Danny

I met Danny in the mid-nineties, when I was working as a housing worker in what was then the newest and largest non-profit housing development ever built in Toronto. Little did I know that, years later, Danny would teach me one of the most profound lessons of my career in community development. At the time, we tried to house him in the newly opened building. Danny had been living in another housing project owned and operated by Homes First Society called Street City. The newer project was located between Jarvis and George Streets, just north of Dundas Street. It was a vast complex of four buildings surrounding a shared central courtyard: two cooperatives and two non-profit housing projects, totaling almost three hundred units. Each building was managed by a different organization. Homes First Society, the organization I worked for, managed one of them9 Jarvis Street on behalf of a coalition of nonprofit organizations led by the Church of the Holy Trinity. The building was named Mary Lambert Swale, in honour of the woman who had anonymously donated the land and funded the construction of the Church of the Holy Trinity in 1847. Later it was revealed to be Mary Lambert Swale of Settle, England who stipulated that all pews be free and unreserved, a principle aligned with the High Church movement in England at the time. When we opened, our small but dedicated team of three housing workers included Karen Barrett, who was in charge of finances; Samantha Lam, who oversaw the building warranties and maintenance; and me, responsible for community development. At that time, Homes First Society had made a bold commitment to house those often referred to as the “hardest to house.” The term described people deeply affected by life on the streets and/or those struggling with mental health challenges. It is important to clarify that “hardest to house” did not mean violent. Persistent urban myths often depict homeless folks as violent the fact is that statistically it is demonstrated that homeless people are more likely to be victims of violence, including by the authorities. The 1990s marked the last decade when the Province of Ontario made any effort to address social housing needs. Since then, new developments have been built sporadically by municipalities and non-profits rather than through sustained federal or provincial initiatives. During our training as housing workers, our employer introduced us to an innovative housing model designed specifically for tenants, considered to be hardest to house: Street City. Street City was a pioneering project built inside an old hangar near what is now Front Street and Tannery Road. Inside, a main “street” ran the entire length of the hangar, with small individualized rooms on either side. Each room had a bed, a hot plate, and a couple of chairs. Toilets and showers were shared and located near the main entrance. Each of the rooms were heated in winter, though the rest of the hangar was not. At the front of the hangar was a loft that served as office space and as an overnight shelter for those not permanently housed there. The brilliance of Street City was that residents still felt like they were “on the street,” yet sheltered from the elements. The building was only half its success. Street City was also groundbreaking in community development. Residents were trained in cooking, administration, and income management. They elected representatives to serve as advisors to management and were hired to clean and perform minor repairs. They even elected a mayor, a voice for the homeless who sat on committees of the former City of Toronto before amalgamation. It was democracy, dignity, and empowerment in action. Around the year 2000, the hangar was dismantled as redevelopment swept through the neighbourhood and luxury condominiums replaced it. Most tenants were relocated to other housing developments. It was within this context that I met Danny. We referred to him as “Danny Home First” because we had tried, unsuccessfully, to house Danny several times in one of the many projects of Home First Society (HFS) owned or managed. After the closing of Street City, Danny tended to hang around the Homes First Society main administration offices, which is how I became more familiar with him. Danny was a giant of a man, about 1.90 meters tall, weighing close to one hundred kilograms, with receding dark hair and striking green eyes that sparkled with mischief and intelligence. He was likely in his mid-thirties or early forties. Danny was a gentle giant with a warm smile and a remarkable love of debate. He would argue any point, not out of anger, but for the sheer joy of discussion. Though his booming voice and imposing presence could intimidate, he was never violent. The only person who seemed able to truly “handle” Danny was our colleague, Vicky Sanders, a very small very petit woman. It was fascinating to see such a small person be able to calm down and manage such a giant. For reasons none of us fully understood, Danny listened to her. Vicky was a senior consultant involved in developing housing projects. Though she did not work primarily on the front lines, she stepped in whenever tenants like Danny needed extra support. Those who knew Danny better told me that in his youth he had been a beloved hockey player in his hometown. After a devastating car crash, his life began to unravel. Eventually, he became homeless. The crash did not extinguish his passion for cars, especially racing. Danny followed racing circuits across Canada and into the United States, sometimes even hopping freight trains. He had traveled to Seattle, Phoenix, Chicago, and countless cities in the South. Danny had stories, so many stories. He had seen more of the USA and Canada than many people ever would. For a time, he lived in Street City. But his restless spirit and love of travel made it impossible for him to maintain stable housing there, or any other project HFS managed. Two events changed his life forever: the closure of Street City and the tragic events of September 11, 2001, in New York City. After 9/11, border security between Canada and the United States tightened dramatically. Travel without a passport was no longer possible. Danny, who had never needed one, could not understand why he suddenly could not cross the border. More than once, he was arrested trying. For years, he had escaped Canadian winters by heading south. After 9/11, that wandering life ended. He was forced to remain in Toronto, facing the bitter cold he had long avoided. Around that time, we tried to house him again, this time in a new building our consulting team managed on behalf of the consortium of nonprofit organizations: John Frank Place, at 80 Dundas Street East. The building was named in honour of Reverend John Frank, former rector of the Church of the Holy Trinity during the Great Depression of the 1930s. Danny was, on paper, the ideal candidate for subsidized housing. Thus, we housed him again there. Because my own building was running smoothly, I was seconded to assist with the transition, helping tenants move in from shelters and housing programs, including Seaton House, Toronto’s largest men’s shelter. At first, Danny seemed genuinely happy with his bachelor apartment. He attended cooking classes and other programs we offered. About a week later, another development consultant, Kevin Barrett, and I visited tenants to see how they were settling in. When we stepped off the elevator on Danny’s floor, we found him outside his unit, pounding furiously on the wall. Kevin tried to speak to him. I tried too. Neither of us could reach him. Kevin went downstairs to call Vicky, and I stayed, doing everything I could to calm him. After what felt like the longest half hour of my life, Vicky arrived and gently soothed him. Danny was drenched in sweat. His heart was racing, but he kept refusing to go to the hospital. All he wanted was his backpack. He kept repeating that he could not go back inside, that the walls felt as though they were closing in on him. Eventually, Vicky got his backpack and convinced him to get his heart checked. A few minutes later, they left together. That was the last time I saw him for a long while. Soon after, I left the organization for a new job, and the incident slowly faded into memory. Months later, one morning while I arrived at my new job at the Waterfront Neighbourhood Centre, then called the Harbourfront Community Centre, the receptionist, Liz Oliveira, told me a homeless man had entered as soon as we opened and had been in the men’s washroom ever since. She asked if she should call the police. I asked for a few minutes. I wanted to avoid a potentially harmful outcome. When I walked into the washroom, my heart stopped. It was Danny. “Hi, Danny,” I said softly. “Hi,” he replied in that familiar voice. “Do you remember who I am?” He looked almost offended. “Of course I do. I can’t say your name right, but you’re …Rick the guy from the building.” I smiled. The way he struggled with my name didn’t matter. What mattered was that he remembered. As we spoke, I noticed his feet were blackened. I feared frostbite. His sneakers were torn, nearly soleless. His clothes were in tatters: a ripped T-shirt, a threadbare sweater, pants barely holding together, and a thin green coat offering no protection against the cold. He had just finished showering. I asked if he had eaten. “Not since las night” he responded. We promised him food and clothing from the Centre’s clothing bank. He agreed to wait. I offered socks, pants, and a T-shirt. He insisted he only wore white T-shirts and never jeans. I couldn’t help but smile, especially when he requested a burger and fries for breakfast and specified exactly where they should come from. Karen Smith, our head of recreation, a warm, happy, and generous person, took a special interest. She returned not only with the exact burger and fries Danny had requested, but also with a brand-new navy-blue winter coat with a detachable hood, gloves, sturdy boots, and a backpack. I expressed my concern to her because we had no budget for such purchases. Karen calming me down told me she had gone to Mountain Equipment Co-op, explained Danny’s situation, and asked for help. They donated everything. Danny dressed in the warm layers and happily ate his meal. He thanked us sincerely. After trying on the gloves and boots, he placed his worn clothing into the new backpack. Then, to our surprise, he went back into the washroom and retrieved his old green coat. “What’s wrong with the new one?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s the wrong colour. I don’t like navy blue.” And just like that, wearing his torn green coat, Danny walked out of the centre, and out of my life. I never saw him again. That day, I learned something I have never forgotten. People in need are still people. They have tastes, preferences, pride, and dignity. Danny’s idiosyncrasies forced me to confront the assumptions we sometimes make when we are in the position of giving. What we offer may not always be wanted. And that is okay. Danny could articulate his preferences. Others may not be able to. But the principle remains. Every person, regardless of circumstance, deserves respect, choice, and dignity. That was Danny’s gift to me.