If we are ethnically white, as I am, then this story may come as a challenge to our stereotypes. For a white man such as myself, it is a hard book to read.
Curtis was raised in the hood¸ as he calls it. An area of substandard housing in Scarboro, Toronto. The injustices he describes that defined his neighbourhood include underfunded public schools, denial of funds for mental health and addiction services, affordable housing and a host of other services that were common in more upscale and white areas of Toronto. He grew up taught by the streets while labelled by the police and school system as black and thus guilty of whatever without evidence.
In spite of what society failed to give him, he developed an amazing entrepreneurial ability and a commitment to excel, which he did gaining scholarships, acing university and then embarking on a cross-Canada bicycle tour to raise money for the hood. In the book he alternates the story of this cross-Canada marathon with comments about his hood, his upbringing and the people who have inspired his spirit. It is a story to inspire young black entrepreneurs. Cutis is to be admired. It is a necessary book.
And yet part of the context is missing, in my obviously biased opinion. The book set me thinking back about my own upbringing. I grew up in a Toronto suburb of single-family homes and went to almost exclusively white schools until University. Being born in the dirty thirties and growing up during World War II and its aftermath, race was not something I had to deal with. My demons were the bullies at school and the jocks whose prowess in sports I couldn’t achieve.
Immigrants were few and far between until after the war when we had an influx of what were called “DP’s,” mainly from Europe. The main racial tension was provided by the French and English controversy. We dimly perceived the injustices perpetrated on our indigenous population. As a youngster, I wasn’t even aware of the fracture of India into two parts in 1947 which left a million dead. As I grew through the teen years, life seemed fairly tough. I had to deliver papers or do manual labour on my dad’s job site to earn pocket money. We never thought of it as tough—just life.
But in the last few years, I have become more and more aware that as a white male, I am viewed by many as the inheritor of a mantle of white supremacy and male chauvinism. This mantle irks. Personally, I don’t accept the mantle. I am who I am as an individual not as the forced inheritor of the perceived evils of my ancestors or my culture. So reading a book by a young black man from Regent Park in Toronto was not overly welcome even though I know Curtis and appreciate him. And yet, to understand people—which must be our human, let alone Christian goal—is a necessity.
I must say, like reading books by Ayaan Hirsi Ali or Lemmon’s The DressMaker of Khair Khana this book also opened my eyes to another perspective, a perspective I could not have gained except through the eyes of someone like Curtis Carmichael.
The book is a must read for those of us who are called white. It is written in a punchy, colloquial and very interesting style.