White Poppy
(November 11, 2004)

Normally I do not take things from people standing at street corners (especially at the intersection of Yonge and Bloor), preaching and distributing but there was something different about this girl.

She was blonde with violet eyes and a demeanour about her that eluded confidence.  She seemed passionate about her preaching, about her beliefs.  I could tell she believed good always beats evil, wars can be stopped, people can live in harmony.  In short, she reminded me of myself when I was in university.

"Would you like a white poppy?" she asked me.
"A white poppy?  No, no thank you.  I'm not opposed to the red poppy."
"Actually, wearing a white poppy does not mean you are opposed to the red poppy, instead the two are meant to compliment each other."
"That's poppycock!" I replied.

She handed me a little homemade pamphlet.  It was obviously she made on her computer, then photocopied a million times as it had the sense of amateurism.  Although, there were a few spelling mistakes, I admired her effort.

"White poppies were created in 1933 by the Women's Cooperative Guild in England.  It's a pledge that war must not happen again.  It's really a symbol of grief, remembrance of all victims of war, soldiers, and civilians alike."

I asked the young me, how the white poppy started.

"The red poppy is for remembering those who fought in war.  The white poppy is for remembering those whose lives changed from war:  Mothers without their sons, sisters without their brothers, brides without their soul mates,"

I looked at my pamphlet again.  In the bottom right corner, blending into the white paper was a white poppy.  It was made out of felt with black stitches sown in the middle.

"Did you make this white poppy yourself?"
"Yes."
"It is very good.  How long did it take you to make?"
"Oh, about 20 minutes.  I am not very hand-eye coordinated."
"How many of these did you make?"
"Eleven hundred and eleven."
"Wow."

It was impressive.  A student to sit down and sow for 20 minutes times 1111, then design and photocopy a pamphlet was truly special.  I removed the poppy from the pamphlet and attached it to my sweater.

"How much do I owe you for the poppy?"
"Nothing.  As long as you wear it, that's all I could ask for."

I thanked the young me and continued my walk, holding my chin up high for I had a white poppy.

As I strutted down Bloor Street, I could sense people staring at me but I did not care.  I assumed they were staring at me with envy of my homemade white poppy.  It wasn't until a pack of twenty-something boys walked passed me that I realized people were not in envy but were, in fact, mad.

"Hey you!" one of them yelled at me.  I ignored him.
"Hey you!  Girl with the white poppy!"

I stopped and turned around.  There were six of them - all roughly my age, standing under a walnut tree.

"What's with the white poppy?"
"It's a symbol for peace."
"Isn't that what the red poppy is for?"
"Yes."
"Are you protesting the red poppy?"
"Why, no.  You see it says so in this pamphlet..."
"She has propaganda against the red poppy!  Get her!"

"AHHHH!"  I turned and ran.

As they chased me down the sidewalk, I saw people around me dropping the ground with thuds.  I could also sense objects whizzing by my head.  I turned quickly to see the chasing mob throwing walnuts at me!  I ran across Bay Street.  As I approached University Ave, people were still dropping like flies around me.  Then, near the Roots store, one walnut barely missed my head - the mob had find its sights.  

I had to change direction so I jaywalked (jay-ran would be a better description) across Bloor Street.  Cars slammed on their brakes and horns were a blazing.  As I stood on the yellow line waiting for a car to stop, I could see windshields and car windows exploding around me, by the force of the walnuts.  At one point I had to cover my face with my sleeve as the exploding glass was getting closer and closer to me.  As I stood in the middle of traffic, unable to go forward, unable to go backward, I felt like a civilian trapped in a military zone.  It had an eerie feeling of no man's land.

Finally the cars stopped (not because of me but because of their smashed windshields).  I ran across the street and continued west on Bloor Street.  The mob continued running along side me on the north side of the street and continued to launch walnuts at me.

We reached University Avenue.  Luckily I had the WALK sign so I left the mob waiting to cross from the NW corner to my SW corner.  I ran past the construction site at the ROM, past the Royal Music Conservatory to Varsity Stadium.  At Varsity, I stopped to catch my breath until a walnut smashed against the brick wall beside me.

Remembering my tree climbing abilities, I climbed the seven foot high brick wall into Varsity Stadium.  Inside I ran south along the track until I reached Varsity Arena.  As I left Varsity Stadium, it happened.  I felt a sharp pain in the middle of my back.

I had been hit - by a walnut.  I stumbled, stopped and keeled over to absorb the pain.

"I think I got her!"

I looked down at my white poppy.  I remembered the young me, telling me that the white poppy was a "symbol of grief, remembering all victims of war".  Even though I lived no where near any wars or conflicts, I had become a victim.

I stood up, looked back at the mob closing in on me from the track, and ran.  I ran behind the Royal Music Conservatory, into Philosopher's Walk (a tree covered path to the University).  I circled back by running north on Philosopher's Walk to Bloor Street.  There I ran east, towards the ROM.  Once I reached the construction site of the ROM, I tried to, once again, use my tree climbing skills but this time it was to no avail.  The six foot high wooden fence surrounding the site was topped with barbwire.  Quickly, and forcefully, I kicked in one of the planks.  I jumped inside the construction site and put the plank back.  

Inside the site, mud was everywhere due to the rain storm early that morning.  I had to find a place to hide as I would be easy to spot through a knot hole.  I found an old piece of metal roofing, and hit underneath it.  My entire body and elegant wardrobe was smothered in mud.

I waited twenty-seven minutes until I thought the mob had left me alone.  I stood up, brushed myself off as I best I could.  To my disappointment, my white poppy was no longer white, rather it was brown.

I left the construction site, walked back to the younger me at Yonge and Bloor for a new white poppy.  To my disappointment she was no longer there.  All that was left were a few torn up pamphlets and one white poppy on the ground.  I picked up my younger me's merchandise and left.

Over the years, I have gone back to her site at Yonge and Bloor but I have never seen her since.  Sometimes I wonder how much the mob had roughed her up that fateful day.  I am certain they roughed her up physically but  I fear they roughed her up spiritual as well.  Why else would she not continue her white poppy campaign?

In honour of the younger me, I still wear the white poppy she gave me every Remembrance Day.