Opposite Contraries by Emily Carr Read Free Book Online Page A

Toronto, November 8–10] Bathing beaches, statuary, monuments, parks, memorials, churches, schools, universities, orphanages, Chinese quarters, nigger quarters, Jews’ quarters, factories, foundries, department stores — all these on gigantic scales. Millions and millions and millions of tons of brick and stone, miles and miles of parks. But horrible, horrible. It was built up largely on blood— blood of innocent hearts — abattoirs. Chicago’s glory and wealth producer — blood! I was terrified we might go near the fearful carnage places on tour, but we did not. I think he said there were over 1600 old churches in Chicago. We visited the Elks’ Memorial in honour of the World War heroes, a lavish display. Maybe they do good in raising one’s thoughts but I wonder if it’s not mostly a desire to produce the best and the biggest monument. So much of the town rolled out to us in terms of “millions” and “biggests”— all sentiment seems crushed out by the ponderosity and money values. Nigger town is enormous. It seems so strange, the impossible barrier. Both human developing, growing beings. Will the gap ever be bridged? One does not see how it is possible. I can see the American Indian falling in step with the white races and the Eastern peoples —Chinese and Japanese — but I can’t see the niggers. I like them but I don’t feel sisterly exactly. [. . .]
    There are mud icicles hanging under the motors. The railroad and motor road lie parallel and close. There is no privacy about these [workers’] homes; they stand bare and exposed on all sides. Your eye travels uninterrupted from their verandahless front door to the porchless back. The windows are like birds’ eyes that do not wink their lids, and their one-point gable fronts remind one of old women with middle-parted hair. The empty houses look as desolate as the last year’s birds’ nests. The sun pretended he was coming out and then went in and slammed the door. I don’t know where we are, in my country or their country, but it’s one country — North America, one swell land!
    The woman in front and the woman behind have amalgamated and are swapping experiences — children, jam-making, travel and operations. Neither is interested in the other’s experiences but vastly so in her own. One is fatter than me and has great hands with fingers like bananas. Dead cabbages and cemeteries abound. It is not so flat. I’m sure I smell Canada. Ann Arbor —I never heard of Ann, so don’t know if she’s U.S. or Canada.
    I’ve slept and cricked my neck something frightful. Dusk is falling and appetite rising. Bess and Fred and Lawren and the art show and talks almost in reach.
    Gee whiz! Here’s something most important coming — brick buildings, low and long and many, and fine paved streets. Ford Motor Manufacturers! What a wonderful man Mr. Ford is, a real worth whiler on the earth. My word, Detroit is some place — workshops of different kinds for miles and miles. To think of all the multimillions of things they make and send out to the ends of the earth, makes you worse than giddy biliousness.[. . .]
    Seven hours more.
    Mr. Snoopia and his satellites have rifled my bags for duty and given their gracious permission to continue on my way in peace. Here’s Windsor, Ontario. Welcome, dear Canada! There’s no snow and a nice sky bright in the West and a big dog racing free with a boy. I only saw three dogs in the States — those miserable specimens straining on a leash in city parks.
    Is it immigration or is there a subtle difference since we crossed the borderline? We are only just across. The air is lighter and clearer — the women and men who got on at Windsor are not so smart in clothes and carriage. Hello, there’s a picket fence; I did not see any in the U.S. (all wire or mostly nothing) and lots of trees, little planted ones and woods too and long rows of poplars. I thought the East was different to the West — now it seems the East and the