While waiting at a walk-in clinic, I overheard a conversation where an old man asked a younger worker about his bloodied foot. The injured worker explained that he had dropped a stack of cinder blocks on his foot at his worksite, because his joints had frozen up in the cold and they weren’t provided with proper equipment for the weather. He talked about how these accidents were “just part of the job,” and the other man replied that he understood, as he’d worked construction for his whole life before he retired.
The young man replied: “Does retirement pay well? Was it worth it all?” They shared a bitter laugh. “You work and break your body for 50-something years, and it’s like you barely get anything. Who does all the money go to? Justin Trudeau? Danielle Smith?” When asked about who he would be voting for in the election, the young worker shrugged and asked if it even mattered. The waiting room then began to empty, and before the injured worker was called in, he turned to me.
“Did you expect that you would grow up to just be a number on a page?”
I didn’t get to speak to him, as he left right afterwards, but I remember the gleam in his eyes as he said that to me, almost like a little flame that refused to be stifled. He isn’t the only one like this–with the bubbling turbulence in Canadian society, the proletariat as a whole is coming to grips with the feeling of class anger.
Yilin C, Edmonton
