Opinion: Hidden snaps

'Back then, I didn't know the word exploitation. I only knew that I didn't want to be there anymore—so I left' Some might consider taking Labour Day as a day of rest to be a bit like taking Valentine's Day as a day to hash out old arguments. Or spending Thanksgiving complaining about your family. Or commemorating Earth Day by idling your truck in the driveway. But never mind. I'm happy to celebrate a day about work by not working. As Labour Day approaches, I've been reflecting on the nature of labour and how work has shaped my life. Labour Day is rooted in generations of workers fighting to make work a little less terrible. In 1872, Toronto printers went on strike demanding a nine-hour workday—a shockingly radical idea at the time. Several leaders of the movement were arrested because unions were technically illegal. The public was outraged. Change followed. The movement eventually helped secure things many of us now take for granted: weekends, limits on working hours, workplace safety standards, minimum wages, paid holidays, and the right to advocate for better conditions without immediately getting sacked. It also led to protections for children. In the 19th century, kids routinely worked long hours in factories, mines, and other dangerous workplaces. Laws eventually restricted child labour and established minimum working ages to help protect children from exploitation. Which reminds me of one of my first jobs. I was barely into my teens when I hopped on a bus from the suburbs of Calgary wearing my best jeans and my mother's cowboy hat. It was early July. I'd heard there was a Hire-A-Student centre at the Stampede grounds and was excited to show up and be dispatched wherever extra labour was needed. Maybe I'd be dusting mini-donuts with sugar. Selling Dream Home lottery tickets. Helping with horses before the rodeo. Cleaning up midway debris beneath a roller-coaster. Minimum wage was about $3.50 an hour, and I was already mentally calculating my future wealth. If I landed something that lasted for the whole rest of the Stampede, I figured I could afford a six-month pass at Lloyd's Roller Rink. Instead, I got Ron. Ron ran The Freak Show. It may officially have been called the House of Oddities, but everyone there called it The Freak Show. Ron looked me up and down, handed me a bikini and a pair of high heels, showed me how the trick ropes worked, and told me to change in the back trailer and be on stage for the promo gig in 10 minutes. The ropes, I was assured, would snap apart the moment I moved. 'It's not rocket science, sweetie,' he said. 'But just remember to smile, but don't talk. No one wants to hear you talking.' Sounded easy! While I waited for Ron to summon me back, I met my coworkers. There was a flame-eater. A man whose bones were supposedly made of rubber. A bearded woman. The 'world's fattest man.' The sword-swallower asked me if I wanted to travel with them to Edmonton for Klondike Days the following week. Apparently the knife thrower needed someone new to stand with an apple on her head. A few minutes later, I was standing nervously on a small platform in the Stampede grounds in a bikini I couldn't fill and shoes I couldn't walk in, my arms stretched out horizontally against a metal pole while Ron dramatically tied my wrists with 'escape-proof' rope. 'Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!' he boomed. 'Witness the impossible!' 'You won't believe the freaks of nature we have assembled for your entertainment!' And he went on to describe the Weird. The Wonderful. The Unbelievable. 'But first, my lovely assistant will ESCAPE from the throes of bondage before your very eyes!' That was my cue. I yanked my arms and the ropes fell away. People hooted and whistled. The guy at the dart-and-balloon booth across from us watched, arms folded, and smiled. In the trailer between performances, I flipped through Tiger Beat magazines strewn across the table and I multiplied $3.50 times a lot of numbers in my head. Being a working girl felt pretty cool. Until my fourth performance. Ron tied my wrists to the pole as usual. During his bellowing intro, I spotted my father in the crowd. He didn't see me—yet. He must have come to the Stampede to check up on me. I felt suddenly exposed. What was I doing up there, tied to a pole? What if my little brothers or sisters saw me? My mum? I had to get off that stage, immediately. I didn't even want to get paid. I just wanted to get out. I didn't care about Ron and his big ugly brown moustache. I felt like there were spiders on me. In a flurry of—what? Self-preservation? Job action? Modesty? Anger?—I ripped myself free from the trick ropes and clunked in those too-big heels back to the trailer, where I threw on my proper clothes and runners and snuck out before anyone could stop me. I don't think I stole a Tiger Beat when I left, but I probably thought about it, knowing mum wouldn't have allowed us to read such trash. Luckily, Ron stayed on stage and didn't miss a beat. He was pulling customers in like a true showman. He was still up there wooing the crowd when I slipped into the midway and found my father's hand. Although I never did get paid for that gig, I was very happy to leave. Luckily, I had the freedom to do so. Not every worker does. Back then, I didn't know the word exploitation. I only knew that I didn't want to be there anymore—so I left. I had no idea that millions of children around the world were working in factories, fields, mines, and workshops. I certainly didn't know that some of the products I used every day might have passed through the hands of children who had far fewer choices than I did. This Labour Day, as I'm celebrating the young Sea to Sky workers who spent their summers scooping ice cream, babysitting, stocking shelves, walking dogs, lifeguarding pools, and wrangling children at day camps, I'm also thinking about children around the world who still don't have the protections many of us take for granted. Children who don't have the freedom to walk away. Children whose ropes don't have hidden snaps to free them.