“A teacher is someone who tells you something you don’t want to hear.” – myself – (yes, i know it’s strange to quote myself, but this is a quote i wrote down in one of my notebooks and if i had left it uncredited, you might wonder why i neglected to give credit where credit is due, so i’ve made it a policy to reference any source, even if it’s just little ole me).
Many people may say something along the same lines, especially if their idea of a teacher is that chemistry teacher they had in grade 11 who told them all those formulae and equations that they didn’t want to hear, and i guess that in a sense my definition does include those high school teachers since you probably didn’t want to hear all that stuff because it was new to you and so, if you had bothered to study it anyway, you probably learned something new (and promptly forgot it the next day!)
THE GRAND-PERE OF MONTREAL
However, what i had in mind was a teacher who isn’t necessarily in a school and designated as a “teacher” (although they can be). Let me explain. I stayed in three different apartments in Montreal while saying goodbye to my love which i rented through airbnb (a great and cheap way to travel and really get to know a place) because i wanted to stay in as many different places in Montreal as i could so i could really get to know the city. My first apartment was on Sherbrooke Est. My second on Rue Clark and Rachel, and my third apartment was on Avenue du Parc and Bernard in the Mile-End area.
While staying at the last apartment in Mile-End, I would often walk down Avenue du Parc with my love because she had classes on Concordia campus downtown near the Guy metro. It was quite a haul, taking about an hour, but a beautiful walk in the glorious fading summer sun, passing by Mont-Royal and zigzagging through various peaceful residential streets, or hightailing it west on Sherbrooke Est. One day, early on in the stay, while exploring the Mile-End area, I was walking with my love down Avenue du Parc towards Bernard. Just a bit past the depanneur at the corner of Parc and Bernard, there are a series of open markets that sell fresh produce, much of it organic. The first one is operated by an Indian family and blares joyful, spiritual Hindi music. We had just passed that market when we were stopped by a tall African man with short-cropped graying hair. His eyes were bloodshot with drink and he extended a gnarled hand towards me.
I had to admit, he frightened me a bit because of the way he looked at me so severely. I didn’t have any change on me at the time, but I had a whole pile at the apartment. I probably would have mumbled an apology and just walked on by, but I had promised my dead grandmother’s spirit that I would donate $40 “to the gods” due to some stroke of fortune (i’m pretty superstitious that way), and so i signaled him to wait and said i would be back. I apologized to my love and told her I had to return to the apartment for a sec, but she completely understood, so I raced back home and grabbed about $6 worth of change and raced back, hoping he wouldn’t go far. Little did I know that Parc and Bernard was his “corner”. Anyway, I found him a little further down the street, and I said to him,
“Monsieur, as I promised.” and I poured the handful of change (actually two handfuls) into his hands. His face lit up in a smile, whether because of the sudden windfall, or because I had kept my word, I wasn’t sure, but thinking about it now, I think it was a bit of both.
The next day, I passed him again, and this time he recognized me and grinned and I grinned in return. Then, he raised his fist in salutation and I raised mine. He asked me, “Are you japonaise?”
“No, monsieur, I am coreen,” I replied.
He nodded, “Bon. I am from Senegal.”
I nodded.
“I used to be a professional, but something happened to my hand,” and he showed me his gnarled hand.
“What happened?” I asked, but he began to mumble something in a mixture of French and something i couldn’t make out.
I pretended to understand and took his hand in sympathy. I pressed some more change into it. He accepted it gratefully.
From then on, every time I would pass him, he would be glad to see me and I would give him money. There was a part of me, a cynical part that is perhaps in everyone, that said, “He is only glad to see you because you give him money.” And perhaps that was true, and so, I began to avoid him. But, one day, I thought to myself, so what if he is using my friendliness to get my money? What is so wrong with losing my money to him? I have so much in comparison to him. He has nothing except the clothes on his back which were not that warm. He stays in an ATM booth to keep warm. Does he even have a place to sleep? I didn’t know where he went at night when it got cold. I had a nice warm apartment on the Parc. I had a large comfie bed pluffed up with pillows. I had a small fridge packed with food and drinks. I could take a warm shower at any time, but most of all, I had my love who shared everything with me and kept me company and warmed my body and my heart.
Why couldn’t I give money to him? It was something that I didn’t want to hear, and perhaps most people don’t want to hear, but the reason I didn’t want to hear it was because it was something different from what I was used to. But really, isn’t that what learning is all about? Why bother to hear something we want to hear, something within our “comfort zone”? If we always hear what we want to hear, what makes us comfortable, then what have we learned? Nothing new. And if we learn nothing new, then why bother learning? In fact, if we learn something that is not new to us, something that is comfortable to us, then is that really learning?
THE SCHOOL OF LIFE
We sit there in our little warm schools and listen to our comfortable homilies, while the real world rages outside. Truth is not contained in some textbook. Truth is something that hammers at our hearts and minds, wanting to get in…if we will let it. And teachers? They come in the most unexpected forms and appear in the least likely of places, but you will know them by one thing: they will not lie to you with those warm and familiar words that comfort you like a pair of worn-in jeans. No, what they tell you will be something you don’t want to hear, something that makes you uncomfortable, something to make you stretch, or squeeze to fit into a new shape. Only in this way do we truly learn something.
On the last day of my stay in Montreal, I frantically hoped that I would see old grandpere (as I began to fondly call him) again. I finally found him and my heart leaped in joy. His face too lit up. I said to him, “Monsieur, today is my last day in Montreal. Tomorrow, I depart for Toronto.”
His face dropped. “J’ai faim (I am hungry),” he whispered.
I took his old, gnarled hand and pressed my last $10 into it.
“Can we take a picture?” I asked.
He nodded majestically and stood patiently while my love took the picture. 
Afterwards, we bid each other farewell. I often wonder how he is and I worry about him, especially now that the weather is getting colder. If anyone should pass by Avenue du Parc and Bernard Avenue in Montreal and happen to see grandpere, please give him some change from me. I’m sure you will learn something, too.
Rumi Supertramp 