Future’s Failure
Nonfiction by Lily Hoyte
Kassie by Mio Reynolds (2023)
I often dreamed about what I would grow up and do when I was younger. I guess that was a normal thing that most children do. They dream of being astronauts and scientists and singers and actors. They dream of saving people, winning awards, bettering the community, and being excellent. They dream they have families and spouses and children and parents they return home to see during the holidays. And at one point, I must have had those same aspirations. I must have spent hours dreaming that one day in the future, I would shine high amongst my peers at the top of whatever career I would have, with my forever partner and children at home waiting for me to join them for Christmas. At some point, I must have been like everyone else. However, being average and following the typical trends of life never prepared me for this reality.
I think about my future when I’m staring through the frosted glass at work. I hadn’t always settled for a life amongst gluten and pea-protein and soya beans and oat milk. I had only started this job in June, latching desperately to the first place that would take me. Leaving a fast-food job of three years had been difficult, but not as difficult as working with angry customers, demanding staff, sizzling hot beef, and crippling depression. So, I settled for this job at a burgeoning vegan restaurant to pass my time. While I had taken the job without any thoughts in my head because I needed this, I still couldn’t deny that I worried about my future when the order amounts were low, and the assembly line was empty.
I hadn’t needed to think about my future for so long before this. The world had been at the cusp of my fingertips for as long as I could remember. When I was four, I wanted nothing more than a dog. Several months later, there he was. A shiny, bright golden retriever in the hands of my all-too-eager-to-please uncle. I would later name him Bentley with my brother, and he would rule my world. When I was ten, I wanted nothing more than to be amongst the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds in their Red Maple reading club; the books had always sparked joy far beyond the silly little picture books that people offered me. It hadn’t taken any time for me to get my hands on the reading lists of my dreams, leading me to a life of competing in the big reading leagues later. When I was sixteen, I had decided on a whim that I wanted to be a mechanic. The classes taught at my high school could barely sate my interest any longer. I needed a pathway into the world of oil changes, new cars, vernier callipers, and bolt head measurements. It had only taken one interview and a bright smile to get out of joining my high school peers in what was supposed to be the best semester of our secondary school career and into the halls of college at an automotive apprenticeship for those last four months of high school. Everything I wanted came so easily and yet, here I was at twenty-two, selling people on “bacun,” “chickun,” oat ice cream, and chickpea patties.
I suppose I do see some aspects of my future, faintly, when I view the world around me. When I walk through the streets of the city and the nature trails of my hometown, the train stations late at night and in the grocery stores in the day, I see it. I see how the world will keep advancing, developing further in the hopes of becoming one of the more prolific and innovative eras of human history. I can see that future only faintly because in the corner, hidden from the bright eyes of everyone with dreams and hopes and potential and privilege, are those who won’t enjoy that future. I see it all the time: children who wonder if their friends will be nice enough to lend them food at lunch; adults who, for some reason unbeknownst to me, have fallen on bad times and now heavily rely on the kindness of strangers. I see both sides from the window at work as I watch the streets. Sometimes I wonder if a sample of fries tucked quickly into my bag will make a difference to those lost futures, overshadowed by my own shiny potential one.
I spend so much time wondering about my future in this place, I wonder if I should do something. Here I was, one of the lucky ones, and I dared to complain about the abundance of hope that life has granted me. A life of mediocrity, however, did not prepare me to make changes to the stratosphere that protects me. Normal people don’t enact change. Normal people sit in their safety nets and warm beds and family homes and then they wait. They wait for someone else to notice the awful, deplorable conditions and say, “Maybe we should do something?” And who am I to judge? I have sat in my own bystander mentality and gaped in horror, waiting for the strong, brave, and mighty superhero to come to rescue those I see in need. For someone else to be the person I thought I could be when I’m alone, reliving what I could have done at that time while I’m lost in thought in bed.
The future doesn’t change overnight. I can’t change overnight. But if no one, myself or another, changes, then how can I complain that the future isn’t the one I want to see? How can I plead for there to be hope for everyone if I can’t even do a small thing. Mediocrity isn’t always just a blessing; it can be a curse. Mediocrity, average acceptance, bleeds into the very way humans operate and make decisions that can impact everyone else. And while I preach and boast that the future can one day be one where everyone can be hopeful, how can I stop mediocrity from holding me hostage in those safety nets, convincing me that everything is fine if we just don’t think about how bad everything is, and accepting that the future can never, and will never, be changed?
We, as a collective, do that by starting with the small changes. We leave our jobs of three years even though it's scary. We latch onto the new jobs that give us our very first offers because we’re seizing our futures by the throat. We challenge mediocrity when we begin to question the unfair aspects of our lives. It starts with these little and delicate changes because we can’t expect to be superheroes like the ones we idolize. We have to start small. We have to unlearn the mentality that causes us to lay dormant to the injustices we feel strongly about but feel no motivation to alter.
So, I worry about my future as I flip “beefy” smash patties, flip “sausage” pucks, sprinkle black salt on tofu, and ladle “cheeze” sauce on hot English muffins. Not because I’m worried nothing will change but because I know it’s only a matter of time before I stop hiding behind the guise of being scared. When the time comes, when the bravery to deviate from being complacent fills my veins, I’ll stop worrying about the future. I will because I’ll have all the tools I need to challenge the things I deem to be wrong. They lay dormant within me, waiting for the day that I decide I can excel beyond the standard I’ve accepted. I’ll be the big and strong and brave and mighty superhero I’ve always imagined would come and save me—even if it says I’m five feet, two inches on my G1 driver’s license.
I often dreamed about what I would grow up and do when I was younger. I guess that was a normal thing that most children do. They dream of being astronauts and scientists and singers and actors. They dream of saving people, winning awards, bettering the community, and being excellent. They dream that they will have families and spouses and children and parents they return home to see during the holidays. And, I suppose, at one point I must have had those same aspirations. I must have spent hours dreaming that one day in the future I would shine high amongst my peers at the top of whatever career I would have with my forever partner and children at home waiting for me to join them for Christmas. At some point, I must have been like everyone else. However, now I know that the future isn’t about being average, isn’t about fitting in with the goals and ideals of others. The future is about foraging ahead to the beat of my own pace; relishing in my version of success. Maybe I never needed to prepare for the future at all.
Lily Hoyte is a third-year student in the Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing program at Humber Polytechnic. Passionate about exploring the intersection of creativity and self-expression, she is dedicated to writing about the things she loves while challenging herself to reinvent her approach to storytelling. Lily aims to push boundaries, experiment with new forms, and continuously evolve as a writer.