Ugly places

When I was just out of college and working in a refugee camp in Honduras, our employer flew groups of us into the city for a break every six weeks. We would eat salads and burgers and would gather in the evenings, eager for some relaxation after the isolation and harsh living of the Mosquito Coast. One night several people in the group ordered drinks (we were not a drinking or carousing crowd; just a young and energetic one, happy to be laughing or eating or dancing together). I had a drink, maybe two, though I doubt it; my tolerance for alcohol is alarmingly low. As soon as I could feel any effect at all, I stopped. I didn’t like the feeling that something was getting to me, affecting my brain, manipulating me. When one of my friends urged, “Ah, have another one,” as if this were funny, I reacted because it angered me. Why would anyone pressure a friend to do something that affected her brain? What was up with that? When I feel pressure, manipulation, I resist (as any passive aggressive introvert does). Isn’t that true for us all? Recently I felt that pressure, that manipulation, distinctly, and it bugged me just as much. But this time it was in the heart of Toronto at Dundas Square.

Our last day together with Mikael and Elai, we were driving back home through Toronto after visiting family in Coburg. We dropped the two of them off in Cabbagetown, so Elai could show Mikael around, and we kept going on to the Peninsula (it’s more of an isthmus, but that is what the Niagara region is called because it has a lake to north and south and a river cutting off the east end at the US border) and picked them up later from a bus station. Cabbagetown was once the home of immigrants to the city, especially Irish, who, as legend has it, were so poor that they planted cabbage in the tiny patches in front of their homes. Today it’s the home of the largest stretch of Victorian homes in North America. Immigrants plant their cabbage elsewhere.

At one point we drove right through the heart of Toronto, some wide intersection that is probably one of the most traveled and expensive spots in the country.  I realized that rather that looking up at the sights, I wanted to put my head down because all I could see was advertising. Right in front of me as we drove was a building-sized woman in a slinky dress and high heeled shoes wanting me to buy something—I don’t even know what—perfume, vodka, jewelry, shoes? All around me, it was the same thing. All the buildings wore signs, most of them flashing LED and LCD screens, and all of them selling something.

The day before, we had come from an art gallery, where I’d been impressed with what Canadian artists could do. Here I was in the heart of the country, and it was repulsive. I’d probably feel the same in Time Square.  Recently Oaxaca has been putting up those LED screens at busy intersections of the city, and I find them irritating and distracting. Why would a city allow this? With all the beauty possible in these countries, why waste hot space on ugliness? Of course, consumerism runs our economy, and if people don’t keep buying, our countries are in trouble. But what I know is that the manipulation, being forced to look at a giant flashing screen with a scantily clad woman selling who knows what, feels like a “friend” handing me an unwanted drink. The passive aggressive in me says, “Oh, no, you don’t.”  I’m told that advertisers are just as happy with a negative response, so they have us both ways. I guess I just keep my head down and think happy thoughts.

I'm not as brave as Banksy who wrote,
        Brandalisim
        Any advertisement in public space that
        gives you no choice whether you see it 
        or not is yours. It belongs to you. It's 
        yours to take, re-arrange and re-use.
        Asking for permission is like asking to
        keep a rock someone just threw at
        your head.