‘Some of the young men converging at the kiosk had cultivated the look of homelessness, but without the inconvenience and hardship: car keys dangled from their belts as they drank four-dollar lattes. Some looked like star athletes, because they were or had been. But you saw a feral, dark energy in some of the young here, of despair, blankness, failure and indirect gazes, ill health, or sometimes, a dangerous raw male potency. The grunge, the piercings, the clothes that deliberately didn’t fit, that said, I am the best, I am the worst, the tattoos psychic Band-Aids to cover the wounds.
They were home here, and only here. You could tell by the loose-legged swagger, instead of the back-alley prowl they used at their parents’ houses.’
***
(Excerpt from January 29 MEC)
My neighbourhood was rough when I was growing up. Families were much larger back then and, well, blood runs thicker… you know. There were rival families in our town, in cities you’d get gangs. We all fought, right from the time we were little kids. Fight for a good spot at the beach or on the dock. Fight for a seat on the bus until the driver complained to the school and our parents took it out on our backsides. Their weapons of choice: a broad palm, wooden spoons, leather belts. Words.
We kids were almost feral in the summertime – stealing just about anything from gardens, eating berries that grew by handfuls along well worn bike paths, roving around at all hours – until it was dark. We’d be back in just after dark or we’d face our mothers’ wrath.
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