Vancouver stole my heart the moment it cradled me in its arms in 1981. At a very young age I noticed my connection to this city was different. I knew that most folks navigated this city’s terrain indifferent to the things around them—the tangibles. Today, I watch folks speed walk, faces down magnetically pulled into the light from their phones. But back then I toured the memorized streets of my own city—most nights with the evening wind thick and forceful at my back—guiding me. I walked the narrow sidewalks finding security in the blinking red of a stoplight and never letting go of the immense comfort I found watching the clouds lower and kiss the tips of mountains, like the hinge of an antique frame folding in slow motion. I owned this.

No one expects a thriving community to stay the same, but sometimes imminent change can shake a community to its core. Through all the cranes, stacked concrete blocks, constant 7 a.m. hammering, construction workers tossing lunchtime meal wrappers to the curb—I close my eyes. I’ve lived in Vancouver my entire life. I moved all over the eastside of the city as a young girl; its parks, buildings, architecture, people, grass, and cracked sidewalks slowly carved a permanent nook in my heart. A place. A home. But this carefully carved-out nook came plastered with a sign that read temporary— a mirroring of the for rent signs that today harbour nothing more than a glimmer of hope. That carefully carved-out nook will come and go just as I have come and gone from so many houses in this city. I don’t own the current space I call home, and when I think about why, that nook gets just a little bit smaller. So when it comes to having the privilege of owning a home in Vancouver, who is in, and who is out?

  I imagine that the people who struggle the most have a similar worry embedded in their mind, attached to every thought, followed by that sinking-heart feeling, that whisper: I can no longer live here. I am out.  

In a city rich with history such as the immigrant community of Hogan’s Alley, and the colourful streets of Chinatown, it’s hard to watch it become unlivable for so many people who cannot keep up with the skyrocketing rents. To own a home in this city is not a privilege many of us will have the opportunity to explore. Currently, Vancouver is one of the most expensive Canadian cities to live in. It’s also a hard place to make a living, especially for those in the margins who already have extra barriers tossed in front of them. When I think about the rising rents and how many people with families are already struggling to make ends meet, I long for the past: I’ve heard stories: gorgeous rain-slicked sidewalks lined with buzzing businesses ripe with activity, and a community that stuck up for each other. A community that came together when things needed to get done, or if their neighbours weren’t treated right. I’ve heard stories of a city that was on the rise because of the marginalized—yet hardworking—people who lived there, a city built with pride. I’ve heard stories.

How does Vancouver’s high price tag affect the most vulnerable? I continue to read stories of young families being forced out of their homes or making the tough decision to live separately because it’s more affordable. This creates a bigger divide. I grew up immersed in the constant fear of not knowing where I would be living from one day to the next. I imagine that the people who struggle the most have a similar worry embedded in their mind, attached to every thought, followed by that sinking-heart feeling, that whisper: I can no longer live here. I am out.

Although I do not claim to have any answers to solve this epidemic, I have no problem admitting that the thought of moving to another city has crossed my mind. I am someone who has always dreamed of owning a home dusted in yellow, a large wrap-around-porch at the front, three large oaks providing permanent shade, the slow and steady buzz of cars the perfect distance away and the hush of leaves bending in the wind—home.

I look inside at that nook I carved out of this city. Decay—unavoidable. The drywall is peeled, ripped, jagged. It still costs a fortune. The space gets smaller and I pack up what’s left of my nook, books from bookcases are tucked in flimsy boxes, I stuff my pockets with bits and pieces from desk drawers. I close the door as the squeak of the hinges calls out for the last time. Who’s in and who’s out?

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Chelene Knight lives in Vancouver and is the author of Braided Skin (Mother Tongue Publishing), and Dear Current Occupant (Book*hug Publishing). Her third book, a novel, is forthcoming from Book*hug in 2020. Knight is the managing editor at Room magazine, festival director for the Growing Room Literary Festival, and owner/facilitator of #LearnWritingEssentials e-courses. 

Photo by Rich Riordan.

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For more on how the cities of Cascadia are dealing with the affordable housing crisis, read Casey Jaywork’s feature, “Three Cities, One Housing Crisis” at Cascadia Magazine.