Usually when we think waterfront home, we think high-end real estate. People pay top dollar to own property that is right on the Grand River. And then there are those who are encamped on the river banks, not for the fun of it or for winter, but because they have no other place to call home. That’s me. I’m Susie, and my home address is a tent, north of the water treatment plant by Myer’s Road, on the east bank of the Grand River. I set up here in the fall of 2020, the year of the COVID, after my partner Ricky and I split up. More accurately, when I had to leave, for my own safety.
Ricky has what my case worker calls “anger issues”, the language of which is violence, physical and sexual abuse. I moved in with Ricky when my parents kicked me out, right after high school. According to them, their responsibility for me only extended to that point. I had nowhere to go, no steady job, no first and last month’s rent.
Dad’s violent temper and mom’s submission to his anger was a valuable life lesson for me: keep your mouth shut and you will be ok.
But what happens when that life lesson fails you? And keeping your mouth shut just brings on more and more pain?
Ricky was 12 years older than me. We had started talking through a dating app while I was still living at home. I was 15 years old when Ricky be-friended me online, his attentions and compliments made me feel seen for the first time in my life; made me feel wanted and loved. He lived nearby, in Brantford … kept asking when could he come and see me. I knew enough about internet safety to keep my details kind of private for some time. I wasn’t trying to rush into anything.
But that night when dad got piss-drunk and started in on me, like he does, telling me how worthless I was, how I would amount to nothing, how mom trapped him by having me when he never wanted children to begin with … when he finally got done beating me with his words, with mom cowering quietly in a corner trying not to make eye contact with either of us … that night dad was extra vicious and I waited until I could safely leave the room, away from his meanness.
While I waited for the opportunity for a safe retreat, tears rolled down my cheeks but I knew better than to make a sound. Whimpering brought fists and feet into play. Words were bad enough.
Finally I escaped, quietly, like a mouse, into the basement. All I had with me was my phone, and Ricky was there, on Tinder waiting for me. He told me how much he was attracted to me, he asked me “Please, sweet girl, let me take you out for a coffee at least, so I can look into those pretty brown eyes of yours.”
And I wanted so very much to be wanted, to be loved, I agreed to meet him.
He was so sweet at first, he would bring me little gifts and shower me with compliments. He asked me to move in with him even before dad kicked me out. But when that day came, me with nowhere else to go, Ricky said “No problem, darlin’, my house is your house, my bed is your bed.” So it was. I moved.
Out of the frying pan into the fire. I wasn’t ready to do the things Ricky wanted us to do. But I was living under his roof, dependent on him for everything. How could I say no? I was constantly reminded to be grateful to him for everything he was doing for me.
Is it rape if you don’t feel like you can say no? Is it consent because you have no other choice?
Ricky was smart. When he saw me sinking into depression, drifting away, “Try this” he said, offering me a pill. It worked for a while, creating a cloud of numbness through which everything was dulled: pain and pleasure alike.
After some time, the pills became needles. I didn’t care much anymore: he gave me the pain and he supplied me to take it away. Once I was high, consent was neither here nor there. He did what he wanted and it was like that for a while until I guess he got tired of supporting me.
He had connections in Brantford, and even though I wasn’t quite old enough, he got me a job at his friend’s bar down near Eagle Place. Marc paid in cash that was given straight to Ricky. Some story about he might get in trouble if the cops caught him paying a minor to serve alcohol.
The best thing about the job was that, for those hours every night, I was straight. Marc didn’t want me stoned or high on the job. And in those hours of bartending and serving, coping with the groping and comments from a progressively aggressive set of men, I began to think: I am better off on my own. I began to think I needed to find my feet.
When I began to ask for some money, even dad had given me a small allowance, Ricky got mad. “What do you need money for? I give you everything you need.”
So I started pocketing whatever change I got in tips. Carefully hiding it in my boot, my toes fighting with the loonies and toonies, the nickels and dimes for soft spaces to rest. At home, I had a ziplock bag, hidden under a loose baseboard in the bedroom, behind my side of the bed. I added the tips to it every night, when Ricky was passed out cold in bed, and I would get up to pee.
I had one shot at getting out. I researched the options, thank God for the data plan on my phone. I knew how much it would cost me to get to Mary’s Place in Kitchener. I figured that was far enough away that he would not come find me. I waited for my chance. I got away.
The shelter was full when I arrived. There was no room in the inn.
But it wasn’t all bad. A case worker was assigned to me, and the people there were good to me, temporary shelter was available at a hotel – specifically because of COVID – lucky me I guess. But try finding a job during this crazy time. That hotel room was not available indefinitely. My case worker helped to set me up with OW.
I used my first cheque to do what I saw many other professional homeless people do: buy a tent and a sleeping bag; next cheque was some camping gear. By the time I got turned out, when the Region cut funding for the hotels, I was ready to set up my home on the Grand.
My case worker provided some bus tickets, and a place where my cheque could be collected. I made new “friends” and learnt that the riverbanks in Cambridge might be good for camping. You could catch fish in it, which, for the hobby fishermen was catch and release. But for me became fresh protein.
Once every two weeks or so, I would walk to Food Basics or Giant Tiger, fill my pull along bag with supplies, and walk (as long as the weather was good) back to my home on the Grand. When the snow came down hard, I would splurge on a cab, crossing the trail where people walked for exercise … I could only imagine such a life.
We learn a lot from living on the land. No weather app is better than beaver. The beaver always found ways to tell us when the water would rise – posting their meteorological reports on the saplings with their teeth. We stayed as close as we could to the water’s edge. It’s safer that way – safer from the human predators. Plus: the next best thing to indoor plumbing.
Two other women have tents near me. We watch out for each other. We all have our issues. We had all escaped men like Ricky. We all learned early to dull our pain with whatever we could find. We figured if we could make it through COVID and be super careful with what we have, this “living rough” (as the Food Bank called it) would soon be over. And we would have enough saved up for first and last month’s rent. Somewhere. Somehow.
In the meantime, hey, people pay top dollar for waterfront property. Maybe this isn’t all that bad. Who needs room in the inn when waterfront property is available, right?
This is one of four stories written for a Lenten Study Series. For study, each story is related to a scripture and a series of questions. If you would like to receive the full series, or participate in the study sessions, please email me:
janaki.bandara@gmail.com