Salty Feet in a Mouldering City
I flick my wrist, aiming a piece of paper I had carefully folded into a throwing star an hour ago. My aim is for the narrow slit of the trash can on the side of the street, but it arcs wildly, caught by the wind, directly through a cracked SUV window. Sara, writer for the Argus, Fisher, Graphic Design for the Argus, and I watch as the driver’s head explodes into a mess of blonde curls from the projectile’s impact. Sara pushes past me, and we make a break for it. Here in Vancouver, the mossy, mouldering city, we’re making short work of its citizens. Greetings from Thunder Bay.
We’re here during a particularly wet and chilly February for the coast. Supposedly, it hadn’t snowed once all winter. In the snow’s stead was the windy, rainy humidity that forced everyone to resort to Arc’teryx Shell jackets and made those in their wool knits shudder in fear. Canadian student journalism’s best and brightest are all here to attend the NASH88 conference being held by Capilano University. Between thick swaths of Douglas Firs, about a hundred aspiring young journalists are next on the front lines in the war against reality.
Fisher and I float like bacteriophages trying to infiltrate the cell membrane of Capilano’s sloping campus. We get to where we need to go eventually and meet Sara, plus several other young journalists from coast to coast. After all introductions are finalized, we settle and shift into our seats. David Beers, the founder of Vancouver’s premier independent newspaper, looks us dead in the eyes and tells us to take up arms. Information has always been currency, just recently the dollar has gone up, he tells us. It is and always has been the job of journalists to not only report the facts, but also who is benefiting from those facts. Think of Vancouver’s streets. After asking around, we were told the story of how, during the 2010 Vancouver Olympic Games, the city decided to “clean up the streets.” It’s true, the corner of East Hastings and Main had never looked more spotless, but it was only short-term. The municipal government paid to put the homeless population who lived on the corner in hotels just until the games were over. Soon after, they were back, and the city had maintained their public image.
There was a sombre look in the eyes of the young journalists packed into the theatre hall. We had all seen how effectively misinformation had warped public perception of events happening right before our very eyes. I’m sure many people relate to having the odd aunt or uncle who got swept up into the right-wing pipeline during COVID and hasn’t looked back since. Fighting for the truth has pushed families apart. Truth is a force as strong as gravity.
On the shore close to the industrial port, we stop at a little beach. Fisher rushes down to dip his feet in the salt water, something I had never touched before now. I tried to see the colour of the ocean, but the white fog cast a white glow over the whole bay. That’s not a bad metaphor, I think, for what it’s like deciphering reality. If it wasn’t for me seeing the Atlantic Ocean this summer, I might not know the real colour of ocean water. It was the best I could do to take a peek between wakes. For all the vastness of the Pacific Ocean, all I could see were the ripples in the bay breaking up the snow-peaked mountains behind it. I could also see Fisher, grossly, taking a sip from his cupped hands.