Welcome  to Toronto, Asshole!

by Son Roberts
It could be said I arrived in Toronto as a refugee of the 1970’s language wars in Quebec. But it was less about injustice and more about economics that prompted my departure from Montreal. Attending Ryerson’s journalism school was the primary motivation. I figured my lack of French language skills would likely not impede my career opportunities.
In addition to exploring copy writing, copy editing and the Five W’s (look ’em up), photojournalism was a requisite. The first assignment our ditzy prof dispensed was to “capture compelling images of Toronto, right here and right now.”
Each of us was loaned a well-used 35mm DLSR and one roll of black & white film with 24 exposures. We were given three days to turn in the completed roll.
I didn’t know shit about Toronto. Where to go, what to shoot, nothing. I did know that, “right here and right now”  in the Fall of 1977, the city was reeling from the grisly sex-murder of 12-year-old shoeshine boy Emmanuelle Jacques, found wrapped in a garbage bag and hidden on the roof of a whorehouse just a block from Ryerson’s journalism building on Gerrard St.
In the late 70’s, that stretch of Yonge Street was a grimy patch of strip clubs, brothels, and dive bars. For a curious and ambitious scribe straight out of his own crime-ridden town, it was luridly awesome, and tragic all at once. But I just couldn’t take pictures of the dirty denizens or pathetic mopes lingering in doorways there. That vibe was dark, loathsome and I had no interest in doing what every rag in town was doing: documenting every inch of the place, and each sullen face in an effort to pursue a much-needed clean-up of Toronto’s infamous cesspool in the core.
Walking home from Ryerson a day before my film roll was to be dropped off at school, and just a few blocks from my room in Cabbagetown, I was lost in thoughts about my decision to move here.
Nothing felt right. They were killing little boys on Fun Street. Hookers were hanging out of second story windows asking me if I wanted a blow job. Geezus, the cops just found a dead boy on the roof of that place.
No matter. Just business.
I was no stranger to crime commanding the news cycle. Montreal was a hot bed of gangland wars and random killings that saw headlines scream daily about mass murders in night clubs, and broad daylight biker gang drive-by executions that mowed down little kids who just happened to get in the way. Meanwhile, the cops were tarnished with ineptitude, and the pricks running City Hall were still trying to play down the billion-dollar scope creep we’d been saddled with for hosting the fucking Olympics.
Montreal was rough.  Toronto wasn’t supposed to be.
I subscribed to the fantasy that I was moving to “Toronto the Good.” It was more than just a catchy slogan, it seemed to ring true. This was the town with a logo that doubled as city hall. It had old fashioned trolleys, as my mom called them. The CN tower blinked 24 hours a day as a beacon of an assured and bright future looming over the entire downtown.
Toronto was modern, clean, and it had a highly selective journalism school that had invited me to join. It would be easy to earn a good living in this law-abiding town, I thought. Hell, everyone spoke English.
“First week I’m here,” I said to myself, mostly out loud, walking fast and angry up the street , “some little kid gets whacked … I’m going to school a block away … I’m living only a few more streets east in a sketchy-assed part of town where a lunatic prowls Parliament Street yelling “Goddam that woman” at all hours of the day and night .. and I got maybe two frames left on my fucking camera roll!”
I don’t know if anyone noticed my rant and I didn’t care. I did notice I was going in the exact opposite direction from where my room was located  off Parliament on Spruce Street.
I also noticed the Winchester Hotel up ahead and figured maybe it had a bar where I could push a few beers into me and calm down. It was around 3pm, school’s out time, cloudy and cool.
The camera hanging off my shoulder bumped against my hip as I picked up the pace only to discover the bar was closed. Had been for a while. I crossed Parliament and into a convenience store where I bought a root beer and then walked back out into what was now warm September sunshine. I felt better.
Then I heard laughter to my left and spotted three young boys jostling outside a dry cleaner. They were no more than 12 years old.  One of the kids had an arm full of clothing evidently destined for the dry cleaner. On the door of the joint was a sign: “Back in 10 Minutes.”
“Hey, you guys want your picture taken? I need it for school.” Two of them dummied up but the kid in the middle, clutching the clothes, said “Sure!”
I got set, pointed the camera, focused and they stood there like three corn stocks, blankly staring at me. I taunted them. “C’mon you punks, give me somethin’ here!”
They complied and I got more than I could have ever bargained for.
The kid on the left and the one in middle flipped me the bird with absolutely baked-in, DNA-level shit-eating grins. The kid on the right of camera held up a bullshit sign so proudly it looked like he’d just invented it.
I pushed the shutter button and burst out laughing. They lit up too, jumping around and squealing with laughter, knowing they’d just gotten away with something. We all did.
When I saw the contact sheet a week later at Ryerson I was pleased with the shot and couldn’t wait to make a print. I don’t remember how my prof reacted or how I did in that class. Didn’t matter. I got a photo no one got. Ever.
Fast forward decades later and I decided to replace my crappy little print of that shot with a pricey, archival quality one made from my negative. Had it professionally framed and hung it on a wall where I’d see it every day.
That photo, those boys, they spoke to me in ways I understood about the fragility of life and of children… about being playful and provocative even in the face of the raw shit we all have to deal with. And of not giving much of a shit about what people think about me.
I was every one of those three punks before I even met them. Growing up lawlessly in lawless Montreal, coming to the real Toronto to build a life, and getting an impersonal, random smack in the face about what kind of town this really was. But I was okay with that. I could take it. So I stayed here, and I loved it. Still do, grime and crime and all.
When I was wrapping up my third album, I knew those three boys would make a fitting cover. I felt I owed it to them. Their charming, fuck you vibe has stuck with me, daring me to keep getting away with things. Sure, I’ve been flipped off by my share of punks and wankers over the years, but none as good as those three punks. Ever.
Thanks fellas, I hope you’re all well and hail, wherever you are.