant joinng COPE and this for me was a learning experience.
A young woman's voice with an English accent came over the phone. "This is Libby Davies from the Downtown Eastside Residents Association," she said. "Do you want to come and work with us?" It was August 1979. I wanted to do something useful. I was tired of living on welfare, having book proposals rejected and selling things on the phone. Also Eric's demands were wearing me out.
I contacted the Downtown Eastside Residents Association or DERA as it was called. I ended up working in DERA's office often praising DERA's tall thin no-nonsense leader Bruce Eriksen. I worked alongside Elizabeth 'Libby' Davies, who 20 years later became the N.D.P. Member of Parliament in Vancouver-East.
I became friends with Jean Swanson, a tall committed activist who even to-day (2016) speaks out for the homeless and the poor. A former iron-worker, the Winnipeg-born Bruce Eriksen joined me up in the progressive civic party, the Committee of Progressive Electors or COPE. Here I met long-time city councillor Harry Rankin, whose acute legal mind impressed me. His friend, Bruce Yorke, was a committed communist and economist. He was another pillar of COPE. So too was Fred Wilson, a short bearded organizer for the B.C. Communist Party. At that time, Wilson loathed the N.D.P.. and he and I sometimes clashed over policies.
The downtown eastside however, always brought me back down to reality. In those days, back in the late 1970's, the streets of the downtown eastside were chockful of poor people, working people looking for a drink in the many taverns, alcoholics down on their luck and strangers passing through the neighbourhood. Many of these people lived in run down hotels that had a tavern on the hotels' grounds floors. DERA worked hard to improve the lives of the area's residents. At the time I showed up at DERA, Bruce Eriksen and Libby Davies were continuing to press the Vancouver city government to open the Carnegie Centre as a community centre for the downtown eastside.
Eriksen had started this campaign way back in 1972. Soon he would succeed and the centre finally opened to the public in 1980. "We went back and forth so many times to city hall," Davies once recalled. "We just met so many politicians giving us the run-around.
In the end Eriksen and Davies decided to run for office too under the COPE banner. They were elected to city council. But it took time. Eriksen became a city councillor in 1980. Davies won a seat on council in 1982. Joining DERA meant joinng COPE and this for me was a learning experience.
Tuesday, 23 August 2016
Exits and Entrances: A Journey Through Many Landscapes. By Dave Jaffe. Chapter Six, Part Four.
Chapter Six: Part Four
Eric was a man I met in the early 1970's. He gave some great advice that helped me survive.
He not only taught me how to write like a journalist and access welfare. He also taught me how to save money on clothes and books. "Go and shop at Salvation Army and other second-hand stores," he told me. "Lots of clothing there is very cheap and very good."
I follow his advice and not my dad's on this and other issues. I saved hundreds of dollars going to thrift stores. Now in my mid-30's, I shuttle from one low paid job telemarketing, then to welfare and then to short term writing gigs. I survive for the next 12 years thanks to Eric, the son of a professor now teaching in Davis, California.
Eric also did one last good thing for me. He turns me on to vegetarianism. This was something I'd thought about for a long time but until I met Eric, I'd never done much about. "Eating meat caused most of the wars of the 20th century," Aldous Huxley, one of my 1960's idols had written in effect in one of his essays. I no longer read Huxley's works and he may have been wrong on this issue.
Yet meat cost lots of money and some of the books by vegans that I read says that meat doesn't fill you with vitamins or minerals. Soon I gave up eating eggs, meat, chicken, cheese and butter. I wasn't living the affluent life, that was for sure. Still, I managed to scrape by on low wages and welfare cheques.
By now all the people I knew from Montreal, save for my father, had left my life. I met Dick Prinsep, a shrewd observer of politics and a former meteorologist. We became friends. Dick's socialist politics had outraged his bosses in government. They ended his meteorological career. yet like me, this native of Ottawa stayed in the N.D.P.
Rodger Garbutt and I met in the halls of Max Cameron High School in Powell River. Powell River is a mill town that hugs the shoreline of the Burrard Inlet , two ferry rides and a long drive distant from Vancouver. This short, gifted native of north-east England, joins me up in the N.D.P. He takes beautiful photographs, paints some great pictures, and like me enjoys the outdoors. We spend days together, exploring B.C. and rapping about politics.
"Rodger is a great teacher," one of his former students Chuck Young told me. He certainly taught me a lot. I leave teaching but often travelled to Victoria to see Rodger when he moved to Victoria and taught for many years at Claremont High School. These people and some others help me many times. Yet Eric helped me when I desperately needed help. For a few years we remain fast friends.
Eric was a man I met in the early 1970's. He gave some great advice that helped me survive.
He not only taught me how to write like a journalist and access welfare. He also taught me how to save money on clothes and books. "Go and shop at Salvation Army and other second-hand stores," he told me. "Lots of clothing there is very cheap and very good."
I follow his advice and not my dad's on this and other issues. I saved hundreds of dollars going to thrift stores. Now in my mid-30's, I shuttle from one low paid job telemarketing, then to welfare and then to short term writing gigs. I survive for the next 12 years thanks to Eric, the son of a professor now teaching in Davis, California.
Eric also did one last good thing for me. He turns me on to vegetarianism. This was something I'd thought about for a long time but until I met Eric, I'd never done much about. "Eating meat caused most of the wars of the 20th century," Aldous Huxley, one of my 1960's idols had written in effect in one of his essays. I no longer read Huxley's works and he may have been wrong on this issue.
Yet meat cost lots of money and some of the books by vegans that I read says that meat doesn't fill you with vitamins or minerals. Soon I gave up eating eggs, meat, chicken, cheese and butter. I wasn't living the affluent life, that was for sure. Still, I managed to scrape by on low wages and welfare cheques.
By now all the people I knew from Montreal, save for my father, had left my life. I met Dick Prinsep, a shrewd observer of politics and a former meteorologist. We became friends. Dick's socialist politics had outraged his bosses in government. They ended his meteorological career. yet like me, this native of Ottawa stayed in the N.D.P.
Rodger Garbutt and I met in the halls of Max Cameron High School in Powell River. Powell River is a mill town that hugs the shoreline of the Burrard Inlet , two ferry rides and a long drive distant from Vancouver. This short, gifted native of north-east England, joins me up in the N.D.P. He takes beautiful photographs, paints some great pictures, and like me enjoys the outdoors. We spend days together, exploring B.C. and rapping about politics.
"Rodger is a great teacher," one of his former students Chuck Young told me. He certainly taught me a lot. I leave teaching but often travelled to Victoria to see Rodger when he moved to Victoria and taught for many years at Claremont High School. These people and some others help me many times. Yet Eric helped me when I desperately needed help. For a few years we remain fast friends.
Monday, 22 August 2016
Exits and Entrances: A Journey Through Many Landscapes: by Dave Jaffe; Chapter Six- Part Three.
Chapter Six continued: Part Three.
During times between doing primal therapy, I started to read about fetishism. I realized that my mother or the nurses I had when very young, hadn't held me a lot. The insights that came from primal therapy and my readings, at time overwhelmed me. I sat for hours in my two tiny rooms in Kitsilano amazed at what I was learning about myself.
Yet Eric didn't only steer me into primal therapy. He turned me onto journalism and how to write easy-to-read stories. "Dave, you have to learn journalism," he told me after I"d written a piece for a local paper. "What you're writing, nobody will read. It's too academic."
On Eric's advice, I borrowed a book from the library by Rudolf Fleisch, who wrote the post-Sputnik best seller called "Why Ivan Can Read, And Johnny Can't'. Fleisch, who was born in Austria, set out in easy-to-read prose the way to writing well.
Use quotations, he said. Cut down big words into much smaller ones. Look for anecdotes that express the theme of the story you're writing. Use active verbs, not passive ones. From December 1975 to the spring of 1976, I studied Fleisch's book for days on end. And once I finished Fleischs work I borrowed books on journalism from the library.
As the rain poured down outside, I slowly shrugged off the know-it-all ideas that I'd picked up at McGill University. "I know nothing," I told my friends. "I've got to start learning all over again."
Eric also told me how to get welfare. My savings from teaching, writing and government grants, have shrivelled down to nearly nothing. I sure wasn't going to borrow money from friends or my family like my dad had in England. "Never take the dole, or welfare," my father said to me years ago. I shrugged off such advice. I had to survive.
So on one morning in 1977 I went to the nearest welfare office and ended up with a $160 cheque every month. The financial aid worker at the office classified me as 'employable' even though I could only walk six or seven blocks a day. And I needed crutches to even do that distance.
Still, liviing on $160 a month sure looked better than sleeping on the street.
At that time, Eric was a hippie who filled me in on his own past. He had led big demonstrations in the 1960's and 1970's against the Vietnam War, unrestricted urban development, police brutality and punitive drug policies. Eric starred as a witness in the judicial inquiry into the 1971 Gastown Riot, where police had beaten up dozens of demonstrators protesting anti-marijuana laws. As a hard core politico, I had at times scorned the hippies. Now thanks to Eric I realized that many hippies had shown great bravery and daring. Eric taught me other lessons too.
As I told people later, "Knowing Eric was a growth experience." For a time he was my guru.
During times between doing primal therapy, I started to read about fetishism. I realized that my mother or the nurses I had when very young, hadn't held me a lot. The insights that came from primal therapy and my readings, at time overwhelmed me. I sat for hours in my two tiny rooms in Kitsilano amazed at what I was learning about myself.
Yet Eric didn't only steer me into primal therapy. He turned me onto journalism and how to write easy-to-read stories. "Dave, you have to learn journalism," he told me after I"d written a piece for a local paper. "What you're writing, nobody will read. It's too academic."
On Eric's advice, I borrowed a book from the library by Rudolf Fleisch, who wrote the post-Sputnik best seller called "Why Ivan Can Read, And Johnny Can't'. Fleisch, who was born in Austria, set out in easy-to-read prose the way to writing well.
Use quotations, he said. Cut down big words into much smaller ones. Look for anecdotes that express the theme of the story you're writing. Use active verbs, not passive ones. From December 1975 to the spring of 1976, I studied Fleisch's book for days on end. And once I finished Fleischs work I borrowed books on journalism from the library.
As the rain poured down outside, I slowly shrugged off the know-it-all ideas that I'd picked up at McGill University. "I know nothing," I told my friends. "I've got to start learning all over again."
Eric also told me how to get welfare. My savings from teaching, writing and government grants, have shrivelled down to nearly nothing. I sure wasn't going to borrow money from friends or my family like my dad had in England. "Never take the dole, or welfare," my father said to me years ago. I shrugged off such advice. I had to survive.
So on one morning in 1977 I went to the nearest welfare office and ended up with a $160 cheque every month. The financial aid worker at the office classified me as 'employable' even though I could only walk six or seven blocks a day. And I needed crutches to even do that distance.
Still, liviing on $160 a month sure looked better than sleeping on the street.
At that time, Eric was a hippie who filled me in on his own past. He had led big demonstrations in the 1960's and 1970's against the Vietnam War, unrestricted urban development, police brutality and punitive drug policies. Eric starred as a witness in the judicial inquiry into the 1971 Gastown Riot, where police had beaten up dozens of demonstrators protesting anti-marijuana laws. As a hard core politico, I had at times scorned the hippies. Now thanks to Eric I realized that many hippies had shown great bravery and daring. Eric taught me other lessons too.
As I told people later, "Knowing Eric was a growth experience." For a time he was my guru.
Saturday, 20 August 2016
Exits and Entrances - A Journey Through Many Landscapes: by Dave Jaffe . Chapter Six - Part Two
Chapter Six. Part Two
When I started to do primal therapy with Eric, I ended up growling, beating my fists against the therapy room's padded walls, and then crying for minutes on end. And yes from time to time I did scream. All the pains of my life and the grieving for dead members of my family came out of my shaking body.
By now I didn't trust some psychiatrists. One psychiatrist I went to, told me he could cure my addiction to valium. He gave me a pill that nearly gave me a nervous breakdown after taking it, for a few weeks. Back then I trusted Eric and once a week I set aside an hour for primal sessions.
"I feel clear," Eric and I tell each other again and again. And this was true. My massive fits of anger shrink. The primals sweep away my waves of sadness. And I stop abusing women. Yet I should point out, that when I stopped abusing women, some women started abusing me. "Mister," one artist said to me after I took up drawing and painting, "All you do is copy. You don't have an original bone in your body." Another woman who worked at the Vancouver Art Gallery said to my face, "You are one of the most pompous and derivative artists I've ever met."
A few years after doing primal therapy I worked with a severely disabled woman who abused me day after day. Finally one day after she accused me of making mistakes, I told her, "You're a mistake." Then I left the job I was working at, and found another. In the middle of an argument with another woman, this female told me, "You are crazy and your life is crazy." And finally a neighbour of mine told me that I was one of the weirdest men she had ever known. Much of what these women said about me and to me was probably true. Yet I could have insulted them too but after doing primal therapy I rarely did this.
Now up to this stage of my memoir I haven't mentioned any women I went out with. The reason for this is simple: Up until the age off 33 I had only hung out with one woman for any stretch of time. In my teens and 20's I did go out with a few women. But none of this dating - as it was called in my youth - went anywhere.
I'm a fetishist who's turned on by frilly blouses and white scarves wrapped around women's necks. I ended up going to female prostitutes in my twenties and after, making love to these women who wore the frilly clothes and scarves that I brought to them.
Over time, some women did turn me on, especially if they were dark or brown-haired, well-dressed and reasonably intelligent. But with one or two exceptions, a long enduring love affair was out of the question. My erections would only come when making love to a woman wearing my fetishes
When I started to do primal therapy with Eric, I ended up growling, beating my fists against the therapy room's padded walls, and then crying for minutes on end. And yes from time to time I did scream. All the pains of my life and the grieving for dead members of my family came out of my shaking body.
By now I didn't trust some psychiatrists. One psychiatrist I went to, told me he could cure my addiction to valium. He gave me a pill that nearly gave me a nervous breakdown after taking it, for a few weeks. Back then I trusted Eric and once a week I set aside an hour for primal sessions.
"I feel clear," Eric and I tell each other again and again. And this was true. My massive fits of anger shrink. The primals sweep away my waves of sadness. And I stop abusing women. Yet I should point out, that when I stopped abusing women, some women started abusing me. "Mister," one artist said to me after I took up drawing and painting, "All you do is copy. You don't have an original bone in your body." Another woman who worked at the Vancouver Art Gallery said to my face, "You are one of the most pompous and derivative artists I've ever met."
A few years after doing primal therapy I worked with a severely disabled woman who abused me day after day. Finally one day after she accused me of making mistakes, I told her, "You're a mistake." Then I left the job I was working at, and found another. In the middle of an argument with another woman, this female told me, "You are crazy and your life is crazy." And finally a neighbour of mine told me that I was one of the weirdest men she had ever known. Much of what these women said about me and to me was probably true. Yet I could have insulted them too but after doing primal therapy I rarely did this.
Now up to this stage of my memoir I haven't mentioned any women I went out with. The reason for this is simple: Up until the age off 33 I had only hung out with one woman for any stretch of time. In my teens and 20's I did go out with a few women. But none of this dating - as it was called in my youth - went anywhere.
I'm a fetishist who's turned on by frilly blouses and white scarves wrapped around women's necks. I ended up going to female prostitutes in my twenties and after, making love to these women who wore the frilly clothes and scarves that I brought to them.
Over time, some women did turn me on, especially if they were dark or brown-haired, well-dressed and reasonably intelligent. But with one or two exceptions, a long enduring love affair was out of the question. My erections would only come when making love to a woman wearing my fetishes
Friday, 19 August 2016
Exis and Entrances - A Journey Through Many Landscapes: By Dave Jaffe; Chapter Six
Chapter Six: Part One
This chapter is about my journey towards liberation.
Eric was a tall thin draft resister from the United States. Like tens of thousands of other Americans back in the 1960's and early 1970's, he came to Canada because he didn't want to fight in the Vietnam War. I didn't blame him.
I met him through Bob Sarti another tall American who was another draft resister, and was then working as a reporter at 'The Vancouver Sun' newspaper.
In turn I met Bob through his wife Marilyn, a dark-haired intense woman who grew up in the northeast of the U.S. Bob came from New York City, while Eric spent his youth in California. Like me, Marilyn was a member of the New Democratic Party.
By the early 1970's I had joined the New Democratic Party. Now I would go around telling people, "I'm a social democrat who's a Jew. I still have doubts about Israel but I don't want to see it vanish. I also support Quebec's right to separate from Canada." These were not N.D.P. policies.
Naturally I got into many arguments with many kinds of people especially with Maoists, anarchists and right wingers. One man who saw me in Bob Sarti's back yard cried out loud, "Help me! Here comes Dave Jaffe." In short I was a younger left wing version of my father. My socialist beliefs were the counterpart to his faith in the Jewish religion.
Eric and Bob Sarti were anarchists. They admired the writings of the American anarchist Murray Bookchin. Eric still thought he could do some good in the N.D.P. Anyway Eric joined the N.D.P. in the provincial riding of Vancouver-Burrard which was the riding I was in too. Eric started showing up where I lived and sometimes where I worked at the Canada Manpower office in downtown Vancouver. Here I lasted about eight months and caused many problems.
"You were crazy back then," Bob Laughlin, one of my co-workers told me. He was right. Bob was a big bearded native of Ottawa. He left Canada Manpower to do primal therapy. At the time many people made fun of Arthur Janov and his book 'The Primal Scream'. Yet I read the book and thought that Janov's primal therapy could help me. Bob thought so too. Eric also preached the virtues of the therapy and told me it could help cure my problems.
So on one cloudy November morning in late 1975 Eric led me into a padded room off East Hastings Street and said to me quietly, "Fell Dave. Just feel your pain, your anger and your sadness." This was the beginning of my journey towards self-understanding.
This chapter is about my journey towards liberation.
Eric was a tall thin draft resister from the United States. Like tens of thousands of other Americans back in the 1960's and early 1970's, he came to Canada because he didn't want to fight in the Vietnam War. I didn't blame him.
I met him through Bob Sarti another tall American who was another draft resister, and was then working as a reporter at 'The Vancouver Sun' newspaper.
In turn I met Bob through his wife Marilyn, a dark-haired intense woman who grew up in the northeast of the U.S. Bob came from New York City, while Eric spent his youth in California. Like me, Marilyn was a member of the New Democratic Party.
By the early 1970's I had joined the New Democratic Party. Now I would go around telling people, "I'm a social democrat who's a Jew. I still have doubts about Israel but I don't want to see it vanish. I also support Quebec's right to separate from Canada." These were not N.D.P. policies.
Naturally I got into many arguments with many kinds of people especially with Maoists, anarchists and right wingers. One man who saw me in Bob Sarti's back yard cried out loud, "Help me! Here comes Dave Jaffe." In short I was a younger left wing version of my father. My socialist beliefs were the counterpart to his faith in the Jewish religion.
Eric and Bob Sarti were anarchists. They admired the writings of the American anarchist Murray Bookchin. Eric still thought he could do some good in the N.D.P. Anyway Eric joined the N.D.P. in the provincial riding of Vancouver-Burrard which was the riding I was in too. Eric started showing up where I lived and sometimes where I worked at the Canada Manpower office in downtown Vancouver. Here I lasted about eight months and caused many problems.
"You were crazy back then," Bob Laughlin, one of my co-workers told me. He was right. Bob was a big bearded native of Ottawa. He left Canada Manpower to do primal therapy. At the time many people made fun of Arthur Janov and his book 'The Primal Scream'. Yet I read the book and thought that Janov's primal therapy could help me. Bob thought so too. Eric also preached the virtues of the therapy and told me it could help cure my problems.
So on one cloudy November morning in late 1975 Eric led me into a padded room off East Hastings Street and said to me quietly, "Fell Dave. Just feel your pain, your anger and your sadness." This was the beginning of my journey towards self-understanding.
Thursday, 18 August 2016
Exits and Entrances - Chapter Five - Continued by Dave Jaffe
Chapter Five continued
As my knees decayed, John's life went downhill too. His landlord, a friend of John's killed himself. John then broke off all contact with me. I saw it was necessary for him and in hindsight it was the best thing that happened to me. I also realized that John may have been gay and his super-masculine front was built up by him to protect him from any hints of being gay.
Of course not all the weight lifting people in the Y.M.C.A. weight room were like John. Gunter was a husky brick layer who was intelligent and a kind and decent man. Another Dave, towered over me and remembered me from our days at McGill University. He was an ESL teacher, and at one time tried to get me a job teaching ESL.
Art, a bearded energetic man did find me a clerical job at B.C. Institute of Technology. Al was a husky bearded man from east end Vancouver. he worked at a local community centre with some tough young men. Yet Al was a kind person.
Still, there were other people there who I steered clear of. One huge man from eastern Europe grabbed a modern dancer and one day pinned him up against the wall. "Don't you ever change the weights on this barbell when I'm using it," he growled at the dancer. Another man who had tatoos on his arms, gave me looks that terrified me. A third man I knew had a father who killed himself. This man scared me too sometimes.
Yet my wonky knees and John's new mood pushed me out of the 'Y' weight room and into another totally different place. And as young people would say to-day in 2016, "It was all good."
As my knees decayed, John's life went downhill too. His landlord, a friend of John's killed himself. John then broke off all contact with me. I saw it was necessary for him and in hindsight it was the best thing that happened to me. I also realized that John may have been gay and his super-masculine front was built up by him to protect him from any hints of being gay.
Of course not all the weight lifting people in the Y.M.C.A. weight room were like John. Gunter was a husky brick layer who was intelligent and a kind and decent man. Another Dave, towered over me and remembered me from our days at McGill University. He was an ESL teacher, and at one time tried to get me a job teaching ESL.
Art, a bearded energetic man did find me a clerical job at B.C. Institute of Technology. Al was a husky bearded man from east end Vancouver. he worked at a local community centre with some tough young men. Yet Al was a kind person.
Still, there were other people there who I steered clear of. One huge man from eastern Europe grabbed a modern dancer and one day pinned him up against the wall. "Don't you ever change the weights on this barbell when I'm using it," he growled at the dancer. Another man who had tatoos on his arms, gave me looks that terrified me. A third man I knew had a father who killed himself. This man scared me too sometimes.
Yet my wonky knees and John's new mood pushed me out of the 'Y' weight room and into another totally different place. And as young people would say to-day in 2016, "It was all good."
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