Back in Shropshire, I knew everything of my friends and family members’ working lives. Promotion prospects, tedious customers and tales of troublesome colleagues were always favoured topics. And it wasn’t uncommon to have friends with nicknames deriving from their occupation; that’s how they are identified. It can be to the extent where a job is married with a first name without pause for breath: “you know my mate Ronnie-the-plumber.” I am guilty of this.
It’s that popular British question: “What do you do?” A simple delve into someone’s life; a gage of their aims and ambitions. Or alternatively, a rapid, snobby assessment of their finances and class. Think of the descriptions of participators in UK reality television: Steve, 34, a warehouse operative from County Durham; immediately they are categorised.
We know what everyone does from nine ‘til five through robotic introductions or asking them ourselves. We then choose to stick to our own; be it with old school friends or those of a similar professional background. There is an oddly proud and regimented class system still evident in Britain.
I don’t mean to pen something that sounds like a Marxist moan; I just feel that in Toronto it is different. Over here it doesn’t matter what people do for a living, so people from all walks of life socialise together. Being worth a decent conversation is all that matters. If it wasn’t for friends stocking shelves when I bumped into them in the supermarket or DJing at a venue in my neighbourhood, I never would have known what they did for a living. And why waste your time being walked through somebody’s dull working life anyway?
Formalities are less important. James Baldwin’s narrator in his short story This Morning, This Evening, So Soon observes on his return to the States after a four year absence that “unlike Europeans, [Americans] dropped titles and used first names almost at once, leaving themselves, unlike the Europeans, with nowhere thereafter.” The character witnesses a friendliness that, as he goes on to describe, goes no deeper than the smile since any greater delving into somebody’s person is seen as an invasion of their privacy. That may be the case in the US, but in Canada I have found the lack of formality is instead followed by a complete abandonment of privacy. And it is refreshing.
Dipping into somebody’s background or where they’re originally from is common and rewarding due to Toronto’s rich cultural landscape. People are also a lot more interested about artistic endeavours, to the point where I was recently scolded by friends when they learned of my having short stories published. Why didn’t I tell them? Why hadn’t they read my work?
People are less embarrassed about their lives outside the daily grind, and if you are coy about it you’ll be asked about it anyway.
This openness and lack of concern for class must be partly to thank for the Toronto’s growing art scene. People feel more compelled to express themselves. A stretch of Queen Street West is the world’s second coolest neighbourhood according to Vogue, and coffee shops and pubs often rotate the work of local artists on their walls.
British concern for class and employment looks restrictive when seeing it from the over side of the pond. Perhaps with their old money the richer Brits are more guarded, and therefore happy to distance themselves from those in a supposedly lower class. A closed attitude that is mirrored in the stereotype of how Brits deal with feelings and thoughts: stiff upper lip and all that.
Over here, I am learning to be a lot more open. Friends, my latest short story is in your inbox.
Daniel Rouse moved to Toronto from Shropshire in 2011 and spends much of his time penning short stories, writing freelance articles, attending gigs, and watching the city’s disappointing sports teams. You can follow him on Twitter.
