Because I still wasn’t sure what specific area of the computer field I wanted to pursue, I decided to do some research. I was pretty determined. I cold-called a few local businesses just to get some information about their company and computers in general. I wasn’t necessarily expecting a job. I was simply trying to open a few doors.
Using the same script every time, I called company after company. In a peppy voice I said, “Hi, my name is Pattie Mallette, and I’m interested in learning more about computers. Do you have a few minutes to answer a couple of questions I have about different computer careers?” Every phone call I made to all but one of the local businesses ended with, “No, I’m busy.” Click.
My last call was to Blackcreek Technologies, a local consulting company that specialized in computer sales, networking, and custom solutions and also offered computer training. By that point, my expectations were pretty low. After I delivered my pitch, I was transferred to a man named Bill, the owner, who told me to come in the next day. I was in shock when I hung up the phone. It was a pleasant but certainly unexpected surprise.
When I met with Bill, he brought with him a website designer to answer specific questions. I was a bit nervous at first but peppered them with questions. I wanted to know everything I possibly could about computer careers to find a suitable match for me. I needed a good, stable, long-term job that could help provide for Justin and me. Whatever field would give me that stability would influence the kind of classes I would choose, whenever I could find the money to go to school. Somehow or another, I’d find a way to continue my education, even if I had to go into debt to do it.
To be honest, I didn’t even consider asking Blackcreek for a job. It didn’t even cross my mind because I simply didn’t have any experience. I was just excited they gave me the opportunity to pick their brains, especially because after talking to Bill and his colleague (and mulling over Mike’s advice), I decided to pursue website design.
A few days after my meeting at Blackcreek, I got a call from the woman in charge of the scholarship program. Imagine my surprise when she told me, “Blackcreek wants to help you out. They want to take part in the program and offer you a job.” I felt so proud and honored. This was my chance to invest in my future.
In 2002, I graduated from Conestoga College with a degree in website design and joined the Blackcreek team. Outside of doing web design for the company and manning the front desk when necessary, I also subbed for the instructors in the computer classes they offered. If the company needed someone to teach basic computer courses like “Intro to Email” or basic Microsoft programs, I pitched in. I traveled to different schools, senior centers, and even people’s homes for one-on-one consultations.
A couple years later when the company restructured, I was let go, but my superiors believed in me enough to invest in my future. They knew I wanted to start my own business doing website design and gave me a computer to help me on my way. Whenever they found themselves overworked and understaffed, they would also pass on their clients to me so I could expand my web design business and continue teaching computer courses. I was grateful for the support.
Though I worked full-time, I spent a lot of time with Justin when he came home from school. If I wasn’t with him at soccer or hockey practices or games, we’d hang out on the ugly, old, yellow shag carpet in the living room and play board games or music.
We loved being spontaneous and taking road trips to nowhere. It was our special bond. We’d hop in my $700 boat of a car, an early 1980s Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, and take off on adventures. Driving down long stretches of highway with the windows down, we’d blast the stereo, constantly arguing about what station we should listen to. It was a power struggle, me setting the dial to a country station and Justin wailing in protest and switching it back to a pop one. We’d playfully battle it out between the likes of Faith Hill and Nelly.
There was only one genre of music we both agreed on—R&B. When I was pregnant and while Justin grew up, I listened to Boyz II Men all the time. Justin became a huge fan of the band. He listened to Boyz II Men on repeat, memorizing every word and mimicking all the riffs and runs. Today Justin credits this band with inspiring him and teaching him how to sing.
We often took trips to visit my friends in Toronto, an hour and a half away. We loved walking around downtown and listening to the street musicians. On each trip we took, we had my friend Nathan accompany us. We didn’t know the streets of Toronto as well as our hometown, and having Nathan around always made me feel safe.
I remember our first trip, when Justin was six. He took his djembe with him, ready to jam with one of my friends later that day. As we walked around the city, I couldn’t stop staring at Justin’s face. He lit up as he marveled at the sights and sounds of the city, the noisy mesh of car horns and buses and the hustle and bustle of people scurrying by. He looked up at the skyscrapers, astonished at how they towered over us.
He even got his first taste of playing in front of a crowd. We stopped to listen to a street musician. Justin sat down next to him for a few minutes and pounded away in perfect time on his djembe. He wasn’t there long. But that tiny nibble was enough to make Justin want to come back to the city, just for the opportunity to play music on the streets.
Sure enough, not long after that first trip, Justin asked if we could take a trip to Toronto to play. Of course we could. We drove down to the city, picking up our never-ending tug-of-war about what we would listen to. As we walked around downtown, we noticed the Speaker’s Corner booth in our coming path. It looked like an early version of a kiosk that sells subway or bus tickets. For only a few dollars, you could get a few minutes of recording time to rant, rave, sing, dance, or do pretty much whatever you wanted to do that was legal and not vulgar. The most entertaining videos were aired on the Speaker’s Corner television show.
The booth attracted all sorts of people. Groups of friends who’d had one too many would stumble in front of the camera and slur their way through a sloppy take of “Sweet Caroline” or “The Gambler.” Environmentalists would plug the importance of recycling. Political activists would protest a bill that had been passed.
I had an idea. I asked Justin if he wanted to sing a song and play his djembe on camera for TV. He grinned from ear to ear. “Yes!” he answered enthusiastically. As soon as the distinct beep sounded signaling the camera was rolling, Justin started pounding away on the drum. He stared directly into the camera and sang along to the beats he banged out. “My name is Justin.” Ba dump bump bump. “I’m six years old.” Ba dump bump bump. Two minutes passed and people started gathering around on the sidewalk. They elbowed each other and whispered how amazing this little boy was. Justin barely noticed the attention; he was so focused.
After the camera stopped recording, Justin walked out of the booth and continued his mini concert in front of a growing audience. Having watched street musicians, he knew what to do. He whipped off his baseball cap and threw it on the pavement in front of him, continuing to sing and play.
I have to be honest: though he was entertaining and amusing, a part of me was embarrassed. Sure, busking was common practice on the streets of downtown Toronto, but people still had a somewhat negative view of it. Some viewed it as begging or panhandling, certainly not things any parent should teach or encourage their child to do. But I shrugged it off. I didn’t care what people thought. Watching Justin go at it on the djembe made me smile. I simply enjoyed Justin’s first time busking, the first of many to come.
I want to be clear. I never made Justin busk; he didn’t even understand what busking was. He just wanted to entertain. And hey, if his playing inspired people to donate a few bucks, it was a bonus. I loved spending time with Justin this way because such a purity and innocence surrounded his playing. It was fun. He loved it. And I loved watching him. We giggled when he’d forget a word to a song. He’d encourage others who were watching him to sing along.
Justin wanted to busk all the time. While we couldn’t take weekl
y trips to Toronto because I didn’t have the extra gas money or the time, we spent many afternoons and nights in downtown Stratford, where the arts were welcomed with open arms. We loved going downtown. It’s postcard worthy. Old World historic buildings mingle with modern boutiques and coffee shops. Looming over the city with its massive size and unique architecture, the courthouse is one of the most magnificent in the entire province.
The Avon Theatre, Justin’s busking spot of choice, is nestled right in the heart of downtown and was always packed on weekends and weeknights. Locals and tourists watched performances like Henry V and Romeo and Juliet. Justin would sit on the theater steps strumming on a guitar that looked too big for him and singing his heart out. His sweet voice was powerful enough to reach adjoining blocks, making people curious about where the music was coming from. Like clockwork, crowds would quickly gather, and a seemingly endless stream of money would pour into the empty guitar case at his feet—piles of change, dollar bills, fives, sometimes even twenties.
I’d heard somewhere that busking without a license was illegal. I imagine because Justin was a little kid, nobody gave him a hard time. The Avon Theatre wasn’t the only place Justin played. We’d scout out the regular busking hot spots, respecting the buskers who had already claimed their territory and moving on to find an empty spot on another block.
Some of the buskers had it in for Justin. In fact, one older musician, after discovering Justin playing in a location he frequented, got unnecessarily angry with my son. To punish Justin for “stealing” his spot, the old man grabbed a fistful of cash out of Justin’s guitar case and took off running. Some guys in the crowd chased after him and caught him before he got away. They also gave him a very loud and very colorful reprimand for taking a little kid’s money.
Because Justin was young (and extremely talented, of course), the crowd tended to be more generous with him than with the older buskers. People would toss ten- and even twenty-dollar bills Justin’s way. He probably made thousands of dollars playing music on the streets. In one summer alone, he made enough money to buy us a vacation to Disney World. We had never before been on vacation, so when Justin suggested using his earnings to take that trip, I was flabbergasted. Of course I said yes!
I loved watching Justin perform. For about two hours, he’d sing all sorts of songs—worship songs, pop songs, and ones he made up days earlier or even on the spot. He was so confident, bellowing out tunes as if he’d been performing his whole life. It was fascinating watching a crowd of people mesmerized by my little boy. I was so proud.
Justin begged me to take more trips to Toronto, where he clutched his djembe and guitar as we roamed the streets. Justin was in his glory when he performed in front of random strangers. He had a playful energy that attracted people, young and old. Street musicians in their twenties would shake their heads at this miniature musical genius. They’d pass by with their tattered clothes and greasy hair and throw a few bills his way. Many times they would even give him their last dollar and in return make him promise to keep on playing his music and never give up.
One of my favorite memories is of one particular trip to Toronto when Justin was nine years old. We were walking around downtown, with our faithful escort Nathan, when something on a street corner caught Justin’s eye. There on the sidewalk were two beat-up drum sets. A pail sat in the middle of the two instruments with two pair of drumsticks sticking out the top. A sign leaning against one of the tattered-looking bass drums proclaimed in bold black letters, “Pay $2 and play the drums with us!” Two twentysomething musicians were chatting with a passerby who had just thrown two bucks into the pail. When he started jamming with one of the musicians, Justin’s eyes opened even wider. I knew what was coming.
When the jam session was over, Justin tugged at my arm. “Mom, can I play with them? Please? I’ll even use my own money.” How could I say no?
Justin practically threw down the guitar and djembe he had been carrying. He dumped two dollars in the bucket and picked up a pair of drumsticks. One of the musicians came over to him and tousled his hair. “How ya doin’, little buddy?” I’m sure that just like Justin’s first drum teacher, Lee Weber, he was expecting Justin to bang on the thing without rhyme or reason. The other musician stood a few feet away, puffing on a cigarette. Leaning against a lamppost, he smiled and waved to us.
Justin and the first guy hopped on their stools. Justin was chomping at the bit, drumsticks in hand, his feet tapping the concrete in anticipation.
“You ready, buddy?” the drummer called out. “Here we go. A one, a two, a one two three.”
The guy started playing a rhythm. My son joined in on the offbeat, coloring the beats and complementing the rhythms. It was pretty impressive, another display of Justin’s impeccable musical timing.
The drummer couldn’t believe his ears. He shook his head in disbelief and whistled, “Holy smokes!” (except he used a more colorful word). He finally realized how good Justin was and started following his lead. The two of them jammed away, banging out contagious rhythms that you couldn’t help but tap your feet to. The cacophony of the Toronto city streets was no match for these two drummers. It was like the entire block was on mute except for a little boy and a young musician battling it out on drum sets that had seen better days.
The other musician who had been taking a break started grooving. “Yeah, man,” he yelled and slapped his thighs to the beat. Then he grabbed the empty pail and whipped a pair of drumsticks out of his back jeans pocket. Kneeling down on the pavement, he started banging on the plastic pail, complementing and adding a unique sound to the drums.
The three of them were amazing. Sticks were flying so fast they looked invisible. The passionate beats were flawless. The energy was palpable. It wasn’t about a mere street performance anymore. The three musicians had surpassed showing off their skills to get a few bucks. The drums became extensions of their hands. Justin was engrossed in the rhythms. I looked at him and smiled. He was having the time of his life. This was Justin in his element.
As the sidewalk started swarming with passersby gathering around this musical trio, the energy grew. I stood shoulder to shoulder with people, barely able to move. People started grooving, bobbing their heads in time with the music. No one looked hurried, a strange sight in a big city. It was as if everyone had all the time in the world.
Just when I thought this rare musical performance couldn’t get any better, the guy pounding on the pail swiftly jumped up on a streetlight. He started banging away at the top with his drumsticks. The sound is still etched in my mind. Tink-tat-tink-tink-tat-tink-tink-tink. Justin stared at the lonely pail on the sidewalk, and in the middle of playing, he jumped off the drum set and started playing on the pail.
His face lit up. He had never before played the pail, but he had no trouble following along and creating his own beats.
As the crowd cheered, a group of teenagers cleared a circle in the middle of the mob. They started breakdancing, spinning on their heads and doing flips. As Justin played the bucket, he couldn’t stop staring at the dancers. He dropped the drumsticks on the sidewalk and made his way to the dancer’s circle. He whipped off his sweater as he walked, and the crowd cried out, “Ooooh!” Oh no you didn’t!
Justin busted out some moves that he had just learned from my friend Nathan. A natural performer, he egged on the young people that surrounded him by throwing his hands in the air, asking them if they wanted more. The crowd whooped and whistled.
After a few minutes, I could tell Justin was done. His attention span was running out. Sure enough, Justin looked at me and nodded his head. I knew it was time to go. By that time, there was so much activity going on between the drumming, the beats, and the dancing, it was easy for us to slip away almost unnoticed.
Justin’s eyes were glowing. I could practically hear his heartbeat pounding wildly through his soaked T-shirt. “Mom, that was amazing!” he exclaimed, his face on fire from the adrenaline racing in his veins.
As we started walking away from the crowd, two older, raggedy-looking men started yelling at us, trying to grab our attention. Wearing mismatched layers of clothes covered with holes and sporting dirty, disheveled beards that hadn’t seen a razor in what looked like months, the men appeared to be homeless. They yelled over the boisterous mob, “We gave the boy two dollars. It was all we had. He was great!” I was moved. I knew this was money they had earned panhandling.
One of them pointed to the guitar Justin had slung over his shoulder. “Can you play that?”
Justin and I nodded, still making our way through the crowd. I squeezed Justin’s hand a little tighter and grabbed ahold of Nathan.
The two men continued to follow us as we walked. One of them shouted again, “Can we hear you play?” Justin nodded, and we motioned for them to follow us. If Nathan hadn’t been with us, I wouldn’t have entertained their request. It certainly wasn’t something I made a habit of either.
The five of us walked farther down the block. As we neared the other end of the block, we could still hear the distant melodies of drums, pail, and lamppost. Justin got comfortable on the curb and carefully nestled the guitar on his lap. The two men beamed in delight, smelling like they hadn’t showered in days. Justin wasn’t fazed by their body odor or their dirty clothes. He was just happy he could make them smile.
The men crouched down on the empty street in front of Justin, anxious to hear a private concert. I heard Justin play the familiar chords of a song we sang in church. I was surprised that out of all the songs he could have chosen, from rock ’n’ roll riffs to soulful tunes, Justin played that particular one. With a passion that was different from the way he’d played the drums and pail just minutes earlier, he started singing “Waves of Grace” from the depths of his heart.
The walls are high, the walls are strong
Nowhere but Up Page 15
