About three months ago, I was named editor of Aids Community Care Montreal’s newspaper. It’s a nifty little publication, and in my humble opinion, does an excellent job of tying what is already a pretty close community even closer together. And so, I don’t mind battling 4:30 traffic to the complete other side of the city after a day’s work, to hole up in a church basement, pouring over articles, placing graphics, putting in commas and coming up with headlines until 11 o’clock at night. What I DO mind is coming outside, completely exhausted, hungry and ready for bed, to find a GD $42, soaking wet parking ticket on my car.
Montreal, sometimes you really, really suck.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
The power of one
And there are moments you can taste it. Where you can hear the voice and feel the hand and you hate this, because you realize you haven’t moved. That sure, you may have a list of accomplishments to rattle off, and good for you, but really, who cares. Not you. Not anyone else. And the despair at the knowledge that you’d trade it all in a blink. And you hate this even more. Because really, you’d like to be stronger. You’d like to have cried all your tears and tossed all your pillows and laughed all your bitter, hurt laughs. But it’ll get you. It’ll sneak up. When you least expect it. Like tonight, at the apartment of the elderly couple, who pry you with books and chai tea and photo albums of curly-haired children and spice muffins. And you look at the walls full of smiling faces and you smile back at them, but they see through you. And the fear that everyone does.
And it’s one more day of pulpy, orange juice mornings and yoga class nights, of meeting-filled afternoons and 3 a.m. longings. It’s you and it’s only you and it’s the fear of how much longer, how much more of this, and where is the reward, the payoff, the gold star, the end.
You know?
And it’s one more day of pulpy, orange juice mornings and yoga class nights, of meeting-filled afternoons and 3 a.m. longings. It’s you and it’s only you and it’s the fear of how much longer, how much more of this, and where is the reward, the payoff, the gold star, the end.
You know?
Monday, November 20, 2006
Just who do you think you are?
I went to a conflict mediator training session this past weekend. There were eight people in the group. Some old, some young, some wrinkled, some fresh-faced. Some well-dressed, others shabby, some smiling and bright, all of us waiting expectantly for the animator to provide us with some sort of indication or direction as to how the day would start off.
So, paperclips.
We were each instructed to select as many of the tiny tools as we wished, in order to create some sort of artistic display. Some members of the group were incredibly creative, blowing my simple-minded spelling of the word ‘Hello’ right out of the water. We then learned that for every paperclip used, we would have to tell the others something about ourselves. (At this point, I began to desperately wish I had gone for a simple, hi).
Blessedly, I didn’t have to go first. A girl sitting to my immediate left did. I expected her to launch into the typical, “I work here, I studied there, I live here.” But to my surprise, and only mine, she didn’t. Instead she spoke of her faith. Of her love for nature. For her neighbours. For her belief in herself and the universe around her. She spoke of not being afraid of death, as she is so certain of a beautiful afterlife.
And as we went around the table, I became increasingly shocked, and impressed, that no one, no one, spoke of what they did for a living, what neighbourhood they live in, what kind of car they drive, of what their husbands do. Instead I learned of depressions and delights, of battles with food and diets. Of children and miscarriages, of weddings and losses. I heard of personal beliefs, of fears, of failures and pride, of wrinkles and laugh lines.
It may be simple, but that afternoon changed something for me. I am not an editor. I am not a student. I don’t live in Pointe Claire and I don’t drive a car and I don’t have a degree. I don’t have ten pounds to lose and I don’t hate my hair.
I am a daughter. A sister. A friend. I am a lifeline. I am happy and at times desperately sad. I am excited and I can be terrified. I am love and I am loss. I am a million things in this world and not one of them has anything to do with any of the things I, for a long time, thought made me who I am.
And so, it begs the question. For me, and for all of us. Who do you think you are?
So, paperclips.
We were each instructed to select as many of the tiny tools as we wished, in order to create some sort of artistic display. Some members of the group were incredibly creative, blowing my simple-minded spelling of the word ‘Hello’ right out of the water. We then learned that for every paperclip used, we would have to tell the others something about ourselves. (At this point, I began to desperately wish I had gone for a simple, hi).
Blessedly, I didn’t have to go first. A girl sitting to my immediate left did. I expected her to launch into the typical, “I work here, I studied there, I live here.” But to my surprise, and only mine, she didn’t. Instead she spoke of her faith. Of her love for nature. For her neighbours. For her belief in herself and the universe around her. She spoke of not being afraid of death, as she is so certain of a beautiful afterlife.
And as we went around the table, I became increasingly shocked, and impressed, that no one, no one, spoke of what they did for a living, what neighbourhood they live in, what kind of car they drive, of what their husbands do. Instead I learned of depressions and delights, of battles with food and diets. Of children and miscarriages, of weddings and losses. I heard of personal beliefs, of fears, of failures and pride, of wrinkles and laugh lines.
It may be simple, but that afternoon changed something for me. I am not an editor. I am not a student. I don’t live in Pointe Claire and I don’t drive a car and I don’t have a degree. I don’t have ten pounds to lose and I don’t hate my hair.
I am a daughter. A sister. A friend. I am a lifeline. I am happy and at times desperately sad. I am excited and I can be terrified. I am love and I am loss. I am a million things in this world and not one of them has anything to do with any of the things I, for a long time, thought made me who I am.
And so, it begs the question. For me, and for all of us. Who do you think you are?
Sunday, November 19, 2006
One of these things is not like the other
Oh, the baby shower.
The mothers and the mothers-in-law.
The crust-less cucumber sandwiches, the macaroni salads, the carrot sticks, the fat-free dressing, the cheese cubes, the cheese-less pizza squares, the cream cheese tortilla wraps, the pretzels, the smoked salmon, the jelly beans, the little iced cakes, the rice krispie squares, the apple juice, the caffeine-free tea.
The pastel-coloured everything.
The playschool games, the oohs, the awwws, the pictures, the cameras, the tales, the stories, the registries, the balloons.
‘Have-you-picked-a-name-have-you-painted-the-nursery-have-you-chosen-godparents-have-you-picked-a-hospital-how-are-you-feeling-how’s-hubby-feeling-are-you-excited-are-you-have-you-will-you-do-you?
The pervasive sense you have been irrevocably transported into a Jane Austen novel and are struggling, fighting desperately to come up for air.
The reams of tissue paper, wrapping paper, ribbon, streamers, discarded envelopes and gift bags. The diapers, the 15 receiving blankets. The booties, the bonnets, the baskets. The cribs, the cradles, the carriages, the clothes.
Fake smiles, fake laughs, weak hugs, kissed cheeks, tears with questionable causes.
The deep breath, the promises, the lies, the goodbyes.
The keys, the car, the drive home. The knowledge of one of many.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Word to the wise
‘And children, don’t grow up. Our bodies get bigger, but our hearts get torn up.’
-Arcade Fire
You don’t say.
-Arcade Fire
You don’t say.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Head of the table
I’m sitting in a pink conference room. In front of me are ten bottles of spring water, arranged in two, neat rows of five. Behind the bottles, strawberries and bananas hang out of a crystal bowl, set in a thoughtful, deliberate arrangement. A box of oolong organic tea cozies up next to a whistling kettle. The CEO stands at the head of the mahogany table, his manicured finger tips brushing the top. The navy blue pin stripe suit contours his fitness club-toned body like a bone-crushing hug.
‘Please’ he says, opening wide his arms to the ten industry journalists who stand before him, tired, weathered, hungry for something other than a freaking banana and in dire need of caffeine that only comes from coffee taken black. ‘Welcome to Virginia. Welcome to my company. Sit. Eat.’
We do as we are told. Caps are whipped off pens, tape recorders are set, papers fly. Alec introduces us to his company, the history of which traces well back to the late 1800s in Manhattan, when his grandfather came from Russia with a good idea. The business was then passed onto his father and then with his retirement, subsequently landed in his own hands. Pictures of models wearing Revlon, Chanel, Estee Lauder, and Elizabeth Arden frame the walls. Women dancing with flimsy pieces of gauzy material and spritzing themselves with Clinique mock us from their frames. Alec glances up at one particular woman, who smiles down at him with purple lips and wide, silvery eyes. She makes me think of a fish.
‘And now, I am sole shareholder.’
‘Jesus H Christ’ whispers one of the male journalists sitting to my left. ‘He even bought out his dad.’
Alec’s laugh is warm, but confusing. It bubbles in a way that lets you know there is something additionally funny about whatever has just occurred that you will never understand. In his presence you become immediately and acutely aware that the mascara you’re wearing was bought on sale and that because you forgot to pack enough socks, you’re wearing yesterday’s nylons. And you’re even more aware that he somehow can sense this. Suddenly, all of your flaws seem magnificent and huge, and so do everyone else’s, to the point where there is in fact no one in the room but him, just an overwhelming and messy pile of split ends, fleshy thighs and unbalanced chequebooks.
‘So,’ he bellows. ‘Shall we head over to the facility’?
We shuffle out. As he walks, the sleeves of his custom-made suit fall to just the right length, covering powerful wrists. Each step and swing of his arms punches through the air, making me almost want to shield it from him. He smiles and says hello to the overweight secretary, who coddles a bottle of Diet Coke, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looks at her swollen feet, whispering a barely audible ‘hi there’ in return.
We enter the manufacturing facility. Alec pauses to clap a man named Steve on the back, asking him how his newborn son is doing. Steve’s eyes glimmer with something beyond happiness.
‘Oh, he’s just a beauty mister Alec. You wouldn’t believe!’
‘Children truly are a joy,’ Alec smiles into his face. ‘Truly a joy.’
We move on. A young girl wearing Jordache, stonewash jeans and a faded Guns n’ Roses t-shirt quickens her pace as she passes us and does not return my smile, or Alec’s nod.
The plant is full of workers scurrying about, rushing through the room with fluorescent earplugs and safety glasses, running from one workstation to the other in their Walmart running shoes, and all of a sudden it hit me, that all these employees, every single one, is working for Alec. That Steve is away from his newborn son so that he can help pay for Alec’s suit, for his brownstone in upper Manhattan, for the jewelry his wife wears. That the young girl with the chipped nail polish and the November Rain t-shirt didn’t go to college, but instead is working in a plant whose profits pay for Mediterranean vacations she will never go on, to pay for cars she will never drive.
Now, of course this isn’t Alec’s fault. Given that he only spends one week a month in Virginia, and still manages to know all his employees by name, all 120 of them, is impressive. It’s the nature of the system that’s at fault. But it’s the system I’m starting to really, intensely dislike.
And, starving though I was, I politely declined the offer of a perfectly ripe banana on my way out.
‘Please’ he says, opening wide his arms to the ten industry journalists who stand before him, tired, weathered, hungry for something other than a freaking banana and in dire need of caffeine that only comes from coffee taken black. ‘Welcome to Virginia. Welcome to my company. Sit. Eat.’
We do as we are told. Caps are whipped off pens, tape recorders are set, papers fly. Alec introduces us to his company, the history of which traces well back to the late 1800s in Manhattan, when his grandfather came from Russia with a good idea. The business was then passed onto his father and then with his retirement, subsequently landed in his own hands. Pictures of models wearing Revlon, Chanel, Estee Lauder, and Elizabeth Arden frame the walls. Women dancing with flimsy pieces of gauzy material and spritzing themselves with Clinique mock us from their frames. Alec glances up at one particular woman, who smiles down at him with purple lips and wide, silvery eyes. She makes me think of a fish.
‘And now, I am sole shareholder.’
‘Jesus H Christ’ whispers one of the male journalists sitting to my left. ‘He even bought out his dad.’
Alec’s laugh is warm, but confusing. It bubbles in a way that lets you know there is something additionally funny about whatever has just occurred that you will never understand. In his presence you become immediately and acutely aware that the mascara you’re wearing was bought on sale and that because you forgot to pack enough socks, you’re wearing yesterday’s nylons. And you’re even more aware that he somehow can sense this. Suddenly, all of your flaws seem magnificent and huge, and so do everyone else’s, to the point where there is in fact no one in the room but him, just an overwhelming and messy pile of split ends, fleshy thighs and unbalanced chequebooks.
‘So,’ he bellows. ‘Shall we head over to the facility’?
We shuffle out. As he walks, the sleeves of his custom-made suit fall to just the right length, covering powerful wrists. Each step and swing of his arms punches through the air, making me almost want to shield it from him. He smiles and says hello to the overweight secretary, who coddles a bottle of Diet Coke, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looks at her swollen feet, whispering a barely audible ‘hi there’ in return.
We enter the manufacturing facility. Alec pauses to clap a man named Steve on the back, asking him how his newborn son is doing. Steve’s eyes glimmer with something beyond happiness.
‘Oh, he’s just a beauty mister Alec. You wouldn’t believe!’
‘Children truly are a joy,’ Alec smiles into his face. ‘Truly a joy.’
We move on. A young girl wearing Jordache, stonewash jeans and a faded Guns n’ Roses t-shirt quickens her pace as she passes us and does not return my smile, or Alec’s nod.
The plant is full of workers scurrying about, rushing through the room with fluorescent earplugs and safety glasses, running from one workstation to the other in their Walmart running shoes, and all of a sudden it hit me, that all these employees, every single one, is working for Alec. That Steve is away from his newborn son so that he can help pay for Alec’s suit, for his brownstone in upper Manhattan, for the jewelry his wife wears. That the young girl with the chipped nail polish and the November Rain t-shirt didn’t go to college, but instead is working in a plant whose profits pay for Mediterranean vacations she will never go on, to pay for cars she will never drive.
Now, of course this isn’t Alec’s fault. Given that he only spends one week a month in Virginia, and still manages to know all his employees by name, all 120 of them, is impressive. It’s the nature of the system that’s at fault. But it’s the system I’m starting to really, intensely dislike.
And, starving though I was, I politely declined the offer of a perfectly ripe banana on my way out.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Life is a cabaret
And we thought the smoking ban was a bad idea?
http://www.thirteen.org/nyvoices/features/license.html
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Pity Party
The things you notice.
I stepped into the elevator yesterday afternoon and in crowded a woman, mid-forties, dressed in a cheap, Le Garage, polyester suit, cut for a 20-year-old, but she was determined. Pink, plastic jewelry clasped her neck and wrists like a vice, had I reached out an index finger and pricked her arm she would have toppled over, such was the height of her patent leather heels. She flicks her head, gives her purse an arrogant little toss over her shoulder, cocks her head and says to the man standing to my left,
‘So. Whadiddya think of the presentation?’
The watermelon Bubble Yum she’s chewing snaps violently, the bubble inflating and collapsing in surrender behind bright orange lips.
‘Brilliant,’ he lies. ‘What a great team.’
She runs a hand with a chipped manicure through drugstore-dyed hair.
‘Yeah –sure. I did all the work.’
The man standing beside me says nothing, gives a smile that hints at sympathy that isn’t quite intended for her. And I got the distinct notion that at that very moment, this man and I were overwhelmed by a crippling sense of pity for this woman, this worker, this probable wife and mother, who teeters into work every day, armed with green and pink highlighters and an advanced understanding of the photocopier machine, this woman whose husband likely belongs to a bowling league and whose children don’t open up to her, this woman who scans the mall for sidewalk sales and the publi sac for coupons, this woman whose co-workers almost certainly don’t like her and she can’t understand why –didn’t she remember Josée’s birthday, didn’t she work late almost every night of the week? This woman who feels the need to claim responsibility for projects she does not share in order to impress passersby and elevator riders.
Pity, can be an awful thing.
I stepped into the elevator yesterday afternoon and in crowded a woman, mid-forties, dressed in a cheap, Le Garage, polyester suit, cut for a 20-year-old, but she was determined. Pink, plastic jewelry clasped her neck and wrists like a vice, had I reached out an index finger and pricked her arm she would have toppled over, such was the height of her patent leather heels. She flicks her head, gives her purse an arrogant little toss over her shoulder, cocks her head and says to the man standing to my left,
‘So. Whadiddya think of the presentation?’
The watermelon Bubble Yum she’s chewing snaps violently, the bubble inflating and collapsing in surrender behind bright orange lips.
‘Brilliant,’ he lies. ‘What a great team.’
She runs a hand with a chipped manicure through drugstore-dyed hair.
‘Yeah –sure. I did all the work.’
The man standing beside me says nothing, gives a smile that hints at sympathy that isn’t quite intended for her. And I got the distinct notion that at that very moment, this man and I were overwhelmed by a crippling sense of pity for this woman, this worker, this probable wife and mother, who teeters into work every day, armed with green and pink highlighters and an advanced understanding of the photocopier machine, this woman whose husband likely belongs to a bowling league and whose children don’t open up to her, this woman who scans the mall for sidewalk sales and the publi sac for coupons, this woman whose co-workers almost certainly don’t like her and she can’t understand why –didn’t she remember Josée’s birthday, didn’t she work late almost every night of the week? This woman who feels the need to claim responsibility for projects she does not share in order to impress passersby and elevator riders.
Pity, can be an awful thing.
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