Red and Gold

Driving westbound on Eglinton for the first time in what feels like decades, I expected the carcass of York Memorial Collegiate Institute to be completely levelled. Just a flat pile of brick and fire-eaten carnage that would leave a chasm as empty as it's a parking lot. I bit my lip and looked through squinted eyelids as I braced myself for contact with what I thought would surely be a definite collision with emotional impact.

But there it was, standing, a little worse for wear - the façade of the building. Its arms welcomed me, outstretched in the early spring sun. It's prideful stone and brick towered in place, sturdy as ever, as it glowered down at me, intimidating as ever. A chain-link fence separated the destruction from the street, but upon first glance, it was there, and it was fine. If you look a little harder, through the wooden doors, you see the sky. The vacancy was once where our auditorium resided. The whole north side of the building was completely gone. And that's when I absolutely lost it.

The auditorium was a ninety-year-old treasure, literally built as a memorial for World War I and II soldiers who attended the school and lost their lives. Everything about it held meaning - the stained glass, the crown moulding, everything. It was a place our community gathered for city council debates, concerts, plays, fundraisers and of course, our Remembrance Day ceremonies. It was the centrepiece of the school, and one we took the most pride in. It was a place I called my second home during my time at Memo. And there it was, vanished.

I woke up last Tuesday hearing about the raging fire engulfing the old neighbourhood at Keele and Eglinton. The flames all but engulfed the school within hours and took nearly a whole day to put out. It was the aftermath that was incredible. My social media feeds were anointed with images and tributes to this building that seemed to have existed forever. The pictures looked biblical - the sunlight streaming through our iconic stained glass windows, and the elegantly draped curtains on the stage. The backs of the lacquered chairs gleaming in the house lights. What you didn't see was the white wall backstage vandalized with the names of performers from school plays, the cage that held the makeshift backdrops for sets, signed in paint, the dressing room downstairs where the table was stained with old foundation and face paint, or the AV room that had names carved into the cabinets. We were immortalized in that auditorium. It was a safe haven for the artists that sought freedom and pride in their work. It was a place that held my dearest memories of my time there and seeing those pictures reminded me that this was traumatic for so many generations of students.

I remember the set of key factors that lead me to the auditorium: I was tired of being alone, I was shy, and a teacher who would later become my role model, Nancy, thought I should audition for the play after hearing me read a passage from Romeo and Juliet in grade ten English. I remember her telling me I had a knack for it and with enough huffing and puffing. I auditioned. And sure enough, I landed a role. It was that moment that the auditorium became my second home. I spent so much time there, I learned the correct angle to place my body in the seats to take a nap without waking up with a crook in my neck. I learned exactly how many paces it was to centre stage. I learned just where to stand to have the lights drown out the crowd. I learned these things because I watched afternoons turned into nights there. Because I had people that made me want to be there, that nurtured me there, that believed in me there. It was a place that I wanted to be.

I remember how the auditorium carried sound. It's a weird thing to remember, but I remember never needing a mic when I was onstage. Well, it was either that, or I was loud as hell. Both were definite possibilities and neither theories were mutually exclusive. I remember the air feeling different on stage, maybe it was the lights and the dust and the nerves that made the air heavy in my lungs. It was something to stand on that stage, the lights in your eyes so bright that you could never see the audience. It was like being alone and being vulnerable all at the same time. It was there that I discovered how much I loved that moment when the lights would come up and your feet knew just where to stand your mouth knew just what to say and everything in that one moment would just be the apex of perfection. Soon it wouldn't be enough and writing and acting and creating and supporting other artists would become my normal. I owe so much of my life to that place.

The wood of the stage was creaky and splintered, notorious for gnawing holes into the toes of socks. It was the following year when I landed a lead role in a production of Streetcar Named Desire that I lost the most amount of socks I ever had. Daniel, a teacher that would later become one of my most important friends and biggest supporter, would comment every chance he got on the state of my knee-high-Beetlejuice socks as he watched us parade about on stage as the tortured protagonists Tennessee Williams surely imagined.

It's little moments that strike me every now and again, and they've made this tessellation of memories that I've woven together this past week. I remember when I was in first year at U of T reading Kevin Lynch's Image of the City. He had this theory, it's called the "Imagined City theory". He proposed that you can't walk through a place without projecting memories onto it. And it's true. Memo has been a carafe of shared experiences for decades. Memories of teenage angst and hopes and dreams and hearing the Garden State Soundtrack for the first time came rushing back as I peered past the chain-link fence at that façade. Memories of Nancy introducing me to The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock for the first time or Daniel helping me work through a scene on stage for a half-hour until I got it right reminded me that this was a petri dish for my adulthood. I am who I am because of my time spent here.

This past Saturday, some Alumni organized a charity fundraiser for the kids displaced because of the fire. And it was absolutely humbling to see alumni from decades back come out not just to support the students, but to relive their glory days. For some it was the field, for some it was the music room and for some, it was the stage. Memo was a catalyst for all of us who went there to be the best version of who we are. And with the building gone, we have to make our own best versions. Just today I told Daniel that we have to make lemonade out of cyanide, and be strong. Memo wasn't built for the weak.

I look at the façade of the building and I remember the red and gold emblazoned on my hoodie. It's been well over a decade I've had it. It's not as dark as it used to be, but it's gotten softer and kinder as it's aged. I'd like to think it's a lot like me and it's a lot like Memo. A long time ago, we all thought we were leaving our mark on this place. We marked our names on the walls and tables and desks and chairs. Little did we know, this place was leaving its mark on us.

Red and Gold forever.