Eastwood Zhao

This summer, I have been volunteering in various capacities, but one in particular deserves a special mention.

Gathered at this government-subsidised housing complex are children of all ages, ranging from kindergarten to seventh grade. Most of the children are of African descent, many of whom are refugees from war zones. No, I’m not with Médecins Sans Frontières. No, I’m not in a developing country. I am somewhere in the Greater Vancouver Regional District, at an African children’s summer camp.

This camp is no CEDAR or GEERing UP. Situated within a low-income, disadvantaged area and inside the confines of a two-room apartment, which has been modified to suit the needs of the programme, up to 20 children laugh, cry, and play together with the support of two paid staff members.

A large bookshelf sits near the doorway with a wide collection of reading materials tightly placed together. Sitting at the very top of the shelf is a heavy book, one which catches my eye and brings back the nostalgia of high school. I recall using this a-thousand-some page textbook for Biology 11. Waking it from hibernation, I bring the book to two of my friends, who are beginning and nearly finishing their elementary school careers, respectively.

“Let me show you something cool. Do you want to learn about the brain?” I ask.

We flip to the chapter on the nervous system and I begin to tell them, in very simplified terms, about different parts and functions of the brain. They are intrigued by the drawings of neurons and the nervous system would point at every single figure, followed by asking what it is. I tell them that the human brain is the most amazing, and my favourite, organ, that the back of the brain (occipital lobe) allows us to see, that the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body.

“There, now that you have learned all this knowledge, you are truly a scientist!” I tell them. Indeed, moments later, I overhear these budding scientists lecturing their friends on the brain.

Today was incredibly warm. Under the careful watch of the sun, sweat seeped into my clothing as I awaited the arrival of the bus. Thirty minutes later, I arrived at my destination and walked briskly towards the intersection.

There she stood.

She was hardly noticeable in her solitary vigil on the bustling intersection of Broadway and Commercial Drive. Her hair first caught my eye. Being middle-aged, overweight, and of African descent, a bundle of curly hair stood proudly on her forehead. Hair was also present on the back of her head. However, something was amiss. The medial portions of her scalp were hair-free. Strange, I thought.

Just then, the traffic light turned red. Seizing this opportunity, I paused, turned around, and looked just enough at her through my peripheral vision to see that she held a sign, onto which words similar to the following were written in bold, red letters: “MOM… NEED HELP.”

I walked towards her, away from the intersection, and asked, “How are you doing today?”

She replied, “Good, but it’s too hot today. I’m getting blisters.”

As I stood facing her, it became apparent to me that her appearance was deviant. There was nothing on the medial portions of her scalp but dark-coloured, circular markings. I was puzzled.

I responded, “Yes, it’s a very hot day today. Are you getting blisters from the sun? Why don’t you stand in the shade? It might be cooler.”

She said, “Yes, but then no one would see me if I stood there,” as she gestured at the shaded spot on the sidewalk, which was a mere footstep away physically but meant the distance of a football field to her.

As she scratched her sun-exposed scalp with her right arm, I realised that she did not have a left arm. What remained of her left arm, or the stump, was covered with extensive burn scars. I was puzzled no more. Reaching into my bag, I was unsuccessful in finding cash for her, which made me feel quite miserable and helpless on the inside.

The traffic light turned green. It was time to go. Defeated, I looked at her, wished her all the best, and asked her to take care.

I hope my words were of comfort.

My car rested inside the Safeway parking lot by Granville Street and 70th Avenue. Comfortably, I sat in the car with tunes from Espace musique playing gently in the background.

Then he appeared.

George, let’s call him, caught my attention immediately as he made his way laboriously  across the parking lot towards the store. He was a frail-looking male in his 60s and walked with an awkwardly debilitating limp in his left leg. I watched him directly, out of my peripheral vision, and then finally through my side and rear-view mirrors as he struggled to reach his destination with a cane, onto which he held dearly. Perhaps, I thought to my self, he had suffered a stroke and was possibly weakened further by a cardiopulmonary disease. Were my family not shopping inside Safeway then, I would have offered him a ride home without hesitation.

Some time later, George, as if an apparition, re-emerged from the store carrying two shopping bags, which held a number of items. Slowly, out of my rear-view mirror, he made his way towards my car, with his destination being the main road. The music was still playing inside my car, albeit softly. He spoke to a driver, whose vehicle was stopped next to mine. Because, minutes before, I had closed the windows of my car to block out cigarette smoke on this rather hot evening, I was unable to hear the conversation.

I thought to myself whether George knew the individuals next to me. When George stopped near the front of both mine and my neighbour’s vehicles, although momentarily, and continued speaking, I switched off the radio and listened.

Although George had a visible physical disability, his appearance and behaviour was neither threatening nor dysfunctional. However, because of the manner in which he walked and interacted with my neighbours in the parking lot, had the context been changed from a Safeway in Marpole to a sidewalk in the Downtown Eastside, he would have, sadly, also looked at home.

He kept on walking. By this time, I realised that George did not know the people that he had spoken to and was, possibly, ignored for his request of a ride. He continued his marathon.

And then it happened.

He staggered a few steps forward and stopped. The items which he had just purchased came to a rest on the ground as his upper body began to slouch forward, as if following the shopping bags.

My instincts kicked in. After removing the key while getting out of the car, I reached into my right pocket to ensure the presence of my phone. I was prepared to assess him while envisioning making a 911 call for an ambulance: “There’s a Caucasian male in his 60s who has just collapsed in the parking lot of Safeway on Granville and 70th. He is currently unconscious and may be suffering from a myocardial infarction…”

Fortunately, this was not necessary. He was fine, but was too exhausted to continue walking with two shopping bags and needed a break. I approached him to ask how he was doing and then offered him a ride. The task of sitting into the front passenger seat of my car was already quite challenging for him. Imagine walking home.

Coincidentally, my family arrived as I was assisting George with siting into my car. Together, we helped George temporarily finish his never-end marathon.