My First Weeks at Ryerson

When I graduated from high school, I had no idea what I wanted to be. Come to think of it, that hasn’t changed too much.

I remember going to my guidance councillor and having him ask me what my dreams were. One was playing baseball, but since I played softball, that didn’t seem an option. Next was becoming a farmer. I have no idea where that one came from, especially since I have allergies and had never been on a farm in my life. The third was a disc jockey. We couldn’t find any reason I couldn’t do that so I applied and was accepted into Ryerson Polytechnical Institute in the Radio and Television Arts program (RTA).

It was the end of the 60s. You could go to Yorkville and listen to Gordon Lightfoot and Joni Mitchell at cafés. You could go, but I couldn’t. I had no appreciation of what was happening around me. Until then, my world had been a patch of the earth of 4 square kilometres.

I remember the frosh picnic for Ryerson on Centre Island. I had been invited to go, but I declined. Who wanted to go to a free concert by a group called the Chicago Transit Authority, later to become Chicago? It had to be pretty lame with a hit called 25 to 6 to 4, right?

Today there are pretty high admission standards for this program. At that time it was first-come, first-served. I’m sure the students are very different than in my era. We had quite a cross-section of society.

I remember Robert, born in Germany, whose eyelids were like butterflies due to what I suspect was excessive drug use. Michelle from Quebec was a bona fide witch. Jan showed her feminine charms in buckskin, while her friend, Dale, showed hers always dressed in black. There was pretty well almost every other type of person who I had never encountered before. And then there was me.

The only thing I knew about college and university was from what I had seen in the Andy Hardy movies on television. Mickey Rooney, who portrayed Andy, always wore a shirt and a tie, so I figured that was what you did. Can you imagine my shock when I arrived the first day? I felt as if I had been dropped on another planet. What I didn’t feel was that I was very creative. How could I be? There were so many others that looked so artistic. Why had I made such a big mistake?

After two weeks of feeling totally lost, I was ready to quit. It’s not that people were not nice to me. They didn’t try to make me feel out of place. I was the one who made me feel out of place.

Fortunately, before I made my final decision, a teacher showed the class a film. It was called “There’s No Such Thing As Art (We Only Do Our Best)”. It was about a nun who taught art in Chicago. Hold it! This was a nun who inspired others to express themselves. Her choice of fashion was not very interesting. She looked pretty uninspiring on the outside. As I watched the film, I noticed the fire in her eyes. I heard the passion in her voice. It then dawned on me that what mattered was on the inside, not the outside.

It didn’t matter how long my hair was, and in those days some had it pretty long. It didn’t matter what I wore. Nothing mattered except searching inside my soul, finding something interesting and pulling it out for everyone to see. Some might find it beautiful, others might not. What mattered to me was that I was honest enough to find what was real and present it the best way I could.

Every one of us has gifts. They can be wrapped in many different ways. That doesn’t change what’s inside the box – the gift.