In my Backyard

I didn't know Nathan Cirillo. In fact, I'd never heard of him until yesterday when it was shot and killed with a rifle at close range while he ceremoniously guarded the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the foot of the National War Memorial in Ottawa, Ontario. He was carrying only an unloaded gun. It was a posting he was honoured to have. Dressed in the dress uniform of his regiment, the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders of Hamilton, Ontario, he smiled for tourist pictures minutes before he was gunned down.

This evening, as I was taking the bus to catch another bus home from work, we drove the same route as always. As we turned onto James Street North I was compelled to get off two stops before my usual stop. I hoped off, and ran across the street towards the John Weir Foote Armoury - where the Argyll and Sutherland Highlander regiment is based. Bouquets of flowers lined the sidewalk in front of the now locked gates. Candles burned, and balloons with Canadian flags floated over the handwritten cards and letters from people all over the city. News crews were camped out with cameras ready in case anyone important stopped by. People walked up the street with flowers in hand to pay their respect to a young man taken too soon.

It's been an emotional couple of days for Canadians, but we, for the most part, have handled it with dignity, grace, and respect.

The memorial at the Armoury was a sobering reminder that members of our armed forces are all people who live in communities and have families and people who love and miss them.

Humans of Hamilton #5

I catch a bus across the street from a men's homeless shelter. Every morning there are dozens of guys in various states of dress waiting outside, or smoking on the sidewalk. Today I arrived at my stop and there was a man sleeping on the bench. He was young but looked old - life had aged him. He woke and stretched and got up to cross the street to the shelter - hopefully for a hot meal. He jaywalked across the business road as if he was invincible. Or maybe he just didn't care.

After a man with long hair and a beard walked by in dirty clothes. He walked with purpose with blank expression on his face. The bus stop smelled like hot garbage. I stood with my coat over my nose to block it all out.

There was a person on the bus carrying a large garbage bag of cans. Just empty cans. They clanged as she exited.

The kid I used to know. The one I thought got off the streets walked by again. Holding his pants up because they were two sizes too big. He looked like he twitching as he walked. Maybe if I had such a fucking horrible life and lived on the street, I'd want to be stoned too. Numb the pain.

Instead I stand at bus stops, hugging my purse and hoping I don't get harassed.

Today, a container of leftovers broke open in my bag, spilling rice into my purse. Realizing I couldn't transport it home, I threw it out. Part of me wanted to offer it to someone. But would that be offensive? Here, take my half eaten chicken shawarma with rice and hummus.

I feel like a fool. I feel like a spoiled brat.

I wanted to brush a girls hair today. She just had a tangled ball of matted hair at the back of her head.

I like being in my office, away from the people on the streets. I have a purpose there. I'm different there. I'm blind to their problems.

I see cigarette butts everywhere. I see men picking them up off the sidewalk. I saw city workers fixing up the gardens by the road. Do the citizens even care about the gardens? Or are they just giant ashtrays to them? A place for pigeons to poop.

Boarded up buildings with garbage and newspaper everywhere. It can be such a terrible place.