Posted on November 11, 2011
The following is a profile that was recently published in Spacing magazine’s, Hunger City issue.
by RYAN BOLTON
The building was a 1960s police station. Inside the drab, brown brick bungalow surrounded by a six-foot chain fence, cell bars held petty thieves and drug dealers overnight. The cold, white concrete brick interior wasn’t built for a cozy ambience, or to look welcoming. It was built to keep the crooks in.
That was before.
Today, it’s a community storefront that is turning heads. Only a couple years in development, this urban space renewal project has caught the attention of urban planners, architects and city council. And it’s all thanks to youth. Some 30 committed young people—from 9 to 21 years old—have spearheaded the Community Design Initiative in East Scarborough. They dreamt up the design, pitched it, fought for it, and are helping to build it.
“Growing up it’s been, well, hard,” says Ajeev Bhatia, 17, who was born and raised in the Kingston Galloway Orton neighbourhood. “It’s one of the 13 priority neighbourhoods in Toronto. It has had its share of gang violence. But the Storefront is turning these things around.”
It started out with a question. In May 2008, Zahra Ebrahim, the young, stylish founder of ArchiTEXT, a creative think tank in Toronto, got a call from the City to do an art installation in one of its priority neighbourhoods. Having never been further east than The Beaches, Ebrahim made her way to Lawrence and Kingston Road. She found herself in front of the 4,000 square-foot ex-police station, now the home of the East Scarborough Storefront. It wasn’t much of a place for an art project. That’s when Ebrahim popped the question to Anne Gloger, the Storefront’s director: “We’re supposed to do an art intervention, but if we could give you a better building would that work?” Yes, yes it would, Gloger replied. “And what about if we got the local youth to design the building?” Ebrahim added, nonchalantly, in the moment. Even better, said Gloger, but you need the community’s approval first.
The Storefront serves some 50,000 local residents as a bridge to resources and services like computer training, legal assistance and housing. In its 12-year history in the resource-poor neighbourhood, where one-third of the population lives below the poverty line, it has built a strong rapport with the community. Once the project had secured the blessing of the community, the kids got to work. Simply through attending volunteer sessions on a come-as-you-want basis, they dreamed up the design—both the interior and exterior—of the Storefront.
Fast forward to November 2009. Ebrahim and Gloger were down to $10,000 in their budget for the “art intervention” project. “We were freaking out,” says Ebrahim. They had five standout architectural designs from the collective youth, but they still didn’t have a lead architect. They needed a licensed architect to help mentor the youth and bring the project to fruition, but were hitting a wall (pun intended) finding an architect who could dedicate enough time. Finally, they called a friend of a friend who knew Paul Dowsett, a seasoned architect at sustainable.to. He cancelled his Monday meetings and had the youth meet him downtown—a trip that was a first for most of the youth.
“In some ways, it was a better presentation than I’ve seen in design schools,” Dowsett remarks, recalling that initial meeting. “What they were talking about really meant something to them. It was very compelling.” Dowsett was on board. The project had wheels.
Blossoming into a $5 million renovation and retrofit, the project began to implement the eight phases that would transform the Storefront—not to mention become a model for community engagement that others are looking to replicate. The first four phases of the community-approved designs, now in motion, will entirely renovate the inside of the former police station by this winter. That will mean removing the old jail cells (which were still being used as programming space), doing something about the exposed, white concrete brick walls, and adding an eco-food hub. Phase six will add a second storey to the building by 2013. By the end of the project, in 2014, they will have added 8,000 square-feet to the building, tripling its size. All of it led by the local youth, with Dowsett, Ebrahim and Gloger as “gentle guides” along the way.
“We are working for the residents,” Ebrahim notes. “There’s a deep understanding that you’re not in control. The residents are in control, and rightfully so.”
The young designers themselves warmed up at their own pace. Bhatia only got involved because he needed his volunteer high school hours. After his first meeting, though, he was hooked and is now one of the lead ambassadors for the project.
“It opened my eyes,” he says. “Architecture didn’t mean much to me. But after meeting all these architects, they taught us so much. It’s been a whole different steering direction for my life.”
“Remember, the Storefront used to be an ex-police station,” he laughs.
Posted on October 30, 2011
“If I’d written all the truth I knew for the past ten years, about 600 people–including me–would be rotting in prison cells from Rio to Seattle today. Absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism.” –Hunter S. Thompson
Like most, I’ve been influenced by many a great writer. Names like George Orwell, Hemingway (like every fucking hack will tell you, blindly), and your basic magazine feature writer. The vast majority of the latter have some of the best voices in all of writing, trust me. But one, one savage beast propelled by sheer will and heavyweight narcotics has always kept me in equal parts awe and determination.
The doc, Hunter S. Thompson.
The nut graph and tie-in here is me obviously just seeing Johnny Depp’s take on The Rum Diary, Hunter’s first and only published piece of true fiction. (Albeit, this is a thinly disguised piece of fiction about Hunter’s earlier days as a struggling journalist in Puerto Rico, finding his voice.) And as a young, scrappy writer myself, you know exactly what the nascent Hunter was doing, specifically with finding that bloody voice. This is paramount. Because, as we know, anyone can write. We can all stab at our keyboards with poised fingers and string some half-assed drivel together. But effective, true, thought-inducing writing–well, good Lord, that’s a different kind of stabbing.
His rage-steeped ink chased the bastards, typically politicians, to give the reader the truth.
Most of Hunter’s legacy is a pastiche of a manic, drug-induced madman chasing Nixon in a hilarity-filled, non-stop hunt for justice and the truth. That pill-popping, shrieking freak that fully embedded himself with the Hell’s Angels in the ‘60s to bring about what would become a new journalistic style, which he cemented with even more booze and ether in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Gonzo journalism. The twisted, hell-bent search for the truth via the writer being a part of the story, hell, the key and most crucial part of the story. The true source.
And what arose from Hunter’s journalism was more of the truth than the typical, carbon copy hard news journalist could conjure. He diligently studied the issue or person of interest and infiltrated himself in the issue until he got at the nasty, puss-filled underbelly. And he called it what it was in such a horrifically poignant writing style. His rage-steeped ink chased the bastards, typically politicians, to give the reader the truth. To bring the greedy bastards to justice.
Having been a key proponent and witness to many a protest in his day, Hunter would have been a delight to watch as the Occupy (fill in the city) protests unfold. His rage-steeped ink would be going right for the corporate jugular in a way that no one else could grasp.
Posted on September 29, 2011
“Write drunk; edit sober.” ―Ernest Hemingway
by RYAN BOLTON
I’m paid to tell stories. So, without pay, here’s my story.
In high school, I dicked around. Skateboarding was most important to me. In school, I did enough to get by and keep my marks at a respectable level. Upon graduation, I knew I wanted to tell stories. That was pretty much it. So, spread out on my kitchen table, with my mom leaning over my shoulder, I perused seven university acceptance packages for English and a couple for creative writing. I went with the package that offered me the best scholarship. Dumb move.
I left that fall, my car bursting with miscellaneous objects like skateboards and bed sheets, for the University of Windsor. I studied creative writing, which was cool, but you don’t just become an author, I quickly learned, being naïve and all. In the middle of second year, the house that I was living in with close friends burned down. (It’s a story that involves cooking with grease and using water as a fire extinguisher. Bad move.) That was the last straw for me living in the armpit of Ontario. I was out.
After transferring to Wilfrid Laurier University, I completed my English degree. More than the education, I worked as an editor for the school’s magazine, Blueprint, in my last year. I also contributed to the award-winning school newspaper, The Cord Weekly. I was hooked. Like a depraved drug addiction, I wanted more. To see your name in print with a story below was intoxicating. The throes of publication addiction had taken hold.
Following graduation, I boarded a commercial plane for the first time and headed to Ghana, Africa.
I decided if writing was the route I was going to take, I would do an authentic test run. Following graduation, I boarded a commercial plane for the first time and headed to Ghana, Africa. For three months I was a journalist trainer and foreign correspondent for Journalists for Human Rights in a Liberian refugee camp. Hearing their stories and living with the proud, resilient refugees in this haphazard, 30,000-strong refugee camp cemented my desire to tell stories that had a purpose.
I enrolled in journalism school that fall.
Once again, although, sure, my education was enlightening, I started to work as a writer with the campus magazine, TRAVIS. After eventually becoming the editor-in-chief of TRAVIS and working with a team that oozed talent, we won a couple awards. I got published in some national publications and got serious about writing.
I now work as a book editor and writer with Me to We, a social enterprise that supports Free The Children. I get to tell stories about a young woman that left her American suburban life behind to live with the Maasai people. Or stories about a young man without legs that walks on his hands and is armed with an impenetrable smile. Or to try and encourage a friend, a former child soldier from the Congo, to tell his story, too. (I’m looking at you, Michel.)
That’s why I tell stories. It’s my drug.