No Exit

By Pat Capponi

Approaching on foot east along Bloor, it's as though I've stumbled onto some ancient Roman movie set: arrayed before me on either side of the viaduct, a series of leaning metal crosses, on the left and on the right, held in place by wires, distinct, dramatic, chilling.

I've come to see and touch and experience the luminous veil, a term already fraught with religious underpinnings, coined by its architect Dereck Revington, but instead of being uplifted I am profoundly shaken. It might be the times- war, pestilence, plague, the sound of clattering hoof beats in the distance- obscuring its widely touted beauty, or it may be simply truth asserting itself through the months, the years of hype.

The Christian cross stands for many things, endurance, grief, the persecution of innocents, and, on this windswept overpass, the timely reminder that we all have our crosses to bear, and bear them you will.

So many stood here, in heart-stopping terror and longing, unable to find peace or respite from the demons hounding them, they leapt free, breaking their bodies open on the concrete expressway below, releasing what remains of the spirit within.

Each cross could mark the deaths of hundreds, or stand for the on-going suffering of every homeless man, woman and child, every beaten and abused soul, every mind tormented by loss and memory.

It's a trick of perspective, I find, when I stand close enough to touch, the crossbar is uneven, and destroys the image.

Perspective plays a large role in how differing communities view this suicide barrier, to architects it's a prize-winning wonder, to the Schizophrenia Society, it's a desperately needed life-saving device to discourage jumpers.

For members of the psychiatric survivor community, however, it will stand as an enduring embodiment to an appalling waste of money and resources that could have gone a long way towards making life worth living.

Done in our best interests, with the best of intentions, without our presence at the table, without our voice.

What advice could we have offered, in our afflicted, mind-sick states, that would equal or counter the weight of the opinions of a psychiatrist, or family members, or city councillors, or architects? What could we possibly know that they do not?

The public wants to, needs to believe that help is out there, at the other end of a phone line, or on hospital wards; that simply blocking one of dozens of possible exits will persuade individuals, and ourselves, of the sanctity, the value we place on life.

We are accustomed to weaving our own obscuring veils of words and catchphrases and symbols of caring, relieving ourselves of the necessity of seeing too much or too closely. Homelessness is a life style choice, schizophrenics need to be forced to take their medications, runaway children are just delinquents, and single mothers are welfare queens.

But there are no homes for the homeless, no safe, welcoming places for those driven mad by poverty, isolation, and terror. No food for the hungry, no hope for the lost.

Ten thousand steel rods, "strung like a Stradivarius", complete the structure, but when I grasp one, its cold and unyielding, like the bars of a cage, and there is only silence.

In the face of what we refuse to understand, this is all we are offered: barred from life, barred from death.

Ultimately, the Veil- with a cost of over 5 million dollars- and the two inexpensive Distress Centre signs that bracket the overpass accomplish, or fail to accomplish, the same mission, the saving of lives.