Shattered (10 page)

“Obviously at least one person has done their reading,” Mrs. Watkins said, trying to look stern. “Since most armed forces try to avoid being seen, their uniforms and vehicles are in browns or greens or sand colours, depending on the region where the conflict is taking place. Rather than trying to blend in, the UN peacekeepers want to be seen. By being seen it is hoped that they can avoid being mistaken as a combatant.” Mrs. Watkins took a sip from the coffee sitting on her desk. “Since 1956 Canada has had over a hundred thousand members of our armed forces in these missions. We have contributed more soldiers to more missions than any other country. That is why we are known around the world as a peace-loving country.”

“Obviously nobody's been watching us play hockey,” somebody added.

“Obviously not,” Mrs. Watkins agreed. “But there is a cost. Peacekeeping missions, although sanctioned by the United Nations, are primarily paid for by the countries that supply the soldiers. There is also another cost.” She paused. “Being dressed in a blue helmet or driving in a blue vehicle doesn't make you bulletproof. Since its inception there have been over eighteen hundred deaths of United Nations peacekeepers.”

There was a gasp from the class, but not from me. I
knew the number because I'd done the reading on Sunday. I'd actually found it pretty interesting.

“This number seems large, but remember that there have been hundreds and hundreds of thousands of soldiers from countries around the world that have been posted in these missions. Does anybody know which country has suffered the most fatalities?”

“India,” I said quietly.

“That's right, Ian,” she said, spinning around to face me. I didn't think she would have heard me. “They have suffered one hundred and nine deaths. Ian, do you know which country has had the second-most deaths?”

“Canada. One hundred and seven … and counting.”

She nodded. “And counting. As we speak, there are Canadians serving in missions in the former Yugoslavia, Africa and Central America, the Middle East and Asia. For a relatively small armed forces—we have approximately sixty thousand men and women in uniform—we stretch ourselves around the globe.” Mrs. Watkins took another sip from her coffee. “Just out of curiosity, does anybody here have a member of their family who is in the armed forces?”

There was no response.

“Does anybody even
know
anybody who is in the military?”

Again no answer.

“Surely
somebody
must know
somebody
who
was
in the military.”

“I do,” I said. “Sort of.”

“He was sort of in the military or you sort of know him?” Mrs. Watkins asked.

“I sort of know him.”

“Is this somebody you've talked to recently?”

“This past week.”

“And will you be talking to him in the near future?” she asked.

“Probably … I could … I guess.”

“In that case I have an assignment for you, Ian.”

I cringed. Why hadn't I kept my mouth shut instead of showing off?

“Actually it's an assignment for Ian or anybody else who would like to earn some bonus marks.”

“So this is a voluntary assignment?” somebody asked. “Completely,” she said. “Although there are some people who could clearly use the bonus marks if they hope to make grade ten civics a one-year project.”

She wasn't looking at me but I knew she was talking to me.

“The assignment is to interview a member of the armed forces. To ask him, or her, about where they were assigned, to discover if they were part of a United Nations–sanctioned peace mission, to get their opinions, to hear of their experiences. That is the assignment. Any questions?”

The only question I had was whether I could afford to risk not doing this assignment. I didn't think that was an option.

“Before we go any further discussing our reading, I'd like to take this opportunity to have Ian tell us about his community service placement,” Mrs. Watkins said.

Great, I'd thought she'd forgotten about me. I slowly got to my feet and turned around so I was facing the class.

I guess that was one good thing about sitting in the front—although if I'd been in the back, and kept my mouth shut, she probably wouldn't have remembered I was even there.

“If I'm not mistaken, Ian is the last person in the class to report on his placement. Is there anybody else?” she asked.

Nobody answered. I just stood there, on display—the poster boy for being the last. Was she trying to make me look stupid?

“Please begin, Ian.”

“Sure. I'm volunteering at a place called the Club. It's a place that feeds street people.”

“Do they, like, give out sandwiches or something?” a girl asked.

“No, it serves meals, real meals … beef stew and spaghetti … things like that. It's good food.”

“Sounds like you've tried the food,” Mrs. Watkins commented.

“I know what it looks and smells like and the people really seem to like it,” I said. I didn't want anybody to know that I'd eaten there. “I help serve the food and clean up afterwards.”

“So you're like the cafeteria ladies,” a guy at the back—Jason—said and then chuckled. I'd known him since grade five. I hadn't liked him since grade five.

“Do you have to wear a hairnet too?” Chris, his friend, said.

There were a couple more muffled chuckles. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the two guys—the two
jerks
. I looked at one and then the other and then
focused on the first, locking eyes. I stared Jason down until he dropped his eyes to the desk. Jerk. Wimpy jerk. Maybe out there on the downtown streets I wasn't tough, but here was a different thing.

“People who've never been there might be tempted to make
stupid
comments,” I said, my eyes still on the two guys, daring them to say something, even let a smirk cross their faces. Neither did.

“It's not just about serving food, it's about saving lives. These people would die if it wasn't for programs like this one.”

“It sounds like you're really making a difference,” Mrs. Watkins said.

“Not me,” I protested. “I just show up and help out a little. The guy who makes it work is Mac. He lives there.”

“It's not uncommon for people running these sorts of places to spend an enormous amount of hours at their work so it seems like they practically live there,” Mrs. Watkins said.

“No, you don't understand … he really
does
live there … in the back. But it also is his life.”

“It sounds like you admire what he does.”

“I guess I do,” I admitted, although I'd never really thought about it until this conversation.

I had been confused by what Mac did, by his dedication, although I also gave him credit. Whether you believed it was something admirable or not, you had to admit that he was prepared to back his beliefs with his actions. He walked the walk. He reminded me of Berta that way. She was always doing something for her church or driving people to things like hospital appointments, and
I didn't even want to guess how much money she'd sent back to support foster children in Guatemala.

“Do you think that this gentleman would be willing to come to our class and speak sometime?” Mrs. Watkins asked.

I burst out laughing before I pulled the laughter back inside. “He's pretty busy.” Way too busy to waste his time talking to a bunch of kids in some stupid civics class, I thought but didn't say.

“He sounds really dedicated,” Mrs. Watkins said approvingly. She turned to the class. “I was wondering, when people think of street people, what comes to mind? Give me one word, just throw them out. One word.”

“Homeless,” Kelsey said.

“Definitely homeless or they wouldn't be on the street.

What else?”

“Drunks.”

“Drug addicts,” Justin said.

“Runaways.”

“No,” I said. “Not the people we're feeding. These aren't kids. These are men, almost all men, older men. Some are really, really old.”

“Other words?” Mrs. Watkins asked.

“Bums.”

“Hobos.”

“Crazy as a loon,” one of the two jokers at the back said. “The term is mentally ill,” I said. I wasn't finding either of them particularly funny today or any other day.

“Calling people crazy or loony, or saying they're a few bricks short of a load, or are a nut, is all part of a dangerous process,” Mrs. Watkins said. “If somebody is a nut,
then they are no longer a person, and if they are not a person, then you can treat them as
less
. That dehumanizing process allows people to feel it is acceptable to treat them badly.” Mrs. Watkins took another sip from her coffee. “Any other words?”

“Worthless,” a girl, Heather, said.

Nobody said anything. The word just hung there and everybody just stared at it. I knew this girl. She was smart and nice. She hadn't said it to be mean or a smartass.

“Ian?” Mrs. Watkins said. “Are these street people worthless?”

I shook my head slowly. “Nobody is worthless.”

“I guess the real question isn't are they worthless, but are they worth
less
… less than other people.”

Nobody volunteered an answer.

“Ian?”

I knew what the correct answer was, what I was expected to say—that they were worth just as much as anybody else.

“Well?”

“I'm supposed to say that everybody is worth the same,” I said. “But that's not the way we treat them.” “How do we treat them?” Mrs. Watkins asked.

“We treat them like they're worth practically nothing, so maybe that's what society really does think of them,” I said. The bell rang, startling me so much that I flinched. “On that note, class dismissed.”

People started getting up and gathering their books and belongings.

“And I expect those who didn't complete the previous reading to complete it before starting on the next two
chapters … all to be done by tomorrow. Expect a
surprise
test!” Mrs. Watkins yelled out over the noise of the crowd.

There was a chorus of groans and boos and comments. Mrs. Watkins turned to me. “And, Ian, can you please stay behind for a few seconds?”

Was this becoming a trend? I went over to her desk and waited as everybody shuffled out of the class.

“Ian, are you going to interview that member of the armed forces?” she asked.

“I'm going to try.”

“Good. You could use the marks.” She paused. “Ian, do you ever wonder why I'm so hard on you?”

I shrugged. “I just thought you were hard on everybody.”

She laughed. “I am, just more on some people. People I think have potential but aren't using it. People like you,” she said, tapping a finger against my chest.

“Me?”

“Don't try to sound so surprised. You know better than anybody else that you hardly ever give it your best effort. Although it does seem like an awful lot of work to act so uninterested, detached, and bored all the time. Wouldn't it be easier to just do the work instead of trying to figure out a way around it?”

“I'm going to try to interview that soldier,” I protested. “Don't try to do it. Do it. See you tomorrow.”

Nine

“
YOU WANT SOME
more juice?” I asked one of the men.

He held his plastic cup up in answer. I poured, trying to keep the flow of juice in the middle of the cup that was violently shaking in his hand. I stopped when it was half filled—I didn't want it to get too full. Less to clean up if he spilled it.

It was different being out here among the men, walking between the tables, instead of serving the food from behind the counter. The counter job was being filled tonight by three middle-aged, friendly, smiling lady volunteers. All three of them had big hair, bright-coloured dresses, and buttons that read
Jesus Saves
. Apparently, judging from the jewellery they were all wearing, Jesus had been saving up for diamonds and fancy earrings. How stupid, wearing things like that down here … even more stupid than wearing fancy running shoes.

Mac had made no secret to me of what he thought of those volunteer ladies and their Jesus buttons. He hated people like that—those do-gooders. He also said regardless of what he thought, he did welcome their helping hands and the money that might flow from their church.

I could have seen Berta working here, helping out. Part of me thought that would have been cool, to work beside
her. The bigger part of me didn't want her anywhere near this place. She wasn't equipped to deal with this sort of situation. Berta was just too gentle and kind and I would have had to spend all my time watching out for her. I wondered if that was how Mac felt about me … not the gentle and kind part, but having to watch out for me.

I scanned the room until I found Mac. He was standing just off to the side, watching. I wasn't sure if he was there to protect the church ladies from the men or the men from the church ladies. Probably both.

With them serving, my job was to clean off the tables, top up the drinks, and even hand out some extra buns and apples that had been donated and would go stale and bad if they weren't eaten soon. At first I'd been nervous doing the new job. It was different. More exposed. And that made it seem more dangerous. At least that's the way it felt. Serving food had kept me a countertop removed from everybody, and while holding a serving spoon or spaghetti tongs wasn't like having a gun in my hands it somehow seemed better than simply having a pitcher of juice to defend myself.

As I walked around I was completely ignored by some of the men, while others were friendly and polite. One guy acted like he knew me—like we were long-lost friends. That was particularly strange since I
knew
that I'd never seen him before.