Open Writing

One cold morning in October, many years ago, I was standing at a street corner in Toronto, with a number of other women, waiting for the streetcar. At the time, I was quite new in the city, and there were many fashion nuances that I had to learn. Like not wearing white shoes after Labour Day.

I was on my way to the Immigration Office. And I was wearing my white court shoes.

The huge vehicle came down the tracks and stopped with a grinding shriek. Its doors slid open, exposing the operator to full view as he sat perched on his worn-out chair surrounded by steel poles and the ever-present fare box. We all lined up to get into the car. I was very impressed with the orderliness with which passengers boarded the streetcar. There was no pushing nor shoving. Not even when it was full and the doors shut right in the face of the people on the sidewalk. They just waited for the next one with a shrug of resignation.

There I was, standing at the back of the line. I noticed everyone was wearing brown or black shoes, as they moved ahead of me, clambering up the little narrow steps into the streetcar. Not a single pair of white ones I could see, except mine, bright and spotless. They seemed strangely out of place. I started feeling uncomfortable. Rather self-conscious. And my shoes felt heavy and conspicuous in their whiteness.

When I finally boarded the streetcar, I had the distinct sense of being out of place. As I bought my tickets I could feel my breathing becoming shallow. I struggled to keep calm. I tried to concentrate. Get my strip of tickets. Pay the operator. Put one ticket in the fare-box. Put the rest in my pocket. As I turned towards the inside of the car and looked at the people sitting quietly in their rows of seats, I felt stricken by an overwhelming sense of alienation.

Oh my God, they're all staring at me, I thought to myself. They're all looking at my shoes.

I stood behind the streetcar driver. Petrified. Feeling that all eyes were on me. Not only on my shoes, but all over my person. As if I were a magnet, attracting everybody's attention. In my mind, I could hear their silent voices screaming accusingly: 'Go back to where you came from. You don't belong here. You have white shoes!'

I felt that I was hanging in time and space. With no identity. No past. No connection. Not a single familiar face I could find. Just a deep void, a desolating loss of self, a sense of rootless drifting. I wished that the ground would open up and swallow me. Obliterate my intruding presence from the face of the earth. How long I stood there, I don't know, but I was jolted back to reality when a thick, heavy Scottish brogue tore into the air, as the streetcar operator called out, 'Move right down to the back of the car!'

I took a deep breath as the voice registered in my mind. Pulling myself together, I looked again at the seated passengers. They all seemed engrossed in their own thoughts. Some were looking out the window. Maybe I was mistaken. Perhaps they did not even notice my white shoes. I walked resolutely down the aisle of the streetcar, until I came to a vacant seat. As I sat down, the woman beside me smiled. Feeling somewhat reassured, I noticed the familiar brown immigration envelope, and a Polish-English dictionary, nestled in her lap. She was probably new to the city also, and maybe she couldn't even speak English fluently!

So much has changed since that day, thirty-five years ago. Now, people are here from all over the world. Every race and colour. And language and dress. And shoes. Regardless of the seasons.

© Lytrice Adams