“Frederick W Harrison – December 26, 2015 at 8:02pm ·

“Boxing Day Part Two. The other reason I did not participate in Boxing Day today has to do with a ten year anniversary – that of the Boxing Day shootings on Yonge St., outside Sam the Record Man.

I had finished my shift and dropped by a pop-up book clearance sale located across the street from Sams (I think the building is now American Apparel or Shoes) as it was their last day of business at that location – they would spend the rest of the month packing up stock and moving out to a new location. I found a book (can’t remember the title) and had just stepped up to the cash to pay for it when the shots rang out. I froze where I was, standing up; everyone else ducked or dropped to the floor.

I had been to a rifle range in the early 80s so I knew the sound of long guns, but not that of a handgun. This was not the sound of a firecracker or one of those extremely loud cap guns from the early 1970s, more akin to that of a long gun, but there was more bottom end to the shots, more oomph. A large firecracker drooped into a length of 4″ or 6″ cast iron sanitary sewer pipe might approximate the lower end of the sound. The store manager remarked afterward that it had to be a large calibre handgun. Turned out later that he was correct.

I didn’t feel panic at the time of the shots. I somehow felt safe, protected. The manager jumped up from the floor and locked the door to the store – he didn’t want any armed shooters taking refuge inside, maybe to use those inside as hostages. Secure and safe Inside, we waited for the police.

Sure enough, an officer soon rapped on the door, advising everyone that the area was being cleared and inquiring if there were any witnesses to what had happened on the street. There weren’t any.

Stepping through the doorway I was greeted on my left by the sight of an ambulance parked in the middle of the street. Paramedics were attending to wounds on the leg of one woman lying in a doorway north of the store. But in the southbound curb lane I saw paramedics hoist a gurney onto the ambulance while simultaneously working on the patient thereupon, a young woman. I was later to find out she was Jane Creba. One the ground from which they had lifted her body was blood. A lot of blood. A pool of blood.

I turned away and headed southward to the subway and home. What I had seen triggered wave after wave of anger at the people who had fired the guns, at the brazen and indifferent attitude with which they had fired guns into a crowd of people, at the fucked up mindset of people who adopt gansta culture as a means of self-identification, at those who create and glorify gansta culture, of the gun lobby who protect the interests of the gun manufacturers at the cost of lives to the general population, of people who own guns because it gives them the power to be judge, jury, and executioner over other people, to a society who balks at spending money to alleviate poverty and provide programs to keep youth off the street and out of gangs yet can in the next breath justify spending billions on Olympic bids, new stadiums, downtown megacasinos, and – ironically – new prisons and “tough on crime” measures to deal with the carnage that their penury on social programs has wrought, and to a populace who will be momentarily concerned until the next bit of fluff deemed to be news flickers across their TV screens or at the turn of the page in their newspaper or magazine.

Returning to work in the coming days, I found myself increasingly anxious, then depressed, drained of energy, unable to focus on my work, and running over and over in my mind what MIGHT have happened had not decided to buy a book but had stepped out onto the street the moment the shots were fired. I scoured the newspapers for the newest stories on the Boxing Day shootings, as they were now being referred to by the media. I am hazy on this, but I think there was one work day I stayed home from work, unable to face the outside world; a “mental health day” as I put it to the store manager.

A small impromptu memorial had been set up outside Foot Locker where Jane Creba had fallen, a bullet through her chest. I stood vigil for several hours each night, along with Himy Syed, a Muslim who maintained the shrine through the day and into the night. A number of people were visibly moved when they discovered that a few feet off of the curb was where a bullet had ended the life of a young teenager who had stepped outside of Sams to use a washroom in one of the restaurants across the street – not aware that Sam’s had a washroom for customer use in our classical department – assuming it wan’t already occupied. Only a few passed by totally unconcerned. Many whispered their recognition of what had happened to each other and hurried quickly past

Part of the reason for attending on subsequent evenings was because of three or four girls who came to the vigil on the first night, not to express concern or solidarity but to BRAG that they knew who was responsible, and wasn’t he an asshole, etc. and he is getting what he deserves, and they are glad they are no longer hang out with him, etc. Just when you think you’ve seen the lowest one to which one can can sink in moral behaviour, someone comes a long and proves you wrong. I copied down some of the nicknames they threw out in conversation and brought them to the attention of the police. Whether they acted upon this information is not known, but I wanted those responsible to be arrested and prosecuted before they could act again. But no further information was forthcoming.

It later came out that the shooting was the aftermath of a gang confrontation at the Eaton Center in which someone had stolen the hat off of a rival gang member and both gangs walked up opposite sides of Yonge Street before one decided to draw his gun and start firing – with hundreds of shoppers to use as cover.
If it were up to me, there would be a mandatory, non-negotiable, non-coincident sentence of ten to fifteen years for the shooters on both sides of this shootout. The sentences for murder, attempted murder, wounding, reckless endangerment of human life, possession of an illegal weapon, gang involvement, obstruction of justice (the shooter gave his gun to someone else in order to introduce reasonable doubt in the event he or the someone else would ever be arrested and charged) can be added to it, but it is the bedrock over which all other sentences are laid in order to set a legal precedent for any subsequent cases of similar nature. You shoot a gun into a crowd of people – you do the time, all of it.

Bob, one of the security guards at Sam’s noticed my attendance at the vigils and expressed concern for my mental state of health. But my concern also extended to him and the other employees at the store, who were beginning to show the signs of the burden they were carrying.

The police thankfully sent a number of trauma counselors to the store to advise employees that what they may be experiencing could be post traumatic stress disorder. Being told that the feelings and thoughts we were experiencing had an explanation, and many of us acknowledging that we had these thoughts and feelings was a great help – but not a cure or means to recovery. In this, each employee was on their own. This posting is part (I would like to think the final part) of my dealing with it.

I informed my doctor about what had happened – he put me back on anti-depressants ( I had been weaned off of them for about a year) and set me up with a colleague for counseling to monitor and address the psychological fallout of the trauma.

There was a public rally/vigil at Dundas Square sometime after the shooting and just after the memorial had been removed from in front of Foot Locker. People were stepping forward to speak after the official “spokespersons” had their say. I spoke, mumbled something about how, despite the snuffing out of a light by darkness, the darkness would not prevail (yes, I was trying to paraphrase John 1:5) and then followed by reciting the Lord’s Prayer, strengthened by the voices of others joining in, some of then in their own tongue. My time standing vigil for Jane Creba ended with this rally, but my concern over the issues that contributed to this shooting still remains.

Though I did not know it at the time. 2006 was to prove to be a very bad year for my family, my church, and myself as part of both, culminating with the death of my sister from cancer on December 6, 2006. Seven months later the closure of Sam The Record Man – and the end of 26 years of employment with the business – would be added to it.

Ten years have come and gone. Wounded and weary though I may be, I’m still here. My God, and my faith in him, have carried me thus far – ’tis grace will see me home.”

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