A New Neighbourhood

For some time, I had been thinking about moving in – moving in, that is, to Regent Park. This neighbourhood, just to the east of Toronto's downtown core, had a dubious reputation. Drugs and gangs plagued its blocks of subsidized housing. Everyone knew there were shootings.

Now, though, revitalization had begun. I loved the word revitalization because it felt more hopeful than mere reconstruction. If all went according to plan, the entire area, in five phases, would be torn down and rebuilt. Brand-new subsidized buildings would be interspersed with market-value condominiums, creating – if all went according to promise - a vibrant, mixed-income community. But would this solve the neighbourhood's problems?

After all, this revitalization was not the first. Back in the 1940s and 50s, the city cleared slums to make way for a new Regent Park. Designing according to the then-current "garden city" orthodoxies, they rebuilt the neighbourhood with side streets blocked to traffic, buildings set back from main arteries, and commercial venues excluded – all in an attempt to create a park-like environment. But the experiment failed. All too soon, green spaces became dead spaces where folks feared to walk at night. Although the city would now reverse these misguided plans, would the new "mixed-income" doctrines fare any better?

Despite my skepticism, I could not shake off the idea of moving in. What kept nudging me towards a decision were the relationships I had formed in teaching English to some of the neighbourhood's immigrant women – women from such places as Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and Afghanistan, women who were resilient and passionate about raising their children well. Because of these young moms, I kept wondering: Do I have a role to play in this revitalizing community?

In 2011, when the signs went up for the next condominium building, I ventured into the Presentation Centre on Dundas Street and signed up. On the day of the Grand Opening Sale, I arrived for my 3 p.m. appointment to discover that a vast white tent had now filled the parking lot. Inside at long tables, sales agents and prospective buyers rushed to get paperwork signed. It was a frantic scene.

When my turn finally came, a young saleswoman ushered me into the Presentation Centre, where we elbowed our way through the crowd until I could see the list of units for sale. Red stickers, she explained, marked those already purchased – and as I had feared, red dots plastered the entire board.

"That one – on the 16th floor!" I shouted over the din. As she put a temporary dot on the space, I felt an unexpected tinge of relief.

Back in the tent, a cold wind was flapping the canvas, and I shivered as my sales agent filled out the forms. Even though I was paying close attention, these legal documents unnerved me with their fine print and seemingly endless appendices. When everything was approved, I gathered up my papers and stumbled toward the door. My head was spinning, but at least I still had a three-day grace period to reconsider my decision.

Scarcely had I taken three steps beyond the tent door when a woman on Dundas Street called my name. Dazed by the surreal scene I had just left, my mind had trouble switching gears. I had no clue who she was.

Seeing my confusion, she called again, "I'm in one of your classes."

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I didn't recognize you at first."

After greeting her two little girls, I turned back to their mom. Something had upset her in class, so now I had an opportunity to see if she wanted to talk about it.

"If you'd like to tell me what was troubling you in class,” I ventured, “I'd be happy to listen."

Without hesitation, she launched into her story. "I left my husband because he was beating me. Me and the kids, we're living in a women’s shelter – and soon we’ll have to move out on our own.”

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blur of a car speeding along Dundas Street. Behind me, in the middle of the road, it came screeching to a halt. I could sense her alarm.

"It's him, isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice shaking.

As I turned to look at the driver, the car sped off.

"He does this all the time. Everywhere I go, he's watching us. I'm so afraid all the time."

What I admired, though, was her courage to move forward even in the midst of her fears. And I know that while domestic abuse is all-too-common in our society, each situation brings its own unique suffering. So, we talked for some time – and I promised to keep in touch.

Later, as I walked back to my car with my sheaf of signed papers, I realized that, during this unexpected conversation, my own anxieties had somehow faded into insignificance. From that moment, I knew that my future lay in Regent Park.