Today I would like to tell you a story. This story is not a fictional story, it is very real, it is not happy nor sad it just simply is. It is an ongoing story which I hope that will continue for a very long time. There may be different versions of this story, depending on who you ask, this is my version for it is my story. On September 18 1981 at 8:19 pm a 9lb boy was born , as you may have guessed, yes that boy was me, for my first few years we lived in crescent beach until my parents parted ways when I was three years old. My mother moved to the Vancouver in the trout lake area. My father moved into a trailer in white rock, I would spend weekends there. When I was 6 he moved to the west end of Vancouver where he rented a one bedroom apartment. It had a hot tub and a raquetball court, a little fenced in park,it had a small balcony with a little pansy garden, roses climbing the walls and an old wicker couch that I would often curl up on with warm blankets and hot chocolate to watch the boats go by. We had a great view of English bay, UBC, the aquatic center and Granville island; little did I know that this building and I would meet again 10 years later.
On weekends after soccer games my father would often take me to my friend Tyler's house. Tyler's parent's and my parents had known each other for years. They lived in a old Victorian style house close to Broadway and Fraser streets in the mount pleasant area. I went to hastings elementary school French emersion. No I don't speak French not well anyway, I was good when I was younger but I practised less the older I became. My young little mind was trying to fit in and keep it's body alive another day. The thought was I could learn French later, one day soon perhaps. My mother moved to Victoria when I was eight going on nine, my father rented a place in false creek and I moved in with him, not wanting to leave my friends at school we lived there for a year before moving back to my old familiar stomping grounds closer to school. My father grew up in the United States air force, he was a deserter during the Vietnam war or as we like to call him "a dirty hippy." After two years of running from the FBI my father, mother Tyler's dad and a school bus full of others made it to Canada. My father grew up with very little and he was determined to give his children more. He didn't smoke or drink, the extra's were not spent on lavish things or even nice clothes, they were spent on lessons for his only son, me.
Swimming, piano, percussion, equestrian lessons, and various tutors. We were by no means rich, he was considered working middle class. At the time Dad worked as a consultant for B.C.A.A. We had quite a few computers in a time when most family's didn't have one. We lived relativity cheap (besides all of the lessons) so when my piano instructor said that I needed a real piano dad was able to buy one. I said dad didn't purchase lavish things, there was this exception, instead of going from a keyboard to a good upright I went from a keyboard to a baby grand.
Now try explaining to your friends that your not different from them when you have oodles of electronics, tons of toys, and to top it off a baby grand; yeah, that didn't work. Between my lack of nice clothes, my really weird haircut, my sarcastic know all attitude and ears; let's face it on a windy day all I have to do is point my self in the right direction and I will get there in a hurry. To say I stuck out like a sore thumb would be a great underestimate, not to mention I have no natural muscle mass, for that reason I also tend to shake, to top all that off my two last names are Zinkus and Fowle. With all the insults they could have called me, Dumbo was top choice. Jeesh, talk about a lack of imagination. Needless to say I made it through elementary with only a few scrapes and bruises. My self esteem however was demolished.
Then came high school. I am not going to touch the two hellish years of grade eight and nine. The only good that came out of them is that they did not kill me, but they did make me stronger.
In grade 10 tired of watching his son get beat up and humiliated, my father took me to an underground boxing gym. As I walked in the large metal door after walking down a set of stairs all I could smell was the heavy musty odor of stale sweat. The sounds of people yelling, buzzers, punches smacking and ropes skipping filled my ears, and at that point in my life it was music to my ears. My coach and owner of this gym was a 6'4 Jamaican/Canadian with a very calm voice and a huge smile. After my fourth lesson he pulled me aside and told me that at first he didn't think I would be able to do much and that he was sure glad he was wrong.
By age 15 I could play the piano well, spoke a little French, loved to ride horses, struggled with percussion and rhythm, but now to top it all I could punch. My teachers did not know what to do with me they didn't want to have me expelled, well the principle didn't anyway. I would not have called myself a bully(some did) yes, I made mistakes, I was fighting back, trying to protect the few people around me. As my confidence grew so did the bruises around school.
One thing that I forgot to mention is that my dad lost his job just before I started high school. When I was in the middle of grade nine he took a job in the United States and I moved in to the big Victorian home with Tyler and his family. By this time Tyler had a little brother and sister too add to the chaos. Our dads built me a room in the basement which was about the size of a good walk in closet. We used a rigid shower curtain as a door; the real door was attached to the wall and was used to holdup my bed so I did not sleep on the basement floor. That so called room was located next to the deep freeze, washer and dryer and touched walls with their computer room, quiet it was not. I f only I had a lightening scarred forehead and they had named me harry. Between Dumbo, Dopey,and Potter I can almost smell the royalty check; cha ching. Alas, Potter came later, Dumbo and snow white came before me so no luck.
The best thing in that part of my life was my little American Eskimo dog named Rox. That dog was amazing he could jump six feet and there was no one more loyal. Rox once had his stomach ripped open fighting a pitbull three times his size that was about to attack Ty's mom. Man, I loved that dog. Rox used to cross the busiest streets in Vancouver. When Rox was five he died on one of the quietest streets in Victoria. Rox still stops by from time to time. About a year after he passed he knocked me over when I was working in a bakery at three in the morning carrying a full tray of fresh banana bread.
By spring time of grade ten while teachers were telling my friends to think about trades and unions, they told me that I would be in jail by 20 and dead by 25. One such teacher told me I may as well drop out because I would never pass grade 11 and I should not waste there (the teachers) time. At that moment I gave up.
The winter of 96'97 I had met a beautiful girl who I loved spending time with. With her came the reason to keep on going. On April 29 1998 a beautiful, healthy 7lb girl was born whom we named Ashley. She was the initial reason to not give up on this journey that we call life. Because of her I will not stop no matter what people say or which wall decides to block my path.
A final friendly point be careful not to dismiss people, especially troubled youth. Sometimes giving them hope, understanding, vision and wisdom will help lead that individual to a great future.
Oh yeah, that apartment building that I mentioned earlier, that was Ashley's first home.
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