DREAMS OF FUTURE PAST
A lost generation tries to make a life for itself in times of unsteady employment.
They are a lost generation. No, I do not mean those expats who drank their way through Europe in the sulphurous wake of the First World War.
Instead, I mean the young people of today, the ones who grow up certain that they will never be able to afford a car or a house, who are certain that jobs with decent wages and benefits are a cruel fiction, and who are certain that marriage and family are a dream.
Meet Din. He is 39 years old. And if I say he is young, that is because the limits of youth have been recalibrated; my son is older than he is, which makes Din young as far as I’m concerned.
He is also smart, and he is hard- working, and he has emotional and artistic intelligence. But in his working life he has had nothing but contract jobs.
We had a cup of coffee a while back.
He said, “I studied fine art at OCAD; sculpture and painting. I graduated with honours.” He also said, “There’s no history of university in my family.” Nor was there in mine.
Din is one up on me, in that I don’t have a university degree. But I am one up on him because I grew up in an era when the jobs were falling from the trees, each one paying slightly more than the one before.
Like a lot of art school students — Keith Richards, David Byrne, Lady Gaga, Tupac — Din was drawn to music, and he figured that would be the future. I may have winced when he said that. It has taken 20 years of penury, and frequent infusions of cash from me, for my son to make his mark with his guitar.
Din knew he’d need an income to support his music habit so, because he has some computer design experience, he was able to snag a parttime job with a small newspaper.
That job didn’t last. Since then he has been a landscaper, and he has worked behind a cash register at a Tim Hortons and he has spent some time collecting employment insurance; lately he has been pushing a broom for a downtown social agency run out of a church basement. That job ended recently. All his jobs have paid minimum wage; many of his jobs have been seasonal, or part time. And maybe you are doing OK, but Din is barely getting by. Because his situation is precarious, he is a member of that newest social class, the precariat.
He said, “I have a little money in the bank, but I’m selling my car.”
Why? “I got into a fender-bender a while back and I can’t afford to fix it or to pay for the insurance. I didn’t want it anyway.”
Call that a rationalization. Call it slipping by inches.
He said, “I own a suit, but there was a long time when I didn’t. I once went to a wedding wearing a fleamarket blazer.” Shabby chic is not a choice; it is a reality.
He has no RRSP, he has never taken a paid vacation and he is not enrolled in a company drug benefits program; this last thing is a particular hardship given that he has sinus trouble, as well as issues with glaucoma and, it will not surprise you, anxiety.
Now and then he picks up a bit of work on film sets, but in his life so far he does not have — and he has not had — a job that he can count on, and that means no pension waits for him but the CPP, on which no one can live.
He has a girlfriend; dates involve a $10 pizza; no wine. Nor do they live together; she lives at home and Din has a roommate, for reasons of economy.
He said, “I’m lucky my girlfriend doesn’t want babies.” He paused briefly. “I’d love to have a baby, if I had a good job.” He paused again, also briefly. “I woke up today feeling fear of the future.” As many do. He makes a little unsteady money with his band, and he’s working on the music for a podcast that might bring in some cash, but that’s not exactly a living. Last time we talked, Din was looking for a job. Here’s what I want to know: what kind of society is this, anyway? Not a just one. Justin? Joe Fiorito appears on Monday. Email: jfiorito@thestar.ca.