A WHILE BACK, I got interested in the economic possibilities of the Internet. I’d been busy building a network as a freelance journalist, and I was drawn to the idea that I might be able to generate regular cash electronically. I visited a number of sites that claimed to show you how. The trick was that it would cost a bundle to get the information. There were also all kinds of sites devoted to get-rich-quick schemes, but none of them would allow me to use skills I already possessed.
Nonetheless, I was determined to set up my own enterprise site. I read a few manuals and checked out similar sites, and when I felt ready I began to design a web page. Now, I’m no Internet genius. In fact, beyond possessing the basic computer skills, I’m not very swift at all. So I knew building a website that would function effectively and draw daily hits would be challenging.
Fortunately for me, I discovered a process called WYSIWYG. In website parlance, that means What You See Is What You Get. Rather than spend a huge amount of time learning complicated HTML code, you can use WYSIWYG templates to build your website pages. The process is quick, and as long as you have a plan things usually go along smoothly. At least they did for this neophyte web builder.
Well, I got a site built. Then, unfortunately, I discovered that as far as marketing strategy went, I was severely limited. I have never been much of a salesman anyway and the whole keyword, search-engine-optimizing, monetization thing was beyond me. There was nothing to do but retire the site. However, I’m happy I learned about WYSIWYG, since the concept turns out to be as useful in navigating the real world as it is in cyberspace.
We live between worlds, Deb and I. We often move in academic, literary, artistic and well-to-do circles. We’re part of the diverse group that makes up our neighbours, and we also share a reality with the tenants who live in our rooming house. Deb invested in the place four years ago. It caters to the poor and marginalized, the mentally challenged and disenfranchised. We’ve learned a lot from all of these daily border crossings.
The rooming house sits on a quiet residential street in Kamloops. After much renovation and repair, it looks like an ordinary, though small, apartment building. It’s no longer the visible nightmare it was when Deb bought it. And along with all the paint, the mortar, the new plumbing, the electrical work and the carpentry repairs, my wife brought another element into that building: heart. More clearly than I could, she saw beyond the dirt, grime, disrepair and hopelessness that permeated the building. She saw the potential for true community, and she set out to create it.
It was hard slogging. First, we worked to eliminate the active addicts. We knew, as former substance abusers ourselves, that you can’t help anyone who is running drugs or booze through their system every day. There were people living there who just wanted peace and quiet, and it was our job to establish that for them. After many months and many difficult interactions, the drunks and other addicts were gone.
For most of those who remained, life was drudgery: empty days, welfare cheques, the dispiriting to and fro between agencies where the staff were the only people they got to know well. These were people whose stories rarely get told. They were, and are, victims of life’s rampant unpredictability. They became our friends, and sometimes our inspiration.
Take Robin, for instance. Thirty years ago, Robin was a mechanic and builder. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t do with tools, and fast production cars were his passion and his joy. He was tall and lean, strong and capable. Then a horrible accident left him disabled. He suffered a brain injury, and the surgeons who worked on him left an open hole in Robin’s head just above his temple.
He could no longer work. He could barely walk. He spiralled downward until he became a welfare stat. He had lived in that rooming house, a pit of despair, for more than twenty years.
When we saw that open hole in Robin’s head, we began to question the agencies. No one knew anything about Robin. He’d been allowed to just drop out of sight. So we bugged people. We bugged the brain injury people and the home care people and welfare workers and community-living advocates. Eventually we got some action. A year and a half and two operations later, Robin’s head had been returned to its normal shape, and the hole had closed and healed. He walks better now. His eyes shine. He jokes with us and accepts regular visits from the other tenants who want to watch TV, especially the shows featuring production car racing.
Before we came along, Robin’s room hadn’t been painted or maintained in all the time he’d lived there. The former landlord just hadn’t cared. Robin had one friend who visited him. He managed on the $500 that welfare provided monthly, though there wasn’t much left after the landlord had taken out $375 for rent. Yet even after we got Robin the medical attention he deserved, he had no unkind words to say about anyone or about his situation. Instead, he took it all with grace, dignity and a measure of good humour. He still lives in the meagre, humble way he has to, and he always has a smile and a joke for us. What you see is what you get. That’s how Robin is.
There are others in that rooming house with similar tales, people to whom life happened while they were looking the other way. Stewart, a former engineer whose mental decline led him to homelessness. Samantha, whose husband abandoned her and left her penniless when she developed multiple sclerosis. Jennifer, a former nurse. Tim, an athlete and contractor who could no longer work after suffering a brain aneurysm. They had all landed on the street, incredulous at finding themselves there.
None of these folks grouse about their circumstances, either. None of them blames anybody else. They just live their lives and behave like the people they are. What you see is what you get.
Deb and I meet many people in the moneyed world who try incredibly hard to be seen as important. Status is the ultimate qualifier. Keeping up with the Joneses is the great, grand chase, even when the Joneses don’t give a damn about you. Their world is the HTML code of life-building: complicated, tricky, time-consuming, confusing and accessible only to the elite.
Our tenants don’t confuse belongings with status. They don’t confuse money with worth. They don’t waste time on blame and denigration. They just live. When they talk to us, there’s no decoding necessary. We know who they are, and we’re comfortable in their company. What you see is what you get. From where I sit, they’re the ones who’ve got it right.