He wasn't embarrassed. He was ashamed. And he wasn't ashamed of Rose. It was something deeper. It was the shame Teacher conveyed, by trying to fix things. He wanted to shout that these things were just broken. He wanted her to understand the pride of broken things.From the Author's Note at the beginning of All the Broken Things: The strangest of the truths in this novel are the facts of a bear wrestling circuit in Ontario, the production of Agent Orange in the small town of Elmira, Ontario, and freak shows at the Canadian National Exhibition (CNE). With these strange but true facts in hand, Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer benignly fudges the timeline to allow a fourteen-year-old Vietnamese refugee, in the Toronto of 1983, to heal his complicated psychology through his relationship with a bear.
Bo's mother was widowed on the boat from Vietnam, and suffering Agent Orange poisoning and repulsed by the severely deformed daughter she gave birth to upon arriving in Canada, Rose has become an alcoholic who can neither properly care for her kids or hold down a job. Her daughter (named Orange Blossom in Vietnamese but called "Orange" by Bo and "Sister" by their mother) is a twisted, flippered, pop-eyed mute who throws herself at the walls and punches and bites those who try to care for her. Bo is gentle with his mother and sister but seeks out fistfights with his peers -- only when he's hitting or hit does he feel connected to the people around him. When fighting one evening, Bo is scouted by a carnie, Gerry, who wants Bo to become a bear wrestler (pure theater that would gain Bo's family much needed cash). Bo is eventually introduced to Max, the owner of the sideshow and collector of freakish folks. When Max learns about Orange, he becomes obsessed with meeting (and perhaps with possessing) her. Amidst all of this chaos, Gerry gives Bo his own cub to train for the next carnival season, and the relationship between the boy and his bear becomes the focus of the story.
There are so many emotionally charged ideas in All the Broken Things -- the Boat People, racism, child neglect, poverty, alcoholism, animal rights, the dignity of those with special needs, the Vietnam War, etc. -- that I started off thinking that I was reading something very special; all of these issues colliding made me think that I was feeling something, but in the end, there was no emotional payoff (beyond what's inherent in reading about any terrible situation), and more than anything, I was just annoyed.
I was annoyed that the sister -- whose birth defects were a result of exposure to Agent Orange -- was named "Orange Blossom" but called "Orange": every time her name was used, I asked myself, "Why? Why would that be her name?" I was annoyed that the teacher had formerly worked at Uniroyal in Elmira -- manufacturing Agent Orange for the American government during the Vietnam War -- and thought that she had to atone for that fact by sponsoring Vietnamese refugees: in the author's note, Kuitenbrouwer makes it clear that she thinks all of Canada needs to finally atone for the role we played in the poisoning of a foreign people (and while I can't quite get myself worked up into a state of national shame over this, I am certainly disturbed to read here that babies in Vietnam are still affected by the lingering effects of Agent Orange today). I was annoyed that Bo would be able to hide out (with a bear!) in High Park in Toronto for months and only come into contact with a veteran from the Vietnam War (with a freakshow-worthy face thanks to exploding ordinance). I was annoyed that when Bo asked Soldier Man how long he had been living in the park it was, ironically, ten years -- the same length of time that King Orpheus had wandered in the woods in the play Bo had studied in school -- and I know that because Bo makes the connection himself (and I hate having this kind of thing spelled out for me -- I need an author to trust that I'm paying attention). I was annoyed that Bo explained to his mother what the metaphor of a doorway is in the Orpheus play: every time someone crossed a threshold after that (should Bo enter Max's trailer? Emily's house?) it felt freighted with meaning, right up until Bo insists that it's time for Orange to cross the threshold into outside (and it's a good thing that Bo had spent those months in the park so that he, like Orpheus, could rescue the maiden…See? I was paying attention...)
And I didn't buy into so many plot points -- that Gerry would recognise the scrawny Bo as a natural-born bear wrestler, or that Bo could raise a bear cub in the city without getting caught, or that he could drop out of school and disappear without the authorities going nuts. And what's the deal with Emily's parents "not believing in chlorination" for their backyard pool? With green scum and frogs, that's not the equivalent of a pond (which would be spring-fed and a healthy ecosystem) but a stagnant biohazard.
I so wanted to join Kuitenbrouwer on this journey, but in the end, squeezing together these emotionally charged subjects made for an interesting concept that just didn't pay off. But what bumps it up from two stars to three is the relationship between Bo and Bear (the image of the bear licking the melting ice cream from between the boy's toes was skillfully wrought and will stay with me) and also the relationship between Bo and Orange (I totally believed that, as hard as caring for her was, Bo loved and respected his little sister just the way she was).
When we lived in Edmonton, I bounced between a few jobs until I found one I loved: I was a cocktail waitress at Sha Na Na's, a dumb name I know, but the most popular nightclub in the city center. On the weekends, the lineup was out the door and the staff made huge money and had huge laughs serving the mostly young crowd. I was sex and drugs and rock and roll; I never flirted but was hit on nonstop; I felt like the adored hostess of the best cocktail party every night. During the week, however, the evenings were slower and we could make real friendships with the customers, and this was my happy life for about two years.
Near the end of my time at Sha Na Na's, the weekday clientele began to change. There were some Asian men who came in, and as many of them had young white girls with them, I figured they were probably pimps and drug dealers (but since they just came in for a few drinks, weren't breaking any laws on the premises that I could see, what could I do but serve them?) The owners of the club were Wayne and Joanne -- a couple from China who had made a fortune in the bar industry and they treated us girls like daughters (even though Joanne was barely older than us -- the mistress who broke up Wayne's marriage, but whom he refused to marry). There were also a couple of other guys who began to come in, and since they didn't hit on me, I would often sit and talk with them when they were the only customers. (One of these guys is important to the story, but since I can't remember his actual name, I'll call him Keith.)
One Saturday, near the end of the night, I noticed that one table of Asians had an open case of beer under their table, and as I knew that could get us shut down, I went and told them they couldn't have that in the bar. They stared at me like I was nothing, so I went and told a bouncer. Turns out everyone knew about the case of beer -- it was probably stolen from the back hallway -- but Wayne's instructions were to ignore it and hope they leave without trouble. When I asked Joanne about this later, she said, "Those guys are Vietnamese and very scary. You can't do anything to them because in their country it was very bad, they saw terrible things, and now they just don't care. Call the police, they'll go to jail, but then they get you."
The whole vibe was getting to be less fun, but the money was still great and I loved my bosses and coworkers and Dave also worked nights -- I carried on.
One weeknight, "Keith" came in and he was the only customer and I sat and talked with him for quite a while. Then a group of Asians -- whom I now knew to be Vietnamese Boat People -- came in, and they were loud and obnoxious and ordered drinks and made rude comments to me, and as I only had a female bartender (the brainless drunk, Lise) on with me, I felt really uncomfortable. Keith was watching without watching, and the next time I stopped at his table, he asked me if everything was good. I said sure and he told me that if I needed to, I could tell those guys that he was my brother. I thanked him, and when I next went to the Asians to see if they wanted another round, they asked me who that guy was and I replied nonchalantly, "Oh, that's just my brother."
Mistake. About 15 minutes later, another 5 Vietnamese showed up and they (with the other guys from the table) swarmed Keith and beat him and stomped on him and one guy smashed a beer mug against Keith's head when he was already unconscious. Then they ran away and I called 911 and the still unconscious Keith was taken away in an ambulance. The bartender phoned Joanne, and when she showed up and I told her the story, she said it was all my fault -- they probably thought me calling Keith "my brother" was a warning to them that their pride couldn't ignore; it's an Asian thing. I told Joanne that I couldn't work there anymore if this is the way it was going to be from then on -- as bad as I felt for Keith, what if that had actually been my brother? Ken had certainly visited us before and dropped by the bar, and he doesn't look any more like me than Keith did. Joanne explained that the gangsters had gone too far and Wayne would take care of things; he was not a man to be disrespected like that. (And I never got the sense that Wayne was into drugs or any other underground activity, but I respected him and believed Joanne.)
A couple of weeks later, on a busy Saturday night, a bouncer took me aside and said that a group of Vietnamese, with their leader Miaygi (because the guy totally looked like Miyagi from The Karate Kid -- but what kind of serious kingpin takes on a nickname like that?) came to the bar and asked the bouncers to point out which guy was my husband. They wanted revenge for me calling the police, and since they weren't going to beat me up, they wanted to put the hurt on Dave. Conrad thought he was being a real pal to me when he looked around, and even though Dave was standing nearby, he told Miyagi and the gang that he wasn't there that night. I freaked out. At closing, I told Joanne the story, and as she tried to walk away shouting over her shoulder, "What you want me to do about it? You don't know these people!", I gave her my notice, and two weeks later, I was gone.
The stranger part of the story was realising later that Miyagi lived a block away from me and Dave and this so-called hardass spent his days pruning his garden with a couple of yapping poodles running around his feet. As scared as I was of violence in the bar, we weren't actually afraid of this guy in his domestic setting, and in any case, we had bought our first house and moved soon after.
This totally skewed example is all the personal experience that I have of Vietnamese Boat People. I have no idea if they still control some portion of the Edmonton drug and prostitution rackets; no idea if they remain unassimiable; no idea if they're still as broken as Bo and Rose and Orange from this book.
