The Two Sides of Vancouver's Gilded Coin.

“A gang-related shooting? In beautiful Vancouver? That part of the plot is just unbelievable.” Feedback from my American editor on a short story. And I do understand. The city was crystalline during the winter Olympics of 2010, with bluebird skies, shimmering water, frosted alpine slopes, and bright smiles from all those who attended. Vancouver stepped on the world stage with uncontroversial beauty, sexiness, and affability. A gang shooting? That's ridiculous.

But the rampant homelessness, drug culture, and poverty were all hidden. Literally placed on buses and shipped out of the downtown core to cleanse and beautify the city. Vancouver went to the spa and shed its blemishes. This Olympian Vancouver is everything the world saw.

But if I now adhered to the same, philosophy, showed you stunning photos of an unmarred paradise, it would be an insult to those who rightfully share this city with me. This is their proud hometown as it is mine. So I will not marginalize within this essay those who are perpetually marginalized in life.

I do not mean to detract from the beauty of the city or my visceral love for it- after traveling the world including 6 out of 7 continents (ah, that elusive minx Antarctica), this is the only city in which I would live. Barcelona is a close second, but I digress.

But the imperfections are precisely what make this city unique, special, and interesting. It's the kind homeless man who was the only person to run to my aid when I was the victim of a hit and run, rummaging through his possessions to find a napkin for my blood, and waiting with me until the police arrived. It's the dedicated doctors and scientists at St Paul’s Hospital in the 80's and 90’s who, in their fervour to help the AIDS epidemic amongst our fellow Vancouverites, which was once the fastest growing in North America, revolutionized the global management of HIV. Scars and tattoos that mark a beautiful body tell a story. Perfection without struggle is not only unattainable but bland. Uninteresting. And trust me. My hometown is interesting.

Vancouver now mandates reverence for our First Nation community. All indigenous territories have the original name included on road signs. Any time you take a gondola up a local mountain, you are reminded that you are there at the behest of that specific First Nations tribe to whom the land belongs. Stanley Park, named after the same Lord Stanley of the NHL championship trophy ( Non- Canadians can smile politely, pretending to know ice hockey), has a famous pond devoted to Haida totem poles. Majestic, breathtaking, and historic, a poignant tribute to the ancestors of this land.

Yet if you look at the lives of First Nations Canadians now, you may see them congregating at mall parking lots, drinking and socializing. Because although their land is recognized, they are not. After generations of abuse, injustice, corruption, and despair, slipping into the snug comfort of stereotypes and expectations, wearing the soothe of substance abuse, I assume it is irresistible. I can only imagine as I have not lived their experience, and I would never pretend to know. But their presence in my everyday environment reminds me, more so than the Swedish summer worker announcing it as I ascend Grouse Mountain, that the land I tread belongs to them.

Our Haida artists, Bill Reid and Robert Davidson, are world-renowned. Above is a magnitudinous mural by local artist Siobhan Joseph, who is First Nation. Titled “The Matriarch”, it is an homage to the women who lead families in that community, as well as Mother Earth. Yet the artist was compelled to dress the spiritual mother in red to acknowledge the murdered and missing indigenous women in Canada, the numbers of which are staggering.

The next jarring juxtaposition is the wealth disparity, and my city has a very good excuse for this, which is that we have the best weather in the country. The picture below was taken in February on a balmy sunny day, while the rest of Canada was experiencing polar temperatures. While this attracts the wealthy to the mild temperatures, epidemiology has proven that schizophrenic persons travel to the kindest climates as homelessness, and thus outdoor living, is a tragic inevitability. Therefore they are concentrated in British Columbia, California, and Florida.

The result is that the homeless will be seated in front of shop windows that endorse designer clothes worth thousands. That on the same evening I can visit a bar full of fabulously kind and engaging yet troubled Vancouverites, then change clothes and walk a few blocks to sit in an opulent lounge decorated with bejeweled millionaires, who are undoubtedly equally as troubled. But both factions will be united in the opinions that they would never wish to live anywhere else.

I recognize that this dichotomy is stark, and my objective is to highlight that. So now I want to express the melding of the two worlds. I want to tell you about the homeless man, his name is Mike, who has a Walmart shopping cart full of gardening tools and pesticides, with a sign stating he was there to beautify Vancouver, but if anyone wants to donate they could. Every time I see him I gather my cash, but also every time I need to work for his attention which is encompassed entirely with eradicating the weeds stubbornly sprouting from inhospitable concrete medians.

The Downtown Eastside is the congregation site of the struggling souls and haunted spirits who consume the fentanyl that fuels the gang shootings (providing the supply demands ruthless competition). Their vulnerability and inability to socially distance due to housing, resource scarcity, and mental health, meant they were amongst the first to get vaccinated.

My objective in this essay is in no way to denigrate Vancouver or deny its beauty, warmth, and culture. My goal is to remind that nothing can fulfill a beauty standard of perfection. That imperfections are what make anything interesting and worth experiencing. That what makes you different makes you beautiful. Would I love to eradicate the poverty, drug abuse, and discrimination in my city and make it perfect- without a single doubt. And I do strive to contribute to that effort as best I can. But such societal rehabilitation is near impossible, in my opinion, though I would welcome examples or beliefs to the contrary. Until that happens, I will not hide, ignore or downplay this large part of my city when presenting it to the world. We are all part of Vancouver, the city is their hometown as much as it is mine, and a description of the city without them is incomplete.

To answer my editor, yes there are shootings and drug use in Vancouver. We are not perfect. But all of us are real, interesting, loved, and loving of this city. Which to me makes my hometown, in its entirety, absolutely beautiful.