Author: Mike Murchison

I have heard the term “segregation” my whole life; I never fully identified with it until I was refused use of washrooms in truck stops in Northern Ontario, or made to stand out in the cold at a drive-through window at a fast-food joint. Standing in the drive-through lane with cars, I felt very out of place. Segregated.

  For a while, certain places wouldn’t handle my cash because I travel for a living. Restaurants closed, or downsized to “take-out only” service. I was eating out of paper bags while working and sleeping for days on the road: in the summer heat, and frigid cold of winter.

We, as a country that formerly manufactured things like freezers, lawnmowers, drills, vehicles and a lot of other things, traded our “quality control” overseeing for “ease of convenience” strategies. 

Things are not built to last anymore. They are built to give us a sense of immediate gratification, only to be followed by that horrendous sound of silence. That thing we just bought won’t turn on, light up or go whoosh when the switch thingy is flicked.