Some days, I feel like a pauper in a concrete and crystal palace.
I take the shuttle bus every day to school from st. George. Everyday I see the giant concrete W that cost the school 1 million dollars. I learn and study in obscenely large glass rooms that are meant to let me see the beauty of nature on campus. I use high tech lab equipment, I discuss current events inside and out of class. I love my courses.
But right now, the only room I care about is the food bank.
I am flat broke. I paid tuition; moved to a new apartment because my lease was up on the last place; I applied for teachers’ college. And in the few weeks it took me to do this, my OSAP was gone. Ive been eating the bread my mom sent home with me over the Christmas holidays. Only the bread.
Next week I may not be able to afford tokens to even get to st. George. I would have skipped today and asked for the notes from someone else but today is the day I pick up food from the food bank.
I brought a duffle bag. It’s big, because Nourhan , who runs the food bank, is generous with her time and compassion. For maybe two weeks I will eat like a queen, and then she and I will meet up again to refill my duffle bag.
There is no judgement from her, and she humbly refuses thank you’s. She’s just doing her job, she says. I almost cry every time I see her because I know that someone still cares, and that at least this week I wont starve. I won’t have to eat toast.
My first trip, I had to swallow my pride, and felt shameful. I’m almost 30, how can I not afford to feed myself? But the next few trips made it easier. There is no judgement with Nourhan. There is no shame. There is understanding.
Now I have my bag of food, Nourhan apologizes because she forgot to give me peanut butter. She feels bad. I tell her it’s more than ok. I have food. Fresh food. I don’t need the peanut butter.
The irony is sickening. Walking through the hallways of this concrete and crystal palace, marveling at how much money was spent on this-and-that award-winning and utterly useless feature. My money paid for this palace. My tuition, my Osap, my $60 000 in debt paid for this. And I can’t even afford to come here next week, to learn from a course I’ve already paid for. I built this shrine to extravagance and wasted space, this totem to an ideal based on always having more, more, the most. I built that stupid sign that looks like a W.
And I can’t afford to eat. I can’t afford next months rent. I can’t even afford to stay in my concrete and crystal palace.
By a former member, Marjo Asselbergs. We hope you’re doing well wherever you are Marjo! (This member has given written consent to have her name published on our website. All members are welcome to remain anonymous if they choose.)