memoir I graduated high school with honours, found a job and got into university—all while living on the street

I graduated high school with honours, found a job and got into university— all while living on the street

My childhood was happy, quiet and blissfully normal. I grew up in Scarborough with my parents and older brother. My mom was an administrator for the TDSB and later worked the floor in a factory. My dad took a job as a janitor while putting himself through business school. In the evenings, my brother and I would sit on his lap while he pored over his textbooks.

Everything changed when I hit puberty. In Sri Lankan culture, when a girl starts menstruating, her family holds a ceremony to mark the occasion. The day of my party, I wore a beaded pink sari, and sat patiently while guests recited blessings and poured milk over my head—a ritual meant to bless me with fertility. My parents started treating me differently after that day. They were terrified that I’d get a boyfriend and have premarital sex. If I wasn’t at school, I had to be home—at all times. They barred me from attending school trips or concerts. Sometimes teachers would phone home and try to change their minds. To avoid further questioning, my parents would pull me out and transfer me. By the time I was 17, I’d attended three high schools.

One day, during the summer before Grade 12, my parents snooped through my inbox and found an email from a boy I’d met in a chat room. They freaked out. I tried to explain that he was just a friend, but they wouldn’t listen. That day, I realized any decision I made for myself would infuriate them. I couldn’t live like that. So I ran away, and, without my parents’ knowledge, I went to live with my aunt in Ottawa while I finished school. But a month after I moved in, my dad called the house. When my aunt said he was coming for me, I grabbed my backpack and ran. I didn’t think to bring much of anything with me, not even a change of clothes. All I had were my textbooks.

That first night on the street, I wandered for hours. Eventually, I dozed off on a bench. As I got used to my life as a homeless person, I took to scrounging for food in dumpsters. On good days I’d score unfinished meals from a Chinese restaurant, or wolf down half-eaten bagels from the trash at Tim Hortons. I had no other choice. I’d gone from one trap to another.

Most nights, I slept on sidewalks downtown. When the cold became unbearable, I’d break into parked cars using a hanger and take refuge for the night. The key was to doze sitting upright— the last thing you want is to fall into a deep sleep and get caught in someone’s back seat. Sometimes I went to school, and sometimes I was too embarrassed. I wore the same outfit every day: a limegreen Aeropostale sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. I never showered, and I washed my clothes in gas station sinks. Because they couldn’t dry out fully, they developed an overpowering musty odour. Once, a classmate passed along some leftover shepherd’s pie in a Becel container. But for the most part, my peers ignored me. I was the homeless girl who smelled bad.

When I turned 18, I went to a shelter for young women. If I’d shown up earlier, the staff would have had to inform my parents. At the shelter, the girls were four to a room, sleeping in tidy bunk beds. Some of my shelter-mates had drug dependencies; others were sex workers. One girl revealed that she was fleeing an arranged marriage. The shelter provided for us as best they could, but their resources were stretched. On warmer nights, when I could fend for myself, I’d leave, opening space for someone else. School was my only path off the street. The teachers let me use the library computers after hours, and the shelter gave me my own room so I could stay up late to study. By the end of the school year, I’d completed all of my credits. Before graduation, one of the shelter staff took me to Dress for Success, an organization that provides free professional attire to women in need. There, I zeroed in on a bright red suit. Trying it on, I felt like Hillary Clinton—powerful, confident. I looked at my reflection and started to laugh. It was like seeing an old friend. I wore the suit to an interview at McDonald’s and got the job.

For a year, I saved money, taking home as much free food as I could. I probably ate hundreds of Big Macs. When I’d saved enough, I moved into community housing and got into McMaster’s biochemistry program. There, I fell into a gruelling schedule: class by day, then off to my McDonald’s night shift. During university, I finally reconciled with my parents. We talked on the phone, tentatively at first. When I graduated from McMaster, they attended the ceremony. Soon after that, I met my future husband. He was endlessly patient while I worked through my traumatic past.

After studying science, I was fascinated by how storytelling affects the brain’s neural activity, and I pursued a diploma in advertising at Seneca. Today, I work at an agency. In 2017, I organized a clothing drive at my office for Dress for Success Toronto and revealed my history to my co-workers for the first time. I needed them to understand that homeless teens aren’t necessarily lazy or rebellious or dangerous. I hope that at least one of the suits we donated ends up with another homeless teen. That she can wear it to an interview of her own and start a new life for herself.

I wore the same outfit every day and washed my clothes in gas station bathrooms