Police Brutality in Canada

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I grew up in a Toronto suburb where a number of us misfits were drawn together. In a primarily WASP community, our group included Chinese, African American, German, French Canadian, Italian Canadian, Jew and a few Irish descendants who were just too rebellious to fit in with the status quo. As a female, my experience with police in the 60's was quite different from that of my male counterpart. At one time or another, each of these guys was chased, cornered and beaten by police when they were teenagers. They were not being good little boys but they were not that bad either. They were Black or Chinese or Jewish and during the beatings they were reminded of this. It was something that shaped their outlook on life and society and something that haunted them for years. It was also something they did not talk about to anyone except each other.

In the mid 70's when the War on Vietnam was just about over and there were a lot of draft dodgers still coming into Canada, especially Toronto, the police were quite freaking out at the influx of black people into Toronto. It was very easy to come across the border and all kinds of people were arriving on visitor visas and then just staying. So immigration was very busy too. Cops often stopped people and still do stop people to check immigration documents and this often leads to other things.

I met Nate one lovely spring day down at Spadina and Bloor. He was obviously a hustler and likely an addict but he was charming and interesting and so I gave him my phone number. I didn't see much of him until he called me one day asking for my help. He was in the hospital and could hardly talk. He wanted me to come and visit him right away.

When I arrived, I was quite shocked at what I found. When I gave his name, a busy nurse pointed to a room full of beds and left me there. As I looked around, I saw a number of men, some with darker complexion than others, some quiet, some yelling deliriously. Suddenly I heard my name being called in a voice that was barely a whisper. I looked at the source of the sound and did not recognize the person I saw lying there.

"Nate?"

I cautiously walked toward the bed. There he was his face so swollen and still streaked with blood that I could not recognize this handsome, young black man who was dancing and talking so smoothly days before. He slowly lifted a swollen bruised hand and reached out to me. When I came closer he spoke catching his breath as each word caused him pain. Then he lifted the sheet and showed me the large incision on his side.

"They broke my bowel and the doctors had to operate." he said.

"Who did this to you?" I asked choking up myself, about to weep, I had never seen anything like that before.

"The cops!" he almost yelled but sucked in his breath and clutched at his belly. "The fucking cops beat me!"

I knew he was pleading for sympathy too. But the sight of him was enough.

When they moved him up to the ward, I met his room mate, an old wino from Parliament Street whose face was a mass of cuts and bruises. He told me that the cops frequently beat him when they found him drunk and they didn't have anything better to do. He said,

"This ward is full of guys the cops beat up on. You won't find anybody up here who wasn't beaten by the cops." That was Wellesley Hospital, mid 70's. They probably have a whole hospital now.

So that's just a little bit from my own observation and maybe that was a great influence in how this subject has continued to bother me, follow me all the days of my life. I can't leave it alone, no not now, not as things are getting worse right here in OCanada, the last oasis of peaceful communities in a world torn by wars. Yet this last refuge is being invaded by cults and fascists alike. If we don't speak up, our freedom will be lost completely and it will be even harder to regain. Orwell's nightmare of 1984 is a little late in coming but it is here already.

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