top of page

by Wardah Malik for The 44 North, Contributing Writer - Politics


Police officers at the Union Station PATH entrance
Police officers at the Union Station PATH entrance

"While the feeling of safety is difficult to pinpoint, what is known is that many transit riders do not associate police with safety.

Half of Toronto Transit Commission (TTC) riders don’t feel safe using the system. At least, that’s the impression you might get scrolling through Councillor Brad Bradford’s (Beaches—East York) social media. He has made transit safety a major pillar of his mayoral campaign, arguing for increased regulation. His latest motion to place police officers at every station was approved in March. Despite overall crime rates declining, Councillor Bradford maintains that “safety isn’t defined by statistics in a spreadsheet. It’s about how people feel.” If that’s the case, how do we know whether increased police presence actually leads to greater safety? In other words, can the feeling of safety truly be measured?


On July 7, 2023, a graphic video of a man being stabbed inside a Toronto subway car circulated widely on social media. In the shaky footage, a passenger can be heard yelling, "Help him. He’s stabbing him up. He’s killing him.” The fear in the speaker's voice resonated with viewers, many of whom cite the incident, along with other viral videos depicting violent episodes on the TTC, as evidence in favour of increased security measures on the transit system. These videos and images, while useful for holding individuals accountable, also have the effect of creating an environment of heightened unease and judgment. Online forums, in particular, have contributed to this dynamic. “Oh, another one?” one user writes in response to a March stabbing. “More poverty, more problems,” says another. Although reductive, these comments reflect and reinforce broader conversations taking place beyond digital spaces. Incidents of violent crime are being treated as a marker of the TTC and are increasingly being used to advocate for stricter policing of public spaces. In an article for the National Post, Councillor Bradford writes, “It’s the indiscriminate nature of these incidents that stays with you, the fact that in a crowded vehicle or on a narrow platform, there is nowhere to go when trouble begins.” 


Toronto police presence on the TTC subway system, January 2023. Via CITYNEWS/Sean Toussaint
Toronto police presence on the TTC subway system, January 2023. Via CITYNEWS/Sean Toussaint

For Councillor Bradford, the high-profile incidents of recent years are not isolated events. Instead, they reveal a trend and serve as a warning for TTC riders: On your next commute, you could be the victim of an attack. While the TTC insists that this isn’t the case and hundreds of millions of trips go on every year “without incident,” its own data complicates that narrative. In a 2024 annual report, the TTC noted that Special Constables made 215 apprehensions under the Mental Health Act, an increase of 9% from the previous year. The report described these apprehensions as responses to “calls received for persons who were in distress or posed a threat to themselves or others.” A 2025 investigation by CBC and the Investigative Journalism Foundation adds to this, finding that the number of reported assaults on Toronto-area transit increased by 160 percent between 2016 and 2024. 



The rise of violence on the TTC is difficult to attribute to a single cause. However, many experts argue that these incidents signal an urgent need for better support services for people struggling with homelessness, mental illness, and addiction. Often described as a microcosm of Toronto, the TTC reflects broader dynamics across the city and reproduces the tensions that exist beyond the platform. This means that high rental costs, overcrowded shelters and warming centers, and a growing housing affordability crisis will inevitably translate to more people using subways and streetcars as “makeshift bedrooms.” At the same time, the closure of supervised consumption sites has contributed to more visible drug use and discarded equipment across the TTC system. 

And although the TTC and the City of Toronto have taken action to minimize these impacts through the introduction of several programs (including community safety ambassadors and security officers), many argue that it’s simply not enough support. Frontline transit workers, specifically, have called for more overdose response teams, outreach and crisis workers, and mental health professionals to ease their burden and reduce the expectation that they act as social workers to counsel vulnerable riders and de-escalate emergencies. However, rather than responding more robustly to this call, Councillor Bradford and others who view policing as a means of creating a safer Toronto have opted to increase police presence. 


“We agree that the burden of responding to emergencies shouldn’t be placed on transit workers alone. However, we also know that police often escalate tensions on transit by, for example, harassing riders and using unnecessary force. Expanding police presence on the TTC contributes to a culture of fear within communities that are already overpoliced, such as racialized riders, Indigenous riders, immigrants, unhoused people, and people experiencing mental health crises,” Nico Nothwehr from the transit advocacy organization TTCRiders tells The 44 North. 


A case study by the Ontario Human Rights Commission reaffirmed these concerns, showing that Black people in Toronto were 3.25 times more likely to experience a Toronto Police Service check than White people. The study’s community consultations also called for greater investment in social programs rather than policing, arguing that reallocating funding toward community supports would create safer, healthier, and more equitable communities that are less reliant on police services. On the TTC, this could mean expanding community-based, health-focused responses that de-escalate emergencies and strengthen non-police mental health crisis services.


Past initiatives have already demonstrated the effectiveness of these approaches. For example, the Toronto Community Crisis Service (TCCS), a free, confidential, 24/7 mobile mental health crisis response service that is available citywide to people 16 years of age and older, received more than 29,000 calls for service in 2024 and dispatched mobile crisis teams over 23,000 times across the city. Notably, 78 percent of calls transferred to TCCS by 911 were successfully resolved without any police involvement, demonstrating that non-police crisis response models can effectively support public safety while reducing unnecessary police interactions. 



Still, even as advocates and community organizations continue to call for expanded, permanent support services and raise concerns about overpolicing, the TTC has steadily increased police presence across its properties and vehicles since 2021, arguably in an effort to restore pre-pandemic ridership levels. However, this strategy hasn't necessarily made riders safer. That reality makes it difficult to believe that Councillor Bradford’s latest policy will do anything other than target the city’s most vulnerable residents to create an immeasurable feeling of safety for a select few. In fact, over time, this policy will likely do more harm than good. It risks normalizing an expanded police presence in public spaces and making people increasingly dependent on policing as the primary model of safety. 


While the feeling of safety is difficult to pinpoint, what is known is that many transit riders do not associate police with safety. Policy-makers mustn’t ignore this and, instead, use it to guide consultations and engagement with riders on what truly brings about community well-being. And although a new TTC safety plan to implement a crisis worker program is a step in the right direction, issues beyond the platform need to be addressed as well. For Nothwehr, “[T]he most effective solutions will be upstream—like increasing the number of dignified and accessible shelter spaces, building more supportive housing units that use a housing first approach, reopening supervised consumption sites, and increasing funding for mental health and addiction supports.”

Wardah Malik is a Toronto-based researcher, editor, and historian. She is the founder of Historyless Magazine, an independent publication covering global affairs and underreported political narratives. Her work spans media, human rights, and community-based research, including projects on press freedom, public health, and gender-based violence. Her research interests include governance, decolonizing language, and the preservation of underrepresented histories. Wardah holds an MPhil in World History from the University of Cambridge.


by Stephanie Ta for The 44 North

Co-Founder, The Toronto Public Library Passport Project


A black-and-white sketch of a public library
A black-and-white sketch of a public library
"The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged."

On a beautiful summer day in July of 2024, I signed into our regular all-hands work meeting. Thirty minutes later, I signed off having learned that the full operations of the nonprofit we worked for would be closing its doors. We were all unemployed.


There was no dramatic buildup or warning, and it was strange how ordinary the information felt in the moment, even though everything was about to change. That kind of ordinariness sticks with you—it's a reminder that instability can creep up on you, even on beautiful summer days. 


It’s now 2026, and I still haven’t found long-term, permanent employment. Instead, I’ve juggled a long string of contracts. If I'm lucky, I have short roles and project-based work, meaning temporary positions with deliverable dates taking priority over purpose. This lifestyle has become familiar to zillennials in the questionable battlefield we call the workforce. With unpredictable employment crammed into long days and even longer nights, stability is an abstract concept; planning more than a few months ahead feels optimistic at best and foolhardy at worst.


It didn’t take long for me to realize how familiar my story is. Friends, colleagues, youth across the GTA, and hundreds of online strangers are all navigating similar realities. People are constantly moving between contracts, applications, side projects, and long stretches of waiting just to start. We’re all figuring out how to live without guarantees. Stability becomes less about things staying the same and more about knowing some places will still let you in. Life under capitalism means that we longingly emphasize our ability to own, control, and gain access. We yearn to have access—the type of access that means you don’t need to earn your right to exist in a space. You don’t have to be productive, successful, or certain. You can show up as you are, even when everything else feels in flux. 


This is the access we all dream about, which becomes grounding when nothing else feels secure or safe.


A model of the Riverdale branch of the Toronto Public Library, created from the pages of a book
A model of the Riverdale branch of the Toronto Public Library, created from the pages of a book

During this very unplanned and unwanted gap period, I found myself spending a lot of time on the internet. I consume endless information that rarely makes me feel better. Feelings of comparison and competition close in even though I’m spending less time with real human beings. I needed a place to break out of these four walls and constant reminders of not having a place to actually be. I needed somewhere that did not expect productivity or optimism; somewhere that would let me exist without pressure. A place that doesn't cost anything. I’m one of the lucky ones because a place like that does exist. For me, one of those places is the TPL or its government name: The Toronto Public Library.


Some days, I went to the TPL to locate Knitting for Dummies. Other days, I went when I needed quiet space with outlets and backsupport. Most days, I just need to leave the house. The library has always given me somewhere to land. 


The library has always been important to me. Even as a kid, it felt special. It’s a place where you can wander without a goal and still feel like you’re going on an adventure. Walking through the aisles feels a bit like walking through a candy store. Every shelf offers a new possibility. You stumble into topics you never planned to learn about. If you speak more than one language, the world inside the library feels even bigger.


A library card unlocks more than books. It gives you access to museums, art galleries, and city attractions. It lets you learn how to sew or borrow equipment you might not be able to afford on your own. It makes curiosity feel affordable and within reach. It invites and welcomes you back into community. 


Youth Engagement Scarborough participants gathered on stage
Youth Engagement Scarborough participants gathered on stage

Libraries are often described as quiet spaces, and they are. But they’re also places where people figure things out. For many, the library is one of the first public spaces they navigate independently. It’s where they print their first resume. It’s where they wait for friends after school. It’s where they sit without being told to buy something or move along. These moments are small, but they matter.


In my work with youth, I have seen how rare that kind of space is and how it’s continuing to dwindle. Many environments expect performance, progress, and answers. Libraries don’t. They allow people to exist while they are still becoming.


I know I’m not the only person who feels this way about libraries. So when my neighbour, Marisa, came to me with an idea, it immediately felt like something worth paying attention to.


Marisa told me about the unofficial Toronto Public Library passport—a passion project that encouraged people to collect stamps from each library branch they visited. As someone who moved to Toronto from the United States, Marisa discovered the library system as an adult. In many ways, she had explored more branches than people who grew up here. Her love for public access and community spaces made her wonder what the passport could become if it felt more intentional and reflective.


She asked if I wanted to help reimagine it, and of course, I said yes.


Stephanie on the steps of the Toronto Public Library’s Rivderdale branch in the winter
Stephanie on the steps of the Toronto Public Library’s Rivderdale branch in the winter

My background in nonprofit and social impact work meant I knew how to support a project like this. I knew how to coordinate people and move ideas forward. But it was my flexibility that made it possible. Contract work teaches you how to build things without waiting for perfect conditions. You learn how to make something real with what you have.


From the beginning, we were clear about one thing: This could not be a project about youth without youth being deeply involved. Too often, young people are asked to engage in ways that feel shallow. They are consulted after decisions are already made. They are invited to participate without being trusted to shape the work itself.


We wanted something different.


Youth volunteers were invited to visit their favourite branches not as researchers with scripts, but as community members. They talked to staff. They observed how people used the space. They noticed small details that are easy to overlook. They asked questions because they were curious, not because they were told to collect specific information.


What emerged were stories that felt real. They were not polished or uniform; they reflected how people actually experience the library.


One of the most meaningful parts of the project was the creation of branch-specific stamps. Designing a stamp sounds simple, but it requires people to think deeply about the place. What makes this branch feel like itself? What does it offer its neighbourhood? What stands out when you spend time there?


Turning those reflections into visual designs became a way of saying and emphasizing that their perspective mattered—not as a symbolic gesture, but in a real and tangible way.


This is what youth engagement can look like when it’s rooted in trust. Youth were not asked to represent an entire generation. They were not expected to perform expertise. They were invited to contribute as themselves.


Dear TPL: The Passport Project became our love letter to the Toronto Public Library. At a time when so much feels uncertain, it felt important to pay attention to the spaces that quietly support us. We wanted to capture what the library means to people and create room for reflection and memory.


Books stacked on top of a Toronto Public Library tote bag
Books stacked on top of a Toronto Public Library tote bag

Through Dear TPL, you’ll find a growing collection of stories, photos, and lived experiences from branches across the city. Youth and community volunteers documented moments that do not always appear in official histories. They focused on how spaces feel and why that feeling matters.

Creating something during a period of uncertainty can feel grounding. When the future feels distant or unclear, working on a project offers a way to stay present. Dear TPL was never meant to solve systemic problems. It was an act of care. A way of saying that these spaces mattered enough to be noticed.


The project is still growing, new stories are still being added, and youth are still encountering their local branches in meaningful ways. That ongoing nature feels right as libraries change alongside the communities they serve.


The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged.


If Dear TPL does anything, I hope it encourages people to notice the spaces that support them and to share their own stories. For young people, especially, being trusted to help shape public memory is not just engagement; it is belonging. And sometimes, belonging is what keeps us going.


If you’d like to learn more or get involved—in Toronto or through the libraries in your city!—reach out to Stephanie here.

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North

Senior Editor


A boat gliding across a dark blue ocean
A boat gliding across a dark blue ocean

In honour of Foster Family Week and Adoption Awareness Month, this story is inspired by the Child Welfare League of Canada’s Beyond Neglect Program, which “seeks to garner a better understanding of how we can best respond to the conditions that place children at an increased risk of neglect, with a distinct focus on meeting the needs of children and families.”


Please engage with further information & resources below:

***


Every Halloween, bobbing on the ocean in Big Barnie, my parents read aloud our favourite ghost story at midnight: The Little Mermaid


“Even the ghosts of the sea were cold,” my dad, Jack, whispered, making use of the gap in his teeth. He frizzed up his blue-black hair so it looked spiked with hair gel. 


Always with the ad libs. Last year, just after I’d turned 13, I stood on the slightly uneven deck boards, arms outstretched like propellers. I wanted to be strong enough not to need to hold on as Big Barnie rocked across the Labrador current. 


My parents were cuddled together under a blue knitted blanket, leaning against the mast. They took turns reading, but it was mostly my Mom trying to connect my Dad’s tangents back to the actual story. I loved it.


It wasn’t long after that night that I wondered if she might actually be out there—a gentle, kind, strong-hearted, and curious mermaid. My Mom. 


***


The hail landed in chunks thicker than my hand, pattering off of a rare trail of icebergs flowing down the cold Labrador Current in the North Atlantic. They’d broken off in the Arctic and floated south along Canada’s east coast until they reached the Gulf Stream. We were in the colder water that night, not far off the coast, and Big Barnie—our family work and home—was set to bring back a fresh crop of fish from the spooky October fog. 


But it was a clear night. Strangely clear. As my parents read the fairytale, I could see and smell over Barnie’s rail. The moon bounced off silvery fish scales. We watched the harmless, small bergs crawl across the water like white beetles. But in the gathering night, we didn’t expect or see the storm coming. Thunderstorms closer to shore had generated hail that we never would have predicted. 


The Little Mermaid was about to give up her voice when ice smashed the book from my Mom’s hand, breaking her fingers. She screamed. The top deck looked like it had been coated in sea salt. 


“Get below, Jackson. Now!” My Dad yelled, heading to the helm to turn the boat back toward Halifax harbour. Big Barnie rocked like a teeter-totter each time a chunk hit the deck. 


“But I can help! Let me help!”


“Please, honey, we’ll be fine. We just need to turn around and get out of the storm. It has to be localized this far out.” My mom spoke softly, but hurt. She stood, bracing her arm. Her dark brown, silver beaded braids looked ethereal. 


“You go too, Hannah.”


“Like hell, Jack. It’s my boat!” 


My Dad smirked and rolled his eyes. My Mom stood her ground. 


“Fine, let’s get moving. Barnie, you did it. You’re having your moment, my friend!”


I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I climbed down the stairs, gripping both wet railings to keep my balance against the harsh rocking. Something really didn’t feel right. 


And it wasn’t. Big Barnie was a strong, sturdy center console. But they belonged to my grandparents. Big Barnie wasn’t actually big, and they didn’t have ample cabin space. We didn’t have much money, I understood. Barnie was home. 


Their hull and keel tore as they rammed into a jagged rock shoal. The water came in fast. I heard both my parents’ bodies thud against the deck before I lurched, slipped, and tumbled down into the cabin, knocked unconscious. 


***


“Hi,” a gravelly voice spoke as I woke up, immediately smelling and tasting staleness. A hospital bed. 


I sat up, eyes bleary, and reached for my glasses. I couldn’t yet tell who was sitting on the end of the bed. A rough hand placed my glasses in my palm, and took my other hand in theirs. Dad. 


“Hi,” I returned, quickly aware I hadn’t used my voice in a while. I mentally searched my body for injury, but my Dad interjected. 


“You’re okay. A mild concussion. You just slept through the day yesterday.”


“Where are we?”


“Home. Halifax.”


“What happened?”


“We hit a hell of a storm. Out of nowhere. Big Barnie’s irreparable. But we’ll donate their organs.” He winked, seeming his usual, witty self.


“Where’s Mom?”


“Well,” he hesitated. I saw the frailty and slippage of what I would better understand a year later. 


“Dad. Where’s Mom?” My voice creaked with worry. 


He looked me dead in the eyes with unfaltering confidence. “She decided to stay.”


“What? Where?”


“In the ocean, silly. Don’t you know?”


“Dad, I don’t understand. What the hell do you mean?”


“She’s from the sea. She decided to go home.”


I blinked. I couldn’t wrap my sleep-saturated brain around this. “Dad, I’m not 5. Please don’t do that. Just tell me what happened. Please. Is she—”


“Jackson, Jackson, Jackson. Trust me. She’s okay.” He squeezed my hand, but his eyes betrayed him. 


I breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, so where is she?” I glanced around, thinking she might be asleep in a bed near mine.


“I told you. She’s a mermaid once again.”


I pulled my hand away and pressed the ‘water’ call button on the side of my bed. I shook my head no. When the nurse came in, I demanded, aggressively, to know where my Mom was. The nurse’s face fell grave as he looked between my Dad and I. He said he’d get the doctor. 


***


My Mom, unable to brace her fall or hold onto anything, had been flung over the side of Big Barnie when we hit the shoal. She’d been killed instantly on impact with the rock. 


Dr. Arbre had asked my Dad to leave the room when they told me. And there was more. 


“Your Dad, Jackson. Has he ever struggled with psychosis or schizophrenia?”


I shook my head, hardly knowing what these words meant. Dr. Arbre caught on. 


“Has he ever seen or heard something that isn’t there? Something that causes him extreme distress or confusion?” 


I shook my head again. 


They nodded. “His brain seems to be protecting him from the pain of losing your mother—he believes she’s out there as a mermaid. And right now, it’s not exactly harmful, or causing much distress. But will you call me if that changes? We can offer you both care.” 


My thoughts scattered like a broken window in my brain. I caught Dr. Arbre’s drift. One of my friends had been taken from his surviving Mom after his other Mom died in a car accident. She was drunk at almost every court date. 


“Okay,” I said, unconvincingly. 


I didn’t intend on leaving my Dad. 


***


One year later


“Dad, please. We need to get these in crates,” I said as clearly as I could manage, crouched over a net thick with fish, swallowing tears. The sun felt hotter than usual, almost sticky on my bare back.


Dad, his speech slurred, was begging desperately. “One more minute. Any time now.” He’d climbed the mast and was searching the ocean through binoculars. 


“Dad, I don’t think she’s coming back today.” I remembered to include the word ‘today’ because my jaw still hurt, bruised from the last time I’d forgotten. Thankfully, my freckles at least broke up the purple, yellow, and green. 


“Alright, Jackson. Yes. Maybe it’s a bit cold out there. I just thought she might like to read it with me, you know?” He said this so lovingly that I almost broke. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough to fend him off yet. 


“Read what?” Oh no. 


“What do you mean, “What”? The same thing we read every year. How could you think you have any right to grow out of The Little Mermaid?” 


“No, Dad, of course not. I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I’ve been hauling fish up all day.” 


You’ve been doing nothing. Wandering around thinking about why you can’t always go to school.” He was climbing back down now, and it took everything in me not to back into a corner. Even if I had, there was nowhere to go except the water. And it wouldn’t be the first time. 


“Dad, please, you’re drunk.” I nearly whimpered. 


But he didn’t stop. And his beer-soaked bottle sprayed glass across my legs as I leapt over the bow into the calm water, and swam the few kilometres to shore. 


***


He hadn’t stopped looking for her. But he hadn’t stopped looking for me, either, in between. 


I sat in a small pub where my Uncle John, Dad’s younger brother, always let me in for free warm soup. Frequently, it was the only time I ate all day. I’m 99% sure he knew exactly what was going on. His eyes followed my Dad when he eventually came in, an hour later, and sat across from me. 


“Jackson.” 


I didn’t reply, just dipped my sourdough in my fourth bowl of soup. 


“What kind is it?”


I looked up, but didn’t answer. I looked back down again.


“Right. SpongeBob Alphagetti, duh.”


I cracked a slight smile. “It’s—”


“Broccoli cheddar, I know.” 


I looked at him. His eyes were purple and red like a sailor’s warning sunrise.


“Do you remember because it’s my favourite? Or hers?” I asked coldly, confident he was calm now. 


“Jackson. Yours. Of course, yours.” His voice was hard and pained. My words had hurt him. 


“Dad, I’m scared.”


“Of me.”


“Yes.” 


He put his hands on his head, digging dirty fingernails through his long hair. Mom used to cut it, so it hadn’t been cut for a year. His voice faltered. “I know.”


There were few moments when he came to me clearly like this. But even still, I never challenged his beliefs about Mom. I didn’t know if grief was as flexible as violence. 


“Jackson, I’ve been thinking about something.”


“Alright.”


“I’m thinking maybe I’m not good for this.”


“For what?”


“Being a parent.”


My eyes narrowed and my brow furrowed with pain. “Yes you are.” It was almost desperate.


“No, Jackson, we both know I’m not. Another family could care for you. Give you a better life. Give you love.”


“You are love for me, Dad.”


He closed his eyes, and the tears trickled into his unshaven beard, now streaked with pale blue-white. “Oh, son. You are for me, too. But I can’t be it anymore.”


“Why can’t you fight for us? For me? Why can’t you just let her go like a normal person! We can be okay. You just have to try harder!” I was so heartbroken and angry that I didn’t filter my words. 


“I’ve hit the shoals all over again, Jackson. Permanently. The shoal of trying harder. I can’t try any harder.”


“You just think I make it worse. Make you remember her.”


“I don’t know what I think. But I do know what I feel—I have to take you to the agency. You’re such a good person. Better than I ever will be. What you need is to let me go. You deserve an adoptive family who can remind you of that every day. I don’t. I make you question it. We’ll go on Friday.”


“That’s only two days from now!”


It was almost like he’d stopped hearing me. Shut me out. “I’m going to check on the boat. Can’t remember if I tied it up.”


***


I don’t know how long I sat twirling my spoon in the empty bowl, but it was now past sunset. My stomach growled with anger beyond hunger, like someone I loved starving me of themself. I cried until my gut felt scooped clean of rage, the only thing left being grief, better known as love with a knife in it. 


I said thank you to Uncle John before heading out into a storm I hadn’t heard. The sky was that shade of deep purple-gray, dense with storm clouds. The raindrops were so big they stung like ice. The sky was weeping cold hardness. I had to catch myself for a moment—it wasn’t Mom


I started walking toward the marina, hoping my Dad was asleep inside our tiny cabin. There wasn’t room for both of us in the cabin of this boat. We alternated sleeping on the deck.


“Dad?” I called, loudly from the dock. There was no reply.


“Dad!” I thought he must be really asleep, which wouldn’t have been unusual. I climbed aboard to check, anyway. 


“Dad?” I asked again, inching down the narrow, steep carpet steps. He wasn’t there. A pang of panic spread through me like lightning branches. I swivelled around, scanning the deck. I’d have seen him—there was nowhere to hide on such a small boat. The rain was loud off the boat and dock, but I heard a distant voice from the water. 


“Hannah!” My Dad was swimming, already far out into the water and well into the potential paths of other boats. He was calling for Mom. I froze. I had no idea what to do. Nobody else was around with the coming storm. I was surrounded by boats—empty white and navy ghosts. 


Not again. Not again. Not again. I ran around untethering, almost slipping multiple times, and began backing the boat out of the marina.


“Jackson! What the hell are you doing?”


Uncle John ran across the dock, worry directing the path of rain down his wrinkled cheeks. His full brown beard and mustache had turned the same colour as the sky. I asked him to get help, but I kept going. 


It was hard to see as the waves churned, and I lost sight of Dad many times. When I got the boat to where I thought he’d been, or in the vicinity of where he could be, I threw the anchor over and dove in with it. 


“Dad!” I screamed, my mouth garbled with water. I was being sucked under. We were far enough out for rip currents. 


My consciousness began to blur until I heard an engine growl, followed by a strong arm around my ribs, which I assumed was Uncle John. 


My brain fizzled in and out of awareness, frothing like white caps. It finally hooked on a voice I was afraid I’d never hear again. 


“Jackson!” My Dad was hugging me, shaking my shoulders, trying to wake me up. 


I coughed and sputtered over his back, and he hugged me tighter. He let go, and pivoted my shoulders to face him. 


“Why would you come after me? Why!” 


“Because you’re my Dad. And you’re sick. And I don’t want to leave you. And you don’t want to leave me. And—” I coughed again.


His brow creased as he turned to look out across the water. I could hear the throat of the Coast Guard’s engine clearing somewhere offshore, fighting the harsh waves. 


“I can’t have you in danger like this.”


My heart sagged into my waterlogged lungs. I frowned as if to say, “Same with you.”


“But I don’t think I ever meant it would be permanent.” He handed me my glasses, somehow unbroken.


I focused and met his eyes. They were exhausted, but clear. Not bloodshot. 


“We can find you foster parents. And work toward reunification. I will get some help.” 


I couldn’t help smiling.


He smiled back, reaching to pull seaweed from my hair. “I mean, it’s stamped, really. Hannah named you Jackson. Maybe as a safeguard. Maybe she knew something we didn’t. Jack’s son. Always.”

This was a start. And I recognized hope. I hugged him again. 


***


We ended up finding support through the Child Welfare League of Canada’s Beyond Neglect Program. Poverty, domestic violence, few social supports, and mental health issues are the top concerns that lead to youth being removed from their homes (Canadian Incidence Study of Reported Child Abuse and Neglect, 2008). We were vulnerable before my Mom died, and more so afterward. My Dad struggled to support both of us safely, and resources helped.


As we navigated this, together, Halloween came again—now a reminder of grief, love, and brave change. I’m thinking about ghosts. In all his longing, my Dad fought to see the one ghost he couldn’t. That search brought others to life because he was alone in ways I couldn’t change. 


I wanted to see her out there, too. Selfishly, and maybe ignorantly, I didn’t want to believe she became a mermaid—I wanted to know it as fatally, desperately, and fiercely as my Dad did. I mistook that for a strong will—a choice. 


But maybe the real ghosts—the ones who hide seamlessly in the low, cool clouds that wisp around the masts of a boat, or in a strange patch of warm water out on the winter ocean—are never meant to be seen. They’re meant to be felt


The Little Mermaid didn’t save the prince that night. She brought him to where he could breathe. Maybe that’s what Mom did for us, too.

bottom of page