by Mikaela Brewer for The 44 North, Senior Editor
Dorrie sat down on the small stone bench by her plot in the community garden, running her palms over her expanded stomach. The garden was nestled into a small valley next to her old high school and city soccer field, and at 6:00 p.m., the sun set through the cool April mist that hovered above it. Dorrie closed her eyes to a cool gust of wind that swayed her long black braids across her back and shoulders.
Andy, Dorrie’s four-year-old son, kicked a well-loved red soccer ball around the garden plots as if they were pylons to run drills with. He laughed loudly, curls flying across his freckled nose, which made Dorrie smile.
“Mommy Dorrie, when will the baby come out?” Andy called, breathlessly, having noticed the intensity of his mother’s fatigue growing each day.
“When the spring peas and radishes come up, love.”
“When we see green! That’s what Mommy Tisa said. Why is everything still dead?”
“No, it’s just sleeping,” Nick replied with a grunt. Nick was Dorrie’s younger brother, presently churning the soil on his hands and knees. The small town had finally welcomed a warm day in March to check on the soil health and plan out the spring garden. The air, though, still smelled like winter—decaying leaves and exhaust, hovering cold and gray in the air.
“Like you’ve been all through your senior year of high school?” Dorrie quipped with a playful smirk.
“I’m just tired,” he responded, with a tinge of frustration.
“Oh Nick, I didn’t mean anything by—”
“I know you didn’t. It’s not you.”
Dorrie bit her lip and shifted her weight on the bench. She could feel the cold, flat stone bench through her jeans.
“Do we have room in the fridge to stratify everything?” Nick asked curtly, straining to soften his voice.
Dorrie nodded, but didn’t speak, clasping her hands together over her stomach.
Nick looked up, saw his sister’s confused face, and swivelled around to face Dorrie, cross-legged in the soil.
“I’m sorry, Dorrie,” Nick said, “I’m just thinking about this whole OSAP thing today. I’m so angry about it.”
Dorried nodded. “I figured, actually. I heard many students were walking out and protesting.”
Catching a slight tone of disapproval in his sister’s remark, Nick replied, “Yeah, I was one of them.”
Dorrie narrowed her eyes with curiosity rather than judgment. “Why? I mean, economically, it seems to make sense—there are billions of dollars in deficit and more expected without change. I paid back all my student loans. Taxpayers, like Tisa and me, pay for students to have a grants-heavy funding program.”
“You did, but the cost of living right now is devastating. The youth unemployment rate is skyrocketing. Everyone thinks we’re only ‘complaining’ about having to rely on and/or pay back loans. But removing the domestic tuition freeze, which now allows institutions to raise tuition by two percent per year for three years, will be really hard for students applying to programs, before the three years are up and fees are adjusted for inflation. Imagine what it would be like for you and Tisa if one of you were in school or trying to go back to school.”
Dorrie pursed her lips, thinking. “You’re right. We’d never be able to afford it alongside child care and all the other rising costs of living.”
Nick nodded, looking down to separate a handful of soil in his palm.
“But I still don’t understand why everyone’s upset about modifying a mostly-grants program to a loans program? It’s necessary for sustainability, from what I know. It aligns with other provincial models. And the OSAP cuts only impact the forty percent that come from the province, not the sixty that comes from the federal government, right?”
“Well, first, it was a pretty drastic change—grants are now capped at 25 percent and loans at a minimum of 75 percent. But whether it’s necessary or not isn’t the point.”
Dorrie raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “Tell me more.”
“What feels so inconsiderate is the information gatekeeping and lack of transparency. It depends on your application whether you’re eligible for federal versus provincial assistance. So it’s hard to predict financial aid to begin with. The calculator on OSAP’s website doesn’t offer a clear approximation—there’s a disclaimer that you could be eligible for more or less money depending on your application. The federal estimator only tells you federal numbers. And the calculators don’t factor in the cuts yet. They won’t until a bit later in the spring. I’ve already accepted my offer of admission, so how do I plan for funding?”
“Okay, yeah, I hear you. Changing grants to loans also radically shifts your financial plans—and our parents’—if you’re already in school or have accepted offers. And I think about people in their late twenties or thirties, like me, who might be returning to school.”
“Exactly. And, it was known for a long time—almost ten years, since 2017—that the system needed reimagining. I’m not disputing that the structure could or even should be different. But, there were other, more considerate, phased approaches possible if so. But it’s been left to the last minute, and now, the only way to course correct is to make a huge change all at once, and for the students to take on the costs associated.
“I hear you, Nick. It’s like climate change, and what costs fall on consumers when policy should have been shifted a long time ago.”
Nick was still looking down at his hands, picking the cold soil out of his fingernails. “Yes,” he said, with a sigh.
Dorrie tilted her head and smiled. “Nick, I’m not sure what to tell you, truthfully. But what I can say is this: if we put the milkweed seeds in the fridge, they’ll invite butterflies here in the summer. Keep protesting and keep believing, especially when you feel trapped inside a refrigerated box with no way out unless someone else opens the doors. And when you feel powerless, seed hope—germination can be encouraged by the cold, damp innards of a fridge of all places. If the seeds continue to break out of dormancy, shedding hard coats to bloom each year, then we can keep going, too.”
Nick smiled and stood to wipe the soil from his jeans. “Thanks, Dorrie.”
“Always.” Dorrie smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “We’ve got little ones to fight for, too. It’s not just us.” She motioned to Andy and the baby she was carrying.
Nick straightened his shoulders, rolling them back with a renewed energy. “Andy! Come on!”
“Are you going to stay for dinner after we put the seeds in the fridge?”
“Can I?” Nick asked as Andy ran up to him, slipping a little hand inside his. Nick looked down into little hazel eyes that seemed to say I trust you.
“Absolutely,” Dorrie said.
