Despair of Demolition

Demolition was my neighbour.

Before that, I lived next to an abandoned twentieth-century bungalow, overlooking a patch of woodland and a small shed from my balcony.

The demolition was a bonding experience in my household. My roommates and I oohed and aahed at the destruction of the forest, the home, and the shed where we had tagged ourselves amongst others on a silly night, making proof of having been there.

Living in a pricey housing complex marketed to students, many of whom had inherited wealth or relied on government loans, while condos rose as quickly as green spaces disappeared, took an emotional toll on me. Right around the corner, many struggled with housing insecurity. Then I learned that the Haudenosaunee had declared a moratorium on new developments along the Haldimand Tract to advocate for a livable balance between people, the land, and the waterways.

The tussle between improvement and intrusion droned into the sanctuary of my home. Development implies creative expansion in colonial logic: The promise of mass residential and economic use. Demolition embodies the site of violence. Despair of Demolition is the experience of a memory that feels the abuse of unceded land, that sounds of Kitchener across time. 

The chair hosts photos I took of the hazardous hole outside my kitchen window, transferred in ink onto the hard maple assembled in a hostile design. You can sit, but you can’t rest.

Trace the rubble stolen from the Schneider Redevelopment site. A stone is a well-grounded witness.

The noise of demolition shook my house, rattling my despair into a constant uneasiness. Feel the sound for yourself.

Chair assembled by Odudu Umoessien.