The Danforth

For some years I’ve been learning the importance of motorized vehicles to the human identity. Where I moved to about 20 years ago from Bloor and Yonge, autos with opaquely misted windows keep me guessing about who’s inside, whether they are neighbours or just passers-by. For those same 20 years or so I’ve ridden the Go train to downtown Toronto, sometimes to the downtown intersection that I left. Along the way I’ve passed through the Eglinton, Guildwood, Scarborough and Danforth Go Stations that reveal only the arrival of passengers from neighbourhoods I never see.

Last week for the first time I got off the train at the Danforth station and saw Maine and Danforth for the first time in many hears. I was shocked to see how the people on the street round that intersection had changed from what I recall and how different they seemed from  television portraits of “the Danforth”, a place where people might like to visit for a leisurely stroll, but where I could not get back home from on the Go train fast enough. This morning my television reported the shooting of more than 13 people on “the Danforth”.

There are videos of the shooter.

 

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