Fiction connects to current gridlock
Howard Akler takes a walk back to 1971 and the battle over the Spadina Expressway
It’s1971— and Toronto is being split apart by controversy, particularly by the battle for the Spadina Expressway. Part of the city wants it built, part of the city doesn’t. Sound familiar? Toronto author Howard Akler takes us back half a century in his new book Splitsville (Coach House). In this excerpt, we’re introduced to an ambitious plan, runaway budgets, and a teacher who is determined to teach something that’s not in the curriculum.
Metro’s plan was ambitious: a series of wider, faster roads that would connect the old with the new. Spadina was only the start; once completed, it would be hitched up to future inner-city routes, like the Crosstown and the ChristieClinton. The whole thing was mapped out decades in advance. Sam Cass, the roads and traffic commissioner, wanted every Torontonian to be no more than three-quarters of a mile from the nearest on-ramp.
Earlier expressways ran along natural corridors, Don River to the east and Lake Ontario to the south, and so caused relatively little disruption. Not so Spadina. Plans called for it to rumble right through the heart of the city. Houses in middle-class neighbourhoods such as Cedarvale and the Annex would be appropriated and demolished. Buildings would be razed, then paved over for parking lots. Outraged residents found their collective voice and shouted STOP.
Many uptowners, those desperate for an unfettered route downtown, had an equally loud retort: GO. It was a war of words. The Spadina Expressway was to be built in segments. When the initial twomile stretch from Wilson Heights south to Lawrence Avenue was completed in 1967, the GO side was giddy. Their city was taking shape. No less pleased were the owners of the new Yorkdale Shopping Plaza – vehicles offramped right to their front doors. The department-store lobby was adamant things continue apace.
So, on it went. Land from Lawrence down to Eglinton Avenue was cleared. A ditch was dug. The roadbed was completed but not yet paved before opposition grew too loud for politicians to ignore. They halted construction and referred the matter to the body of provincial oversight, the Ontario Municipal Board, for review. For the next eighteen months, everyone idled.
Lily comes back from bereavement leave and discovers her Grade 11 class at Harbord Collegiate to be clobbered by ennui. The substitute teacher took two days to describe the passage of a private member’s bill in the provincial legislature, a detailed incursion of gobbledygook that levelled the kids’ already unsteady attention spans. So, the first thing Lily has to do is prod them, revive their interest in civics with the lingo of resistance. She steers the lecture toward the Spadina Expressway battle, even manages to use the phrase Stick it to the man with a straight face.
First they said it’d cost thirty million, Lily says. Then seventy million. Now it’s two hundred million. Maybe more. For a road. A big road, mind you. An expressway that will run six lanes from Wilson down to Dupont. McLuhan says it’ll be like a dagger through the heart of the city.
Who? says Jerry, from the front row. A furious notetaker, he fumbles with his eraser.
The point is: people are really steamed. They’re organizing.
That’s the true meaning of democracy. It’s not as simple as majority rules. It’s more about voice, about speaking up and about the city learning to listen to other points of view.
She wears a snug navy blouse. There’s a loose thread on her suede skirt. Lily just beyond thirty though surely antediluvian in the eyes of her students.
Remember, guys, political power is no longer relegated to the voting booth. That’s what the STOP movement is all about. Thoughts?
So many gazes go deskbound. The jocks and heads, of course, but also the browners too preoccupied by insistent intense feelings and resultant vague notions. Their adulthood coming both too fast and not fast enough. Yes, Trudy? Will this be on the test? The period ticks down. She spots Principal Libov at the door. With his flat head squashed onto his shoulders, he looks like a man perpetually ducking for cover.
Lillian? he says. A word.
She’s a good two inches taller than the principal, but opts for subtler advantage. Sits on the edge of the desk so her eyes, while resolute, remain level with his. Lillian, says Libov. He offers the weakest smile she’s ever seen.
No one is happier to see you back than I. Really. Your enthusiasm for the subject matter is, uh, admirable, especially after your leave of absence. Our students have always responded well to you. But? But. Libov strides to the chalkboard. He grabs a piece of chalk and crosses out her squiggled definitions of gradual and cataclysmic money. His Xs are quite firm.
We’ve discussed this before. Your personal opinions are not part of the curriculum.
Can’t you please cut me some slack, Marv?
Libov sighs. Look, he says. You have only recently suffered a grievous loss. I understand. Your judgment is askew. Let me straighten it out for you. No more straying from the material. No more tangents. Capisce? Lily looks down at the textbook. She drums her fingers.
Excerpted from Splitsville by Howard Akler, with permission of Coach House Books. All rights reserved.