Snow White Gets Her Say (selections)

Greystrands

Once upon a time I had pretty little golden locks. Now all I have are grey strands. And as I was walking along one day with my cart full of all of my things—if you didn’t take it with you, somebody would steal it—and I had a lot of things people would—well, they’d kill for my plastic bags, great big green ones with no tears at all, just a little one in the corner, still keeps you dry though don’t you worry, and I’ve got a big long stick with a nail stuck in the end, one of the city workers fell asleep on the bench next to me one afternoon, you know those old geezers ready to retire that they put on the Parks Sanitation Crew, well that stick sure is good at sticking things, I can’t reach down anymore, my back is falling apart, and you miss a lot of good stuff at the bottom of the bins if you can’t just reach down and grab it, well, see, now I just poke in my stick, a few times, ’cause my eyes aren’t so good these days, and there, I’ve got it. But do you know what people most want to grab off me? My little black book. That’s why I keep it on my person, it’s too precious. I have a list, all written down of all the places that give away their leftovers—good leftovers—and I’ve got a star beside the ones that do it without making you feel like a beggar.

What was I saying? Oh yes, I was walking along, feeling right smart in my new rubber boots—yesterday’s find—a bit big but if I wear all my socks—and suddenly I smelled this delicious porridge. Now you have to understand that hot food is a real treat for most of us. How are we ever going to make ourselves a hot meal on the streets in our corners—plug in a hot plate to the nearest parking meter?

So I checked my list quick to see if this address was on it. (I forget easy, that’s why I’ve got them written down—it does no good to go the same place three times to ask when they said no the first time, they’ll think you’re being a pest. They don’t realize how easy it is to just forget day to day where you’ve been. Why I hardly remember where I am sometimes). But no, these people weren’t on the list, under the yes’s or the no’s. So I knocked on the door, politely, to ask if they could spare some of their nice hot porridge. No answer. Well, the door was open a bit, so I peeked in. No one there. But I saw the porridge steaming in bowls on the table. Brown sugar in a little dish even. Well I was hungry and so I confess I went straight to it. Serves me right, I burnt the whole roof of my mouth! Ooh, I yelled! Then I laughed! I haven’t burnt my mouth since, well since I was a lot younger, but—eating pizza! Yes, that’s it, the first slice from a box when it was just delivered… I tried the next bowl—too hot too, darn! But the smallest bowl was cool enough, so I ate it all without another thought. Then I felt awfully sleepy. Again when was the last time I ate so much I got tired? Well I headed for a comfy chair, but then I saw a bedroom—sure enough, there were beds! I mean—oh, this one is too hard—I knew they’d have beds, it’s just I haven’t slept—this one’s too soft—in a bed—but this one is just right—since…

Delivered pizza! Can you believe I was once rich enough—can you believe I once had an address they could deliver it too? So what happened? How did I get from a little apartment on King and Third with flower pots on the balcony and a cat that knew its name and a cup of tea in the afternoons with “Cheers” reruns and Gus snoring in the lazyboy, his pipe fallen into his lap—Gus died. Gus who loved my golden locks, my prince charming for fifty-five years—died. So his pension stopped. And of course, as a homemaker for most of my life, and a part-time this and that, here and there, I had no pension of my own. The government—well, the government pension is based on how much you earned and how long you worked, so in my case it didn’t come to much. The OAS and the GIS together came to about $450 a month. Well, what do you think my rent was? $400. That leaves $50 a month for food and—and some of the pills I was on weren’t covered, and there’s extra billing every time I—Sure, we had savings, but that was running out. Of course I looked for a cheaper place to live, the shared accommodation column had some pretty good possibilities, but no one wants to live with—There were a couple months I couldn’t make rent—Boots got sick once and that cost, and I dropped my glasses and they broke and I had to buy another pair—I can’t see at all without them—and I splurged, God knows why, and went to the dentist after all about that pain in my tooth, and, well I was evicted: I found myself out on the street with all of my things (what I had left—by this time it wasn’t much, I had sold the radio, the tv of course, and my good set of dishes, things I didn’t really need). And then I soon found out that if you have no fixed address, you get no fixed income. The OAS and GIS stopped. I woke up.

I mean these people came back into their house and found this smelly old lady asleep in one of their beds and they woke me up. As soon as I remembered where I was, I got all embarrassed. And then I felt the bed, oh my God, I didn’t—I stumbled up, hoping they wouldn’t notice, but they’d seen my cart and of course they’d called the hospital already. They apologized, I apologized, I tried just to be on my way, bundling up my big coat trying to hide the holes under the arms, thank you, I’m sorry, I—I couldn’t get away, the attendants were there already—Is this a happy ending?

***

Catherine

That you don’t recognize me by name is but the first of my complaints about my tale. Oh you know me alright. I’m the main character—in a tale titled with the name of one of the men in the story. But what’s in a name? A lot. Especially if it’s a man’s name. This man’s name is the answer to the question upon which rests the fate of myself and my newborn child. So his name is very powerful, it is very important. My name apparently is not.

Nor is my life. For whether it is to be filled with joy and delight from being with my newborn, or empty with grief and loss from separation is to be decided by a mere guessing game.

Nor are my words important. I denied my father’s boast. I told the King I most definitely could not spin gold out of straw. But he didn’t believe me. Of course not. He chose instead to believe the words of an immature, egotistic, vain man. And I suffer the consequences.

The consequences. To pay for my father’s ridiculous lie, I lose my sanity, my freedom, and my dignity for three nights—and almost my child, forever. (And one sentence—one sentence in the whole tale is devoted to that ‘choice’, that decision to give up my child in return for my life.)

Because I ‘succeeded’ on the third night, I was ‘rewarded’ with marriage to the King. Thus, for all intents and purposes, I also lost my life. Can you imagine what it is like to be married—legally bound to honour and obey until death, and socioeconomically bound with little option but to stay and make the best of it—to a man who didn’t believe me, a man who locked me in a room for three nights, a man so greedy that he said three nights in a row he’d kill me unless I did as he wanted? And that was before he owned me.

But as the tale says, I am shrewd and clever. And I have learned the force of threat, and the importance of a name—especially if it is male. Proud fathers want very much to pass it on. But royalfathers—dear husband, aging Highness, what would happen to your precious lineage if my, your, only son were to suddenly—

Since I am not dead, and am living still...

***

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