The Toronto Incident

Memory is a funny thing. It defines so much of our lives. We can remember exactly where we were during historic events like September 11th. Little things, like when we forgot our lines in the third grade play, are also locked away forever in our minds.

But memories are arbitrary. The way we remember specific events can change drastically over time. Ask three people what they saw moments go or five years ago, and you will get several different accounts. The recollection of memories played a huge role in an incident that haunted me for years.

Toronto Here We Come

Both of my parents were teachers. There is one advantage of teaching. After months of dealing with other people’s kids, you get to spend the summer with your own. Every year, my parents, who loved to travel, would pack my sister and I up in the car, and we would set off on a new adventure.

Raising two children on a teacher’s salary was difficult, so my father was always looking for a deal. In his quest, he discovered that, in the summer, for very little money, a family of four could stay in York University dormitories, in Toronto. So, the summer I turned five years old, we were off north, to Niagara Falls.

The Incident

I have no memory of what actually happened but, the story was recounted so many times throughout the years that I will tell the exact same story I so often heard.

After a 480-mile-long car ride from New York City, we arrived at our accommodations. My parents sat us down on a couch in the “lobby” of the dorm, while they went to check in, leaving my 7 year old sister in charge. Before you judge my parents too harshly, keep in mind, this was the early 1980s. It was a different, safer time. As the story goes, I stood up on the couch and having a disability that affects my balance, I started to fall. I reached out and grabbed the closest thing to me, to break my fall. Unfortunately, my tiny fingers latched on to the fire alarm on the wall above the couch.

Immediately, the loud ringing of the alarm filled the lobby. Standing at the check-in desk, my parents looked in our direction and surmised what had happened. They explained the situation to the host at the counter. He informed them since it was a college, the alarm was directly connected to the local fire company. He could not turn the alarm off.

The fire department arrived in full force. The entire dormitory was quickly evacuated. All the “guests” stood outside for what seemed like hours. As we waited, I imagined each of them staring at me. After all, I was the kid who had ruined their vacation. In the meantime the firemen inspected each room looking for the non-existent fire. Eventually, we were allowed back inside to resume our vacation, but the damage was done. As a young child, I was terrified. The alarm was loud. The firemen in their uniforms were scary. Everyone was inconvenienced and I had caused it all.

I don’t remember anything else from that trip but I thought about that incident often. In the middle of the night, flashes of it would creep into my brain. I felt shame and embarrassment because, in my mind, I had caused an international incident. For years, I worried that my name had wound up on a list and I would never be allowed across the border again. It didn’t help that my family repeated the story over and over, for years.

The Confession

I started this piece by talking about memory. I also mentioned that I was too young to remember what had happened that day. I was recounting the story as it was often told at family gatherings. The story was a lie.

Decades after the trip, I was telling the story to my sister’s boyfriend. I told him everything. What had happened. How I still felt terrible. All about my guilt, shame and embarrassment. My sister remained silent, until I finished. Only after I finished did she tell us that I had NOT, in fact, pulled the alarm. She set it off and blamed me. When the bells started ringing, and she realized what she had done, my only sister had thrown me under the proverbial bus! I lived with the guilt of something I hadn’t actually done, for almost 25 years.

Epilogue

Shortly after her confession, my sister unexpectedly passed. My mother also lost her battle with cancer months prior. To recover from “the year from hell”, my dad, and I took a road trip. One of the stop on that trip found us in Toronto to visit the Hockey Hall of Fame. At this point, my father had heard about my sister’s confession. I could finally return to Toronto with a clear conscience.

We were staying in an actual hotel this time. No more dorms for us! As we made our way through the lobby, my dad looked at me and with a smirk said, “Make sure to keep your hands where I can see them!” It seems I would never live down "The Toronto Incident".

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