The Videbaek Zone

Autiobiographical notes

Svend Videbaek

I was in Grade 7 at the Royal Private School. Mr Stevenson was our English grammar teacher. We almost fought, when we were queuing, to be the first into his classroom when the bell rang. He was short, rather wide. His crazy dark hair stuck up all over the place. Wore thick glasses on black plastic frames. Had a bushy moustache and gentle brown eyes. He was kind and fun. We were on tenterhooks as he started the class.

Mr Stevenson taught English grammar by writing stories, in white chalk, on the huge blackboard at the head of the classroom. He would drag his heavy wooden chair up to the blackboard, jump on it and stand up on tippy-toes, reaching up with his chalk poised at the top left corner of the blackboard. He’d turn around and peer at us over his glasses.

“Denison.”

“Sir!”

“How shall we begin?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“Oh, Denison,” he’d say in a sad voice, and turn to his blackboard to write:

Denison was empty of all emotion, feeling, and empathy.

“Verbic.”

“Sir!”

“Thoughts on how to continue?”

“Denison isn’t that bad, Sir.”

And Mr Stevenson would write:

But all was not lost for poor Denison. He had, after all, a mother and a father, who did not beat him.

“Chisholm.”

“Sir!”

“Thoughts on how to continue?”

“Violence is wrong, Sir.”

And Mr Stevenson would write:

Denison’s parents did not beat him because they abhorred violence
in all its forms.

“Fripp.”

“Sir!”

“Thoughts on how to continue?”

“Denison’s father was in the war, Sir.”

And Mr Stevenson would write:

The abhorrence that Denison’s parents felt towards violence stemmed, in large part, from the wartime experiences of Denison’s father. 

“Videbak.”

“Sir!”

“Thoughts on how to continue?”

“Denison’s father was a merciless killer during the war. When it ended he didn’t succumb to drink, he forgave himself and returned to his family.”

“Ah,” said Mr Stevenson, “Took you lads a while to get warmed up today.”

Mr Stevenson brought his arm down, turned on his chair, faced us. He said: “Who’s next?”

All the young arms in the classroom shot up. All the young voices joined in:

“Sir!”

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He was sipping tea with his mum when she told him about one of the most mortifying moments in her life. He was the cause of it. He was about three years old at the time. He had learned to talk, and talk he did in the loud, declarative manner of a three-year-old. His mum had gone with him to the bank, the local Bank of Montreal. They stood in line, hand-in-hand, in front of one of the wickets.

The bank was busy, there were many queues of people waiting to get to a wicket. His mum was daydreaming. It was very quiet, just shuffling feet. Then she heard her son loudly declare: “Mummy! Mummy! That lady there has a dirty face!” 

She looked down and saw her son pointing at a tall black lady standing across from them in the next queue. She looked over at the black lady. Their eyes locked. The black lady left her queue and came over to the mother and son. She bent down gracefully in front of the boy, got on one knee. She looked at him gently and said: “My face is not dirty. This is the colour of my skin. It is dark. Where I come from, almost everybody has dark skin like me. Would you like to feel it?” 

The boy nodded his head. “Go on then,” the black lady said, closing her eyes. The boy lifted up his hand, and gingerly felt her face all over. When he was done, she returned to her queue.

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He was visiting his parents in Keski-Suomi in the summer. He was in his mother’s little house in the woods, sitting in her little kitchen, sipping tea and eating vehnänen, talking with her.

They were talking about the old days in Toronto, when he went to kindergarten at Huron Street Public School. He has a few memories of that school. He remembers watching TV in hushed excitement as a man walked on the moon. He remembers sitting cross-legged on the classroom floor with other children around the teacher, a graceful young woman with deep brown eyes, long brown hair that shone in the sun, golden arms and a voice like a bell. She was reading to them and they sat in a circle around her, utterly in love.

                  His mother remembered Huron Street Public School too. She remembers going to parent-teacher night, the one night in the year when teachers and parents communicated about the education of the children.

It was in the evening. She was walking down the hall. Classroom doors were open on either side. There was a hum of voices. She was passing a classroom, heard something odd, paused. There were two women talking
inside – teachers. One of the teachers was telling the other one:

          “Oh yeah, but the Finns are the worst of them all!” 

          “What? Really?” said the other one.

           “Oh yeah, if you meet one, watch out! I can see them coming from a mile away.”

            “What’s so bad about them?”

At this point his mother, who wasn’t eavesdropping, was shaking with anger. “Those… those Canadian women!!”, she sputtered. “I wanted to go in and strangle them!”

          “What’s so bad about them?” the Canadian woman teacher continued.

          “Just that they never forget, and they never forgive!” said the other with a dismissive wave of her hand.

            His mother was at the door, incandescent with murderous rage, but she had to continue down the hall to meet his teacher.

          As his mother told him about this incident, some 55 years after it had occurred, she sputtered with anger. Her teacup shook in her hand. She hadn’t forgotten, and she hadn’t forgiven.

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In her early days in Toronto, his mum got decent work as a book-keeper and things were looking up a bit. She got out of the Spadina Avenue sweatshop zone. She started to move in more elevated circles. Occasionally, the elevated Canadians took an interest in her. She could see it coming from a mile away:

“Ella, where are you from?”

“I am from Finland.”

“No way, really? They let you out?”

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When he was a kid growing up in Toronto he had a wonderful little bicycle, a red Raleigh. He loved that bike. He rode it everywhere. All his pals had bikes too. They raced around with hockey cards in their spokes making a totally cool sputtering sound.

        Their territory was bounded on the west side by Clinton Street. At the foot of Clinton Street there was an old slaughterhouse, a hold-over from a previous era, that stank up the neighbourhood on hot summer days. They’d ride by the slaughterhouse sometimes when a truck was pulling up to it, loaded with animals bound for slaughter. They’d see the pink snouts of pigs snuffling through wooden slats on the truck. They’d hear the pigs’ hooves skittering on the floor of the truck. Smell the panic mixed in with the smell of shit.

        They didn’t like Clinton Street, it was a weird, shitty street. They didn’t know the Clinton Street kids, didn’t get along with them. But Clinton Street had an excellent back alley with a steep hill, which they loved to whip down on their bikes.

            He was doing just that one summer evening, alone. As he pumped up the Clinton alley hill on his bike, about halfway up there was a boy, older than him, standing there like a sentinel, perfectly still. This older boy turned his head and stared balefully as he climbed past. He reached the crest of the hill, hit his brakes, spun his bike around, headed down the hill as fast as he could go. As he whipped down the hill, he saw that the older boy was still there in the same spot, but now he was holding up a long and heavy two-by-four piece of wood, perfectly vertical, like a pole vaulter holding his pole, about to start his run.

He knew what the Clinton boy was going to do. Just before he reached the Clinton boy’s spot he slammed on his brakes, skidding, just as the Clinton boy lowered the two-by-four and heaved it at him. His braking had thrown off the aim. The two-by-four flew harmlessly by in front of him. He pumped his bike hard again down the hill and got the hell away from Clinton.

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Sammy was usually OK. He didn’t know why he had it in for him that day. Sammy was small, dark, Italian. Sammy stalked him around the dusty field of the school at recess, mouthing off. He was in Grade 4 at Palmerston Avenue Public school in Toronto. It was an inner-city grade school over-stuffed with immigrant kids. The overflow was put in portables, square wooden shack-classrooms with flat roofs, heated in winter, that could be moved around the schools of the city as needed. He was taught in one of the portables by Mr Giovanni, a stern British gentleman teacher from Tanzania who was addressed as Sir.

So it was recess, and Sammy was following him around, swearing at him. He ignored him. At some point, he thought he’d lost him. He was sitting at the foot of a big old tree in the yard. Then Sammy came up to him, very deliberately raised one of his running-shoed feet, applied it to his face, and vigorously rubbed it all over his face. He tasted bubble gum, cigarettes, soil, asphalt and dogshit.

He got up and gave Sammy a hard push in the chest, knocking him back. Sammy squared up opposite him and put up his fists. He put up his fists. In seconds they were surrounded by a mob of kids screaming “Fight! Fight! Fight!”, cavorting in ecstasy.

Sammy was short. He was tall. He had a big reach advantage, and he used it. He darted in, and Sammy swung at him wildly. He shielded himself with his arms and Sammy’s punches glanced off. He stepped to his right and hit Sammy hard, but not too hard, with a short right hook. His fist landed square on Sammy’s ear with a sickening mushy sensation.

Sammy’s face contorted with pain and he started to lose it, screaming. He rushed and swung even more wildly. Again he shielded himself with his arms and Sammy’s punches did no damage. Again he stepped to the right, measured the distance, swung another short right hook that hit Sammy on the ear again, harder.

Sammy went mental. His face dissolved in pain and anger. He attacked, a windmill of fists and gasping screams. He let Sammy bounce off, shielding himself all the time. It was quite easy to get inside Sammy’s barrage. He grabbed him by the shirt, tripped him, dropped him to the ground, and dropped right down on top of him, his knees landing hard on Sammy’s chest. He held Sammy down by the shoulders. Sammy was helpless. He thought he could subdue him, let him wear himself out and give up. He was wrong. Sammy started to have a fit, frothing at the mouth, trying to bite, making guttural noises like an animal. He got scared, and let Sammy up.

Big mistake. Sammy flew at him like a rabid dog. He lost his cool, he started to punch without aiming properly. In the mêlée, Sammy landed a straight punch on his nose with force. At the exact same moment, he landed a straight punch on Sammy’s nose with force. Simultaneously, their noses exploded and hot blood gushed out.

The mob of kids howled with blood lust. They stood and looked at each other. Sammy’s eyes filled with tears. He cried. Hot tears ran down his face and mixed with the blood running down.

The fight was over. They turned and walked towards the main school building, to wash themselves off in the boys’ washroom. The mob of kids followed, hopping and chatting about the details of the fight.

His pal José hopped along beside him, his face illuminated with joy. He exclaimed: “Svend! Svend! You definitely won! He cried, and you didn’t!”

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