In(Parent)thesis

INPARENTTHESIS HAS MOVED!

2012-11-11T09:36:00.002-05:00

This blog has moved to the following site:

http://linabranter.wordpress.com/

Check it out!

What Disturbs me Most about the Amanda Todd Case

2012-10-26T12:50:00.000-04:00

I tried to desist from writing about this. Really I did. There has been so much media about it. So many people shocked and appalled by this tragedy that I didn't think it was necessary to voice my opinion.

But then, when did that ever stop me?

Here are my reasons for talking about it now:

1. I have two daughters around Amanda Todd's age.
2. I work at a school with girls around Amanda Todd's age and thus have the privilege of seeing this issue from many different perspectives.
3. Not only do I work at a school comprised of high school girls, I am also one of the main people responsible for talking to them about social media.
4. Around the time Todd committed suicide, I was giving a social media presentation to the Grade seven class.
5. Because I am shocked and appalled.

For those of you living under a rock or who have taken a little media break in the last month, Amanda Todd was a 15-year old girl who committed suicide after years of cyber-bullying, bullying and downright sexual harassment.You can watch her video:

Satellite issues in this case, and perhaps why there has been such a media frenzy are
1: the internet witch hunt for the person responsible for sexually harassing and blackmailing Todd as well as the guy who made such terrible comments on her facebook being identified and fired.
2: the callous reactions online (and offline) by her peers to her suicide.

So really, you can cherry-pick your issue here. Let's count them:

1. Internet Safety
2. Online child predators
3. Cyber-bullying that quickly turns into
4. Physical bullying and shunning
5. A spiral of depression, substance abuse, attempted suicide
6. Used by boys when she is most vulnerable
7. Receives no help, no sympathy.
9. Kills herself.
10. Media witch hunt to uncover name of harasser and ethical debate
11. The complete lack of empathy of her peers.

I am not going to talk about internet safety and the common mistakes Ms. Todd made. Yes, she engaged in some unsafe behaviour on the internet. Yes, she gave away too much of her personal information. Yes, it is a harsh world out there with true villains and yes, the internet makes them even more powerful (the same could be said about everything and the internet though, eben the good things like activism and collaboration).

Yes, it is important to talk to our children about these issues. To talk to them about where their information goes and who can use it and about the concept of privacy. But this is the easiest issue to confront in this situation. The problem is that usually the conversation ends there. Throw out a few horror stories meant to scare them into never going online (which isn't going to happen, BTW) and voilà! We think we are done educating our children about online behaviour.

Not so. If anything, the Amanda Todd case shows us that there are underlying societal trends that existed long before the internet became ubiquitious; social media has simply exacerbated them.

Here are the three aspects of this case that disturb me the most, that make me afraid for my daughters.

Internalized Mysogyny
This is a term Fazeela Jiwa used in her excellent opinion piece, "Bullying" is too Vague when we are dealing with Sexism and Mysogyny. She is talking specifically about how Todd's friends began to shun her the moment the fake facebook appeared:

Internalized misogyny is an important aspect of the structural violence associated with patriarchy: the young women in Todd’s life turned against her rather than supporting her through harassment, despite surely facing similar pressures to capitulate to male definitions of, and demands on, female sexuality. Thanks in part to the media frenzy surrounding the controversial SlutWalk, the conversation about woman-blaming is active; women around the world have rallied with the message that we are not to be held responsible for sexist violence against us.

A couple of clichéd expressions (with unfortunate religious tones) come to mind:

There but for the grace of god, go I.

And this lovely, old testament nugget:

Let the on without sin cast the first stone.

Amanda Todd's worth was completely wrapped up in her physical appearance from as early as Grade seven, when she began to go online and chat with strangers. She was told she was gorgeous, and beautiful and they would love her to flash. It is easy to see how she could interpret that as meaning if I want people to like me I must flash my boobs. She was 12/13 at the time, after all.

Her friends were there with her in these chat rooms. They had the same pressure. They might have done the same thing and not come across the truly psycho creep that ended up getting a hold of Amanda's photo.

And yet they think it's okay to judge her for it? nWould things have culminated in her suicide if her friends had stuck by her? If they had taken a untied front?

I don't think so.

Just Plain old Mysogyny

The notion that this generation of males, with the easy access to porn and the aggressive objectification of women in the media, are subject to some unrealistic expectations and beliefs when it comes to women and women's sexuality came to my attention with the movie Miss Representation.
Listening to the roles teen boys played in Amanda's life was especially galling. If she wasn't being stalked by mysogynistic, child-predator psychopaths, she was being led down the garden path by a boy her age who led her on for sex and then abandoned her. hearing the excuse she made for him was especially appalling.

I recently stayed with a friend who has two teenage boys. She was driving them and their friends home one night when she heard one say, "That so and so girl. I heard she's easy." My friend stopped the car, made all the boys get out and sit in the ditch by the road, and grilled them about what they actually knew about the girl. She would not let them get back into the car until they all acknowledged how hurtful a rumour like that could be and how they should be ashamed to perpetrate it.

Good on her, I say, but what can we do to prevent the need for that conversation?

Which brings me to the thing that bothers me the most, the umbrella issue in the Amanda Todd case:

Lack of Empathy

Where the hell is the empathy? Where is it hiding? Did it leak through the thin layers of our ozone layer? Did it get lost in cyberspace?

Like most people, I was appalled by some of the comments people made on her facebook before her death and after. You can watch the video or read the articles about it, but I am not going to dignify them with space on this blog.

Now that may be just the comments of a few bad seeds, but then I hear a radio documentary on the show A Story from Here the other day on CBC where a journalist interviewed teenagers from different parts of the country. They had absolutely no sympathy for Amanda Todd. One said that he didn't know why such a fuss was being made for a white, middle class teen girl whose life wasn't that hard anyway. The other mentioned how is father had just committed suicide and still he didn't feel anything for Amanda Todd. Another said how he just got out of the hospital for suicidal thoughts and still couldn't find it in his heart to feel bad for what happened to Amanda. They were unified in thinking that having a strategy against bullying was stupid and pointless and that there was nothing anybody could do about bullying. That it was something you just had to live through and that it makes you stronger.

There was no putting themselves in her shoes even if their experience was so similar to hers. There was not an inkling of sympathy for her story.

This worries me. This worries me a great deal.

I wrote a post about a year ago about how our role as parents is still to guide our children on their journey to being compassionate, considerate citizens of the world, whether they be online or offline. This means talking to them about the more nuanced and insidious trends some of which I outlined above.

Though they might not get it right away, it is important to keep the conversation going.

Last night my husband and I showed the Amanda Todd's video to our girls. I hesitated to do so, as her story is really the worst-case scenario of what can happen to our child online, up there with abduction and rape. Most of the time, their online interactions will be positive, as demonstrated by Amanda Lenhart from the PEW Research Center. She gave a great interview on Spark a few months ago that is worth listening to. But as I began thinking about it, I really wanted to address the above issues with my girls. Especially since my oldest is going on 14 and is starting to go to dances. She will be dealing with boys soon and I want her to have a framework of behaviour already in place, one that is not dictated by the libido of teenage boys. I want my daughters to know they don't have to play by the rules of a gender game played on very lopsided playing field that Amanda Todd stumbled into unwittingly and obviously lost. They only apply if you let them.

Of course, that is what I want. I am not naive. They are young and have to figure out their own sexuality as well as navigate the warped, contradictory messages they receive.

Yes, they will make mistakes.

My fervent hope, and one that I continue to repeat to them, is that when they do, they will know that we will be there to catch them. Without judgment and without question.

Okay. Maybe a little questioning....

What I Miss Most

2012-10-03T16:40:00.000-04:00

I recently read Jo Walton's Hugo award winning book, Among Others.

Pause. Yes, it was that heady for me, that I need to put a lot of white space between that sentence in the next.

Now I have talked about how there are some books that evoke a visceral reaction from me. They happen randomly, with no rhyme or reason. One book will kill me with its lyrical prose. Or a character will get so far under my skin I can't shake them for days. Sometimes the whole humanity of the situation is enough to leave me in the dimension between my daily 'real' life and the world in the book. Finishing these books is a paradox of greedy can't-put-downess and bereavement at being done so quickly.

Among Others was this kind of book.

Here is a curt description of it from amazon.ca:

Startling, unusual, and yet irresistably readable, Among Others is at once the compelling story of a young woman struggling to escape a troubled childhood, a brilliant diary of first encounters with the great novels of modern fantasy and SF, and a spellbinding tale of escape from ancient enchantment.

Of course, this doesn't do it justice. It is written after the major confrontation, and takes place in the deflated, empty space of grief and tension. Nothing happens in this book and yet everything happens. It is a slow-paced, lyrical ride written in epistolary form by a teenaged girl narrator. Basically it is a paen to how living a life in books can be healing, therapeutic, and ultimately empowering and self-affirming.

But the aspect that killed me took me a long time to identify. Yes, Mor, the fifteen-year old broken girl who narrates the story made me want to hug her then talk about books with her. Yes, the world Mor builds around her, her insight into the nature of magic, her naive yet wise observations, her brokenness moved me. But what was giving me this sense of loss? This sense of longing?

It was Mor's description of going to the library.

I know, right? I work in a friggin' library. I am a librarian for the love of pete. I spend my days in the center of ten thousand books. Have I gone completely mental? Do I need an intervention?

Well probably, but that is another issue.

What I miss are the weekly/twice weekly trips to my local library, a bag full of books to return and the promise of filling up my bag with more. Like Mor, I spent a lot of my youth with my nose buried in a book. The library was my haven, my sanctuary. A place where I knew I wasn't expected to talk or where the glass armour of my terrible shyness would not be repeatedly assaulted by people who wanted to "draw me out". Though I never read in the library, or spent anymore time in the space than required to pick my pile of books for the week, it was my place, where I was the most filled with a sense of belonging.

I don't go to public libraries anymore, mainly because my needs are met by my own library. It doesn't help that the public libraries in Quebec are still way behind the public libraries in the rest of the country. But I miss it. I miss the trek to the physical space. The browsing the shelves. The excitement at a book's potential.

I think I also miss being able to read so voraciously. Being an adult means a serious lack of reading time. Whereas I had ample opportunity to pull out my book when I was a teenager- at the breakfast table, on the bus. Walking (I had a lot of bruises from walking into fire hydrants). Waiting for my sisters. After homework. Well, you get the picture. Now it is usually a few minutes before bed and maybe fifteen minutes on the bus in the morning and at lunch (if nobody interrupts me).

What was also great about Miss Walton's book was all the sci-fi and fantasy titles Mor reads. It made me realise how woefully ignorant I am of that genre and am determined to read more. Luckily some fabulous person on Goodreads made a list of the books mentioned in Among others. I went through it and I have only read a few of the titles:

Lord of the rings trilogy
Emma
A Canticle for Lievbowitz
The Communist Manifesto
The Republic
The Aeneid
I, Claudius
The Dark is rising
The Symposium
Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot (which I am re-reading and holy SHITE and ONIONS it is so so good).
Crow by Ted Hughes
A Wizard of Earthsea

That is out of 119 books, so I guess I have some reading to do.
Next post: what I did read when I was a teenager. If I can remember.... Where the heck was goodreads and librarything?

Our Week of Geek

2012-09-20T17:13:00.000-04:00

Last week was a big week. So big, it took me a whole week to digest it.

THURSDAY
Thursday night, after a day of work, an appointment at the dentist and a half-assed attempt at attending my favourite thing in the world, a parents-teacher meeting at my youngest daughter's school (yes, you did detect some sarcasm there), the Friday night debauch team (my family and our friends V and L, went to see the Star Wars exhibition at the Montreal Science Center, entitled Star Wars Identities.

Why so late you ask?

Han Solo frozen in carbonite! Actually used in the movie!!!

Good question. Because although the show has been on since April, it ended this weekend and we still hadn't gone. Which, as J would say and did, was unacceptable. Luckily V told us we should buy our tickets online because when I went to the website I found out the weekend was sold out and the only time we could all go and that was available was the 8:45 pm slot on a Thursday night. Ideal it was not...

Yoda: Rule these geeks do...Actual puppet that Mr. Oz actually touched. I know. The mind reels.

The show was a geek's paradise, marrying our love of the sci-fi space cowboy classic with the science of, wait for it...you got it...identity!

When we entered the exhibit we were given an audio guide and the coolest rubber high-tech bracelet you ever did saw. Intermingled with all the cool paraphanelia from the movie (see below. And above. See everywhere!)

Like this battle scarred Millenium Falcon model...CGI can suck it

...were information videos about the different aspects that make up our identity. Our environment. Our parents. Genetics. Personality. What goes in to making us who we are?

C as Mace Windu

Accompanying the little informaitonal videos were quiz-like questions activated by our super cool rubber bracelet, which stored all our information on it. At the end, we scanned the bracelet and got to see our Star Wars character!

L's character. Her mentor is Leia. She is a musician. Her friends, Ewok C and human S are in the background.

The actual costumes worn on Hoth. Oh yeah.

Chewie!!! Both V and J chose to be wookies. What does that say about them?


Puppet Jabba! Still so gross.

Here is my character:

Yep. I'm a kaminoan raised on Tatouine with two of my wookie friends. I have no mentor, yo.What does that say about me?

FRIDAY:

Friday after work we had to HAD TO go to the Montreal Comicon (this does not need any explanation. Of course we had to.) Although we didn't say long, we did what we came there to do.

Comicon always forces me to realize how very limited my geekiness is (and I say this not as a good thing. I lack the, I don't know, obsessive personality of many of the wonderful people roaming the comic book laden corridors. We were there to see Nicolas Brendon, otherwise known as Xander in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Really that was all we wanted...

Sylvie making friends with a Dalek. Ok. Sylvie and I also share a burgeoning love for Doctor Who.

Still, there were other things to see. Perhaps my geekiness is not narrow after all...

The kids forced to get their picture taken with the Ghost Busters. They wanted to. really.

While this was going on, my friend M met a hero of hers, Will Wheaton ( I know him from Star ~~wars~~ Trek (oops)the next generation, but apparently he's done other stuff since then. Who knew? Ok. Fine. I did.) UPDATE: FORGOT HE WAS THE KID IN STANDBY ME! I LOVE STANDBY ME! I SHOULD HAVE TOLD MY KIDS THEN THEY WOULD HAVE KNOWN HIM TOO! Okay. All caps off now. He was so taken by her bat’leH (I totally stole that word so that I looked smart but I have no idea what that means- klingon? I suspect klingon) earrings he took a picture and put them on his blog. She can now die happy.

I am now going to steal his photo from his blog and feel totally justified because she is my friend and that's her comic book and earring:

Meanwhile....

The actual scoobie van!

Was our quest a success? Why yes, yes it was, thanks for asking. We beelined toward the autograph signing place where, as luck would have it, Nicolas Brendon himself was in attendance! The line was short, and before we knew it we were getting an autograph signed for Ms. C.

We all got hugs from the Xander man as well as this gem of a photo!

After that momentous occasion, we went to line up for his celebrity panel. He was joined by the Groossalugg (Groo from Angel), who happened to originate from Dollard-des-Ormeaux. They had a nice banter going on- very irreverent and funny. The best part was when asked what he misses the most about being on Buffy, Mr. Brendon responded, "speaking Joss's words."

I hear you sir.

A Day in the Life: September Edition

2012-09-08T09:24:00.000-04:00

It is that time again, Saturday morning when everybody is still asleep (or in J's case, gone to work, poor man) and I can think about posting to this blog. I have taken my computer to the little mudroom/summer breakfast nook off our kitchen and am looking out at a grey sky and the canopy of grape leaves that shelter our picnic table. Th iron that Jeremy hung from the lamp is swinging in the breeze. If you look closely, you can see the dragonfly lights lost inside the lush foliage.

View from my window

I am thinking of the month of September and trying to remember how every year I am faced with the same problem- I am too busy to do anything but work and keep children alive (which admitteldy is getting easier as they can do a lot by themselves). September is a month of meetings, of registering children for activities, for getting the machine that is our family back to full steam. My writing time is always the first to be sacrificed on the altar of daily obligations. Reading is next. I know this level of busy-ness is self-inflicted, that it will end, but I can't help feeling a certain sense of panic.

What if this is all there is? What if this is all I am?

I spend my days cataloguing books. Barcoding them. Running around making lists for teachers. Haranguing students about the importance of taking care of their books. By the end of the day what I have accomplished is large if you look at the task, but minimal in terms of its impact on humanity. I can see it now- when my children are old and I am long dead, they will sit around the kitchen table and regale their own children with my exploits. They will say things like, "Oh your grandmother could paste a mean barcode on a book. She brought textbook management into the 20th century at her work (even though she was working in the 21st)! She was an expert list maker and could check things off her to do list like it was nobody's business. And oh my, how she could nag!"

No, you do not have permission to write this on my tombstone.

And then this morning, as I was meandering through my weekly social media path, I came across this awesome song by one of my most favouritest bands in the whole wide world, Nomeansno:

And it pretty much summed up how I feel in September.

So, in honour of the September grind, I am going to do another day in the life post- something I have not indulged in for a while now.

5:00 am

Radio blares on. It is CBC running a BBC science show as regular programming hasn't actually begun. Lay there half asleep while they are talking about neurons.

5:15 am
Actually get out of bed. Go to the bathroom. Try not to look at myself in the mirror. Mirrors are evil. Pour myself some coffee I programmed to start percolating at 5:00. Drink some hot water and lemon.

5:20 am
Sit myself at my computer. Check the weather. Because I am so busy at work these days, spend my writing time writing a letter to my father-in-law. I got into the habit of writing him an email everyday last year when he was in the hospital. I enjoy writing them and I think he enjoys receiving them, so the practice continues.

6:00 am
Spent too much time writing the letter so have to make due with only a half hour run. This has been happening too often lately and I am feeling the effects. A little more aggressive when I get home. More impatient with the kids. Make mental note to go to bed earlier. Devil in my head reminds me that I have been saying that for years now and still haven't managed it. Petulant child in my head sticks its tongue out at devil and retorts that it is never too late.

6:35 am
Get back from run. Quickly throw blueberries and yogurt in a container. Pack the lunch I made the night before. Shower, dress, braid stupidly long hair that I have to find the time to cut. Brush teeth.

7:00 am
Run out of house to catch the metro. Wave to the newspaper guy handing out the free metro news flyer. He has stopped trying to hand me a copy as I never take one (I have a book!). Instead he smiles in recognition and waves. It is nice. Get to the platform seconds before the train pulls up. Make sure my book is out before train comes. Find a seat or a suitable place to stand and read until my stop. Position myself at the door so I can run out as soon as the train arrives. I have already strategically placed myself at the exact door that opens right onto the stairs. As soon as the door opens I quickly make it up before the throng.

I hate being in a throng. I also hate walking behind people who walk slower than me.

7:16 am
At bus stop. Bus pulls up and the bus driver with the frog baritone says hello. I say hello back. He sings out the names of each stop as we climb the hill. I read.

7:30 am
Get to work. Don't stop until 1:30 pm.

1:30- 1:45 pm
Eat lunch quickly.

1:45-5:00 pm
Work.

5:00 pm
Walk home. I walk across the mountain. Sometimes I listen to an audiobook. Sometimes I need to not listen to anything.

6:00 pm
Get home at about the same time as J. Start thinking about dinner. Go to store and get ingredients. Start cooking.

7:00- 8:00 pm
Eat dinner. Talk about our days. What was the best part of the day? the worst? Learn anything new?

8:00 pm
Clean up. Kids have showers/do homework. Parents sign things. Plug in new activities in calendar. Practice piano for a few minutes. Make lunches. Program coffee.

8:30 pm
Make sure the kids are in bed. They read for a while. Used to read to C but haven't gotten back in the habit yet.

9:00 pm
Sit down on couch with a glass of whiskey. Watch a show. J falls asleep. I want more whiskey.

10:00-11:00 pm
Got to bed. Try to read. Mostly fall asleep at first page.

And repeat.

The night routine is frequently interrupted by obligations at work which keep me at school until 8:30, or meetings at C's school. If I am lucky, I go out for a drink with a friend after work, but not often. This week it was interrupted by voting.

The morning routine is always the same.

Is this all there is? Is this all I am?

These questions haunt me.

Why I think All Girls Should Read This Book

2012-08-30T05:59:00.000-04:00

One of my favourite young adult writers is Libba Bray, and not only because she has the same initials as me, or because as my husband pointed out, if you squint your eyes her name resembles "library". She is not afraid to experiment with different genres- indeed her first trilogy was a wonderful 19th century Victorian boarding school magical mystery tour. Her next endeavour, Going Bovine, an insane romp through the dying mind of a hapless teenage boy afflicted with mad cow disease, won her the Michael Printz award. I reviewed it in this post.

And now Beauty Queens (Actually I am a little late on the uptake. I think she has an actual new one out very soon, and once again on a totally different subject). So here is a quote from the acknowledgement section of the book, just to give you an idea of what it is about:

A huge thanks to my editor and uber-mensch [there is a funny footnote here which I am not going to quote here. You will just have to buy the book and read it yourself], David Levithan, who years ago, said, " A plane full of beauty queens crashes on a deserted island. And...Go!"

Yep. That is essentially the plot of this wonderful tome I think all girls should read.

Why?

Because of shite like this:

Female Olympians fight back against shamers and haters

And like this:

The 12 Sexiest Olympic Women

WTF?I have to say, when I read that first article, it felt personal. No, not because I equate myself in anyway with the pinnacle of physical fitness these women have attained, but because it has taken me a very long time to realise that I don't want to be thin so much as strong and healthy.

I know. Duh.

But I don't want that just for myself. I want my daughters to feel the joy of having their bodies function well. Have the feeling of strength as you run, or muscles as you lift things. I want them to feel the sense of accomplishment that comes from pushing yourself physically, of doing something you couldn't do before. I want them to eat right so they can have the energy to get through their day without being exhausted, to use exercise and diet (as in what you eat daily not as in some weird eat-only-grapefruit-until-your-pee-turns-to-acid insanity) as a catapult to launch them into the socratic "examined life."

Basically, I want them to feel like Wonder Woman, without having to wear the stupid costume.

But really, if we live in a society that can still objectify the body of our world's top athletes and judge them as wanting, I want out. Really. I give back my ticket. I am saying a hail and hearty fuck you to all thoughts of trying to fit in body-wise.

That is mostly what I want my daughters to do too.

As Twisted Sister said, "We're not going to take it anymore."

Okay. I guess a lot of people have said that, but none with such panache.

And that is why Libba Bray's book is so wonderful. It does exactly that. Part Miss Congeniality, part James Bond thriller, part Mel Brooks satire, and yes, part Lord of the Flies, Bray takes an outlandish plot and manages to plunk down some very fleshed out (no pun intended) characters.

Now don't think this book is simply a polemic against the beauty industry and the insane standards women must try to live up to (though there is that, but done in such a hilarious way you won't mind). There a nuances as well. The individual contestants all have different issues to deal with besides trying to figure out who you are when the world insists on seeing you only one way.

Questions like why is our sexuality something to hide instead of embrace (slut vs. stud anyone?) come up. Transgendered issues. Gay issues. And the age old question of how do you survive your parents expectations of you, as well as navigate the rocky shoals of your hormones while retaining your good sense. All of that plus more awaits you. So pick it up now.

That's all I have to say.

Three New Things I Did on my Vacation

2012-08-14T07:20:00.003-04:00

1. I stood on my head. Okay, this is something I excelled at as a child. I even have this weird mercenary memory of making $5 on a bet at my own father's funeral for standing on my head for more than a minute. But I haven't stood on my head for over 25 years, so I think it counts as a new thing.

Did I like it? Not so much. The reason I was standing on my head (no, it wasn't another $5 bet) was because I tagged along on my sister's workout with her trainer (that sounds fancier than it is - they barter services). Twice a week they drive to a beach and do a bunch of crazy (in my opinion, but then anything but running seems a little crazy) exercises. Phrases like lymphatic drainage are bandied about. Weird breathing, the kind you equate with boxers, was tried- in my case, not successfully.

We happened to be on Dallas road for this particular workout, on a ledge half way down the stairs to the beach. We used the wall to lever ourselves up (honestly, just sticking my posterior so blatantly in the air in a public space was frightening enough for me. Were my pantylines showing? What if I was ruining the view for some early morning dog walker?). I also used it to rest my feet as I was too scared to let go.

The trainer told me the reason for the head standing is that it helps to balance your stress. The way it does that is by shocking your system. Now, I like the analogy of standing on your head- a new perspective to shock the system. But in reality it FREAKED the hell out of me. Once on my head I could not see the ledge anymore. It was just ocean and sky and they were IN THE WRONG PLACE!
I toughed it out for the time I was supposed to stand on my head because I'm no quitter (and I don't want to look like a scaredy cat) but I am not sure if it helped de-stress me- in fact quite the opposite. I needed to run home after that in order to stop the flow of adrenaline to my brain.

2. I got a pedicure!

The lady is scraping my foot. I don't envy her.

I chose a deep red nail polish, and for weeks after would be mesmerised by my toes. The only thing that was a tad disconcerting was the feeling of being a rich white lady being served literally hand and foot by Asian ladies. It felt a little too decadent, so I have determined to make this an annual tradition with my sister. One a year is not decadent is it?

Don't answer that.

3. Tree Adventure!

On the last day of our trip to Victoria, we took the kids to Wild Play, a series of obstacles high in the trees. Once we learned how to use the harness and hooks safely and successfully accomplished the practice course, we started the course. Sometimes we ziplined between trees, hitting the cushion on the narrow platform with a thud. Sometimes we had to make our way across on ever shifting swings, or ropes.

It most definitely took me out of my comfort zone. My nephew, who isn't so sure about roller coasters, totally rocked the course. I think he might be part mountain goat. My daughters got scared, but pushed through it, which made me very proud.

It was also really fun.


Kids on the practice run

Thus concludes our trip to Victoria.

Up next: I have no idea.You will just have to wait and see.

The Business of Friends

2012-08-04T09:55:00.000-04:00

Or businesses.

One thing about growing up, is that when you go home, people are older.

I know shocking.

They have families. Careers. Some are teachers. Linguists. Chefs. And some have decided to be small business owners.

Here is a highly selective (only the businesses of friends and family of moi need apply), deeply biased, annotated Victoria business bibliography.

I will give you a second to sort through that last sentence. Done? Ok. Moving on.

Clear Skin Victoria
My sister practices out of the offices of clear skin. She is two doors down from the apartment where my first child was born on Cook st. - right between the apartment and the Cook St. midwives. It is a lovely, old, white house and her practice looks out onto the garden.

Since she started practicing a couple of years ago, her practice has grown by leaps and bounds. Word has started getting around that she can help people. Guiding them through some much needed lifestyle changes. Helping with chronic health issues.

I should know. She helps me all the time. She also loves what she does, loves her patients and has some very exciting new ideas for the future. I am very, very proud of her and if you are in Victoria you should go see her right away.

Josh welcoming you to Mo:lé!

Mo:lé
What to say about Mo:lé? This is my sister's partner Josh's restaurant. It is a breakfast and lunch place and if I could I would eat their roasted yam omelet everyday, not to mention their pesto potatoes. My sister prefers their smoked salmon scramble. J likes to switch it up.

The ingredients are fresh, organic and whenever possible, local. It is located on Pandora st., right across from Market Square framed by a coffee shop (where people can go when there is a line up at Mo:lé), a vegan bakery and an awesome, punk rock record store.

If you have not been, I highly recommend you go. And not just because he's my sister's partner, though if you were loyal to my clan that should be enough, yo. It is very, very, very good. The main cook Joe (whom I've known from way back in my teenage days) gave me the secret to the roasted yam, but I'm not telling you. You have to go there and taste them yourself.

Honor,wearing her own design, in front of her store

Adore jewelry
For all of you who has admired my jewelry in the past years- the silk pieces encased in glass- Honor is one of the brain children behind them. She has since departed from Shi Studio where I got those lovely pieces and now runs her own store (with a silent partner). The store only sells work from local craftspeople, and thus has a funky, west coast feel to it. While running the store, Honor also has a little workshop set up where she makes her own pieces. She has been obsessed with cutting up old chinese tea tins and making fabulous pieces with them. They are wonderful, elegant and unique as well as extremely reasonable in price.

Once you have finished at Mo:lé, cross the street and walk down half a block and do some jewelry shopping!

That is what I did and I got two pairs of earrings:

The black ones are Honor Cienska's design, the birds are from another local artist

Cosmo and me! Or is it Cosmo and I?

The Hot and Cold Café
Mo:lé's co-founder and longtime friend of my sisters, Cosmo Meens has a funky new café in Cook St. Village, our old hood. It is open from eleven to seven and features soups, sandwiches and salads. Theire motto is "slow food fast." And it is. We descended upon Cosmo with my mother J's dad and a young nephew who was very unhappy to be stuck with the adults. My sister got her favourite- coconut curry soup, and I got a wonderful salad with fresh greens, chicken and all sorts of wonderfulness. Jeremy's dad had the apple crumble pie which, judging by the clean plate after he was done, was delicious.
Fresh, healthy, delicious and reasonably priced, why not pick up a sandwich and head to Dallas Road for a beach picnic?
Or, if you need something quick for dinner, Cosmo sells containers of frozen soup to go.

Cupcake kingdom

And some friends are not even grown up yet!

Our friend Avery has started her own cupcake business, available at the Moss St. Market every Saturday (I think. It might be every Saturday she feels like it, which is cool too). Two bucks for one of the best cupcakes I have ever tasted.

FYI: It was the mint chocolate one, decorated with a sprig of actual mint on the top.

I no lie: it was terribly, terribly delicious.

Here is the mini masterpiece she made for the Moss St. Paint-in day:

Picture shamelessly stolen from her mother's facebook page

Erin Renwick (picture shamelessly stolen from her lovely website)

Greenspace Designs
Erin Renwick is a relatively new friend. She is the partner of a very old high school friend with whom we reconnected on this last visit. Now Erin and I have eerily a lot in common. We are about the same size. Same colouring. Have the same penchant for black clothes. We both run marathons (though she does it way, way better than I do). We like to get things done.

Where we do differ is in her chosen profession- she is an amazing landscaper, where as I will only commit to keeping children alive. Plants are on their own.

Left: Rob right: Jean (picture also shamelessly stolen from their website)

Abernethy and Gaudin
The connection here is in the Gaudin. Jean Gaudin is one of Jeremy's best friends, ever since they met at Camosun College after high school. While Jeremy stayed on, Jean decided school was not for him and pursued the same line as his father- he became a boat builder. A shipwright? Is that the right word?

Jean builds beautiful wooden boats. He and his business partner actually win awards for it. He is one of the most meticulous craftsman I have ever known.

Ok fine. I don't know many craftsman, but still he is meticulous. I could go on about Jean and how he is one of the best human beings I know, but that would be irrelevant. We are talking about his business after all, not about his all encompassing personal dignity and intelligence.

Check out his site for some wonderful photos of boats in various states of construction.

That's all I got. At least I think so....

One last post for the Victoria to come: things I have done for the first time.

Lessons in Grace: Part II

2012-07-31T09:50:00.000-04:00

We arrived in Victoria nearly a month ago. My mother picked us up from the airport and drove us directly to my sister's new house. She had just moved in a few weeks before our visit and has a suite in her basement with three bedrooms, which she kindly consented to let us live there rent free for a month.

I am sitting in the bright and airy kitchen now, looking out into the lush backyard. The apple tree is clustered with small, green apples. The roses are blooming. Jeremy's water feature for the pond stands sentry in the back. The morning sunlight is streaking the linoleum. I know my sister is awake, but she is two floors up, enjoying her own space. J is sleeping. The kids are at my mom's.

Jeremy's Pan Tree water feature for my sister's pond

I have my sister to thank for this precious moment of peace in my day. And not just for providing the space for us, though that is huge deal. In fact, when I asked her if we could stay in her apartment, I was expecting her to throw down an inflatable mattress for us and provide us with a blanket or two.

I would have been happy with that. A room. A door that closes. Luxury.

But no. I should have known. When we got to her place, her partner Josh (who helped with the magic) gave us the tour. My sister was at work, so she didn't even get to see our faces when we saw what she had done. Our bedrooms were all furnished with proper beds. New sheets, new covers, new pillows and, in some cases, even new mattresses. In our room she had placed my old chest of drawers so we would feel more comfortable. She provided my with a clock radio as she knows I like to get up early. There was a chest of drawers for Jeremy. Hangers in the closet. A book shelf. Reading lamps. The kids' room were the same. Single beds, drawers. Lamps for reading. New sheets, new covers (all colour coordinated I might add). She had washed the carpet before we came, to make sure no cat hair had escaped her very thorough cleaning.

She even put chocolate mints on our pillows, an homage to when we were kids and took a cruise to Mexico with our mom. Every night we would get a chocolate mint on our pillow. I suspect that was one of the most memorable parts of the trip.

In the kitchen she bought us a coffee maker like the one we have in Montreal. Bought us organic, dark coffee beans and our own grinder so we didn't have to go upstairs. She also furnished me with the tea I like. Nutella for the girls. Cream for the coffee. The shower was equipped with shampoo, soap. Even extra toothbrushes just in case someone forgot theirs (J did, of course.)

It was like going to a hotel where the service was psychic. I was very moved. Am still very moved at all the work she had to do to get ready for us to invade her house.

But this is just a manifestation of her grace, which resides in her generosity of spirit and her nurturing nature. She takes care of people. This is why she is such a good naturopath, why my daughters flock to her whenever they need comfort or are feeling bad (I, on the other hand, simply ask what they expect me to do about their head/stomach/oozing wound).

I love her dearly. I know that she had fun getting the place ready for us, that she wanted to do it. But that is what makes it so moving- that she enjoys going out of her way to make someone happy.

So more grace in my life: the grace of thoughtfulness. Of listening when someone tells you they are not feeling well. Of trying to determine what their needs are. Of giving.

My sister and I having a fancy dinner

One more note about grace. My sister's partner is a wonderful man, though grace might not be the first thing that comes to mind when you think of him. He is boisterous, fun, happy and loving (sorry Josh. I just made you sound like a little puppy). Yet grace resides in him in abundance.

I found early on in the visit that his grace is in knowing how to be with people. How to treat everyone the same. He jokes with everyone, gently laughs at their pretensions (we all have them, me more than most) without making anyone feel bad. Despite his joking around, he never says anything negative about anyone. Always has a positive spin on the moment. He also has the grace to retreat when he needs space and does so without his absence being noticeable or weird (still haven't managed that one).

Thank you Josh and Katie. It has been a wonderful trip.

Lessons in Grace: Part I

2012-07-28T12:20:00.001-04:00

I have this ideal mode of behaviour in my head where I act kind and respectful to everybody I meet. Where I never say the wrong thing, or act petulantly when I have to do something I don't want to do. Where I am never impatient, never short, never give in to anger.

As you can imagine, I have a long way to go.

Here in Victoria however, I do have some role models. People that deal with potentially unpleasant situations with a grace I am not sure I will ever attain. (If grace is a vitamin, I most definitely have a deficiency).

Jim Gordaneer rocking the Moss St. Paint-in!

First and foremost, there is my father-in-law, renowned painter Jim Gordaneer. This man has taught me a lot about how to be in the world.
A few of his mantras include:

Stand poised in the face of the unknown. Which, translated into real English, means don't enter a Wake with a party hat and noisemakers. Take a minute to gauge the situation; don't run in without assessing the mood.

This seems obvious, but you would be surprised at the number of people who do not follow this.

Always treat your family with the courtesy and politeness you reserve for strangers. Don't take your loved ones for granted. Be as thoughtful to them as you would be to a new acquaintance. Also not easy to follow when your loved ones leave their socks all over the house and don't scrape the food off the plates before they put them in the sink.

Still, a good one to try to remember.

Jim is not all talk though. The man practices what he preaches. Last year he had another stroke. He was in the Hospital for months; there were times we were not sure he was going to live. His health has never been good- he was in a coma for 6 weeks in the 90s. He has had several joint replacements. Before his stroke he was having trouble getting around and now he is mostly confined to a wheel chair.

There are two aspects of his illness, or how he has dealt with his illness, that speak to the kind of person I would like to be if ever I grow up (still waiting).

First of all, his loss of independence. Although he has regained much in that way, he still cannot walk. He has a caretaker that comes twice a day-in the morning and right before bed, and the rest of the time a family member needs to be in the house to make sure he is okay.

Now, here is a man who has tried to tread lightly in this world. To not be a burden to anyone. The fact that he requires so much from his family, not to mention the undignified need to have strangers bathe you and take care of all those private functions, weighs on him. Yet he still manages to be as polite and kind to everyone who comes to him. He chats up his careworkers. Tries very hard to not cause any more trouble for the family. He never complains.

Secondly, is the miraculous reason this man is still alive: art. Sounds high falutin', I know, but it is the honest truth of the matter. He remembers being in the hospital and staring death in the face. It would have been so easy to let go. But he strongly felt he was not done yet. He still had some questions to ask through his paintings. This is what kept him alive. Got him back home. And in fact, the moment J wheeled him to his easel, where the blank canvas he had primed before his stroke was still waiting for him, he began to paint as if he had never left.

More lessons in Grace from this situation are from Jeremy's sister and mother and the rest of the family. When Jim was getting better and the Hospital wanted to kick him out, all the doctors were strongly recommending they put him in a home. They said it would be too much burden for the family. That he would not thrive. Luckily for Jim, his family knows him.

His doctor (who has the grace to love this man and give housecalls) supported the family's decision. They figured out how to arrange their house so his studio and his bedroom are all on one floor. J went to Victoria to install an elevator so he could go outside. His sister committed herself to being his primary caregiver.

Yes, it has been hard and yes it has not always been graceful. But to know the man so well, and to give up a lot of your own freedom in order to have Jim be in a place where he can paint and thus get better, trumps all of the frustration and irritation. Their grace is well rewarded with Jim's gratitude, not to mention the beautiful paintings he has produced since he has been back home.

Miria, Jim's wife, has had the grace to never treat him like an invalid, but always as her husband. I heard that she'd go to the Hospital everyday after work and lay on the bed beside him. They would talk the way they did in their bed at home. She still does this now, in the hospital bed set up for Jim on the main floor. Mimi has the grace to always see the man she married and not an invalid. I love her fiercely for that.

As I write this, I notice there are many types of grace. Perhaps they do not all resemble the ideal I have for myself above (I think of Katherine Hepburn when I think of Grace and imagine myself growing old like her despite the obvious fact that I am neither tall, nor skinny, nor blonde. Though I could rock an elegant pant suit if I tried...) but grace is present all around. If I look hard enough, I find it in the most peculiar places.

Lessons in Grace: Part two to come. Nope. Not finished yet. but this post is getting mighty unwieldy and I must stop it...

Random Thoughts on Going Home

2012-07-14T12:08:00.000-04:00

On Pandora St.

You can't.

Well you can, but the road back is overgrown and thorny, with many hidden potholes.

Yep. That is about as much wisdom per coffee ratio that I have today.

Which, of course, won't stop me from spouting more un-wise random thoughts.

It has been about a week and a half since we have landed on this temperate coastal haven. As if by command, the weather has been spectacular (though if today is any indication, that is about to change) which means I have been able to spend most of my time walking around, exploring the beaches that swaddle the city in waves and rock and, if you are lucky, sand. Long evenings in beautiful backyard gardens drinking copious amounts of wine.

And family. Lots of family.

Now, for those of you who know me, you must know that socializing is not my forte. So coming home always causes some ambivalence. On the one hand, I am very happy to see my crazy but lovable people. On the other hand, I wish it didn't have to be with everyone all at once.

This sustained visiting is hard for my constitution. I think I might be suffering from a solitude deficiency and will develop some sort of horrible physical ailment such as rickets (I don't really know what rickets are but they don't sound fun).

So. Week and a half. Non-stop visiting. Sun. Not a lot of writing.

But then, those expectations were a tad unrealistic anyway.

Observations of Victoria land:

People drive a lot here. Though the city is imminently walkable and bike-able, people seem to prefer their automobiles. I find this very strange .
Clerks in the stores are so friendly they are bordering on American. For instance, when I go to the grocery store, the clerks (different ones) have asked me how I am doing and if I have any plans for the weekend. Barring for the moment that I feel the question is extremely invasive (why would I tell you my plans for the weekend?) This kind of friendliness sets my teeth on edge. Not to mention the fact that different clerks are asking me the exact same questions, which makes me suspect that management is putting them up to it. So it is not real friendliness. It is fake friendliness.
Deer. The deer are tripping me out. I noticed this the last visit too- you will be walking down a perfectly normal city street and on the other side will be a Doe with three babies. Or like the other night when we were walking home- there was this young buck sporting a magnificent rack (ha!Rack! That's funny) just wandering around a busy intersection. Apparently the outskirts of Victoria have seen enormous construction the last few years and the deer no longer have a place to go. Another case of of the suburbs encroaching on natural habit, oozing out of the city like some large slime monster, engulfing everything in their wake.
When you go back to the place you grew up in, the past is waiting around corners (and fir trees) to jump out and embarrass you. So far I have ran into about six people from my teenage past (not the best years of my life, needless to say). Two of them I knew who they were but couldn't remember their names, which seems very rude when they were a fixture in my house for a few years. But what can you do when everybody was named Chelsea or Heather or Meghan? Come on people. Throw me a bone.
Apparently I still have children, though they have become these elusive mythical creatures that have gone feral and now run with a pack of cousins. I hope to catch them and tame them again before we need to board the plane back to Montreal.

Feral Kids on Roof of House

That's all I got today. Next post will be entitled: Lessons in Grace from unexpected places

And yes, they are sorely needed.

More YA Dystopian Novels

2012-07-02T08:21:00.002-04:00

Divergent and Insurgent by Veronica Roth

I have been on a tad of a Dystopian novel kick lately. While reading this last addition to the increasing list of Dystopian YA books, I had an epiphany. No, perhaps that is too strong a word for the small glimmer of light that brightened my brain pan for a millisecond.

A mental flash. Yes that's it.

It has occurred to me (and I am 100% sure that I am not the only one to have come to this conclusion) that to be considered Dystopian a novel must:

1. Set itself up as a Utopia that can't see the cracks in its own infrastructure (or at least the cracks are only known by a select few).

2. Use the idea of a peaceful society, where everyone's basic needs are met (using the Mazlow's hierarchy of needs, that would be the first two rungs of the pyramid) as the reason for inhibiting freedom of choice.

Roth's Divergent does just this. In her Dystopia, the city (future Chicago) is divided into factions: Abnegation, Amity, Candor, Dauntless and Erudite (all freakin' awesome words, by the by.) When a citizen turns sixteen, they are issued a test, a serum injected into your neck that shows what your aptitude is by how you react to the various simulations. If you are Abnegation, you are selfless and thoughtful and self-sacrificing. Abnegation are the leaders of the city as they are deemed to be incorruptible. Amity wants peace and friendship above all else. Candor, truth. Dauntless need to live their lives on the edge- courting danger, pushing their physical and mental limits. Erudite are the thinkers of the society, the builders, inventors, innovators.

When Beatrice goes for her test, however, her result does not fit into any of the above categories. She is a word she has never heard before, a dangerous word: she is divergent. With the help of her tester, she is able to keep it a secret until the choosing ceremony, where she will have to choose which faction. Her own Abnegation, where she has never felt worthy, or another? But when you have an aptitude for three out of the five factions, which one to choose?

Thus begins Roth's dark, scary, fast-paced trilogy (two of which have been published the third will be out...I don't know when it will be out- Ms. Roth has just finished Insurgent so must be taking a break now) and when I say fast-paced I mean speed-of-light paced. Warp-speed paced. So fast that I finished the first and HAD TO BUY THE SEQUEL IMMEDIATELY. Which I did as an e-book. Too cheap to buy the hardcover.

That is not to say that the book didn't have its flaws. I am still not convinced about the premise - how people can have only one dominant trait. This rings extremely false to me. We are complicated folk, us humans, apt to act one way in one situation and another way in the same situation on a different day. So to have a whole society based on whether they value honesty over anything else, or peace above anything else, or, well you get the picture, seems a little contrived. So right from the get go I was suspicious.

What drew me in, then? Well some pretty horrific fight scenes, I guess. Be warned: there will be blood. There are some interesting ideas about reality and non-reality and dealing with fear, as well as some good tension building as the fabric of their society crumbles.

Oh, and there is also a boy.A cute, angst-ridden, complicated boy, in the tradition of cute angst-ridden YA boys as love interests.

Need I say more? I will conclude by saying that though I don't think it lives up to the crazy hype, if you are looking for a quick, fun, gripping summer read, you could do worse.

YA MUST-READ: A Fault in our Stars by John Green

2012-06-21T10:50:00.001-04:00

The Fault in our Stars by John Green

Oh, John Green. What can I say? This time the Greenster, the Greenmeister the Greenonator , has penned a tome that deals with such heady topics as love in the midst of death. And when I say " in the midst" I mean in the chomping down on your internal organs kind of way.

He departs from his usual goofy and witty but always charming and kind main male protagonist to tell this story from the point of view of a sixteen-year old Hazel Grace Lancaster, who just happened to be dying of lung cancer. At the moment, her cancer has been stalled by a new drug, which, though it doesn't cure her cancer, stops it from taking her over. So though her lungs work as well as a twenty year old Russian Lada left to rot in a swamp, she is still pretty functional. However, she is a tad depressed. She spends her days reading or watching America's Top model and worrying about how her parents are going to deal with her death. Her only regular outing is a cancer survivor support group her mother forces her to attend. Most days, it is the same old, same old: same stories, same platitudes, nothing helpful. Until one day Augustus Waters shows up and he can't stop staring at her.

I won't say anymore.

Okay I will say more but not about the plot. John Green has taken a terrible situation, an ugly situation and made it beautiful without denying the terribleness and the ugliness. Though the plot twist is predictable, it was pleasantly so- in that it did not take away from the pathos of the situation. Never does it deteriorate into cheesy sentimentality nor become insipidly maudlin, a feat worth noting given the tear-jerker subject.

With the same with and humour we see in his other books, he introduces two intelligent, kind, unique characters that make you think if these are modeled on real teenagers then perhaps there is yet hope for humanity (not that I don't see amazing teenagers on a regular basis- I do. And they give me the same hope). I also give him kudos for writing parents that don't suck. Hazel's parents are flawed yes, but loving and worried and sympathetic and funny and even, sometimes, have little nuggets of wisdom that actually comfort Hazel.

I like that.

A love story islanded by a sea of grief, this novel will make you laugh, cry and think carefully about the way you treat sick people. I am swiftly coming to the conclusion that Mr. Green might be one of the best YA authors writing today.

Two Post-Apocalyptic YA Novels

2012-06-13T05:30:00.000-04:00

Blood Red Road by Moira Young (Dustlands #1)

At the risk of giving away too much at the beginning, I LOVED THIS BOOK!

There. I said it. You can leave for the library now. Go put your name on the holds list.

No? Want to know why I loved it?

Blood Red Road is an adventure story, a post-apocalyptic western. When Saba's twin brother Lugh is kidnapped by a gang of cloaked men who coincidentally kill their father as well, Saba is determined to get him back. Accompanied by her little sister Emmi (whom Saba still can't forgive for being the cause of her mother's death) they set out on the trail. Their world is dark, hard and barren, the legacy of the Wreckers (us) whose technological debris still dot the landscape.

On their journey, the get caught by a ruthless couple who makes Saba participate in the fights (think Roman coliseum). They meet a gang of female warriors called the Hawks and a charming scoundrel named Jack. In order to save her brother, Saba is going to have to figure out how to trust people, something that does not come easy to her.

What I loved about this book:

1. It doesn't pretend to be anything else but a really great , exciting story. There is no deep meaning, though the characters are textured and complex, and the world building is meticulously developed and elegantly executed.

2. The writing. Not once did I stumble over a sentence or a thought. I read a lot of books and notice that great world building or exciting plot usually comes at the expense of careful writing. Young pulls off a western dialect perfectly- words misspelled, but not too much, a lilting rhythm to the speech and to Saba's thoughts. The description is sparse but evocative, the characters well-drawn.

3. Young does not make the man subservient to the strong female protagonist. Jack (yes, the charming scoundrel) is equal to Saba and even teaches her some things. Too often in YA lit, we get the brooding, self-hating, angst-ridden idiot for the love interest ( I am thinking of Jace in City of Bones- let the angry rants begin). Jack is Saba's equal. The last book I read with equally strong characters is Graceling by Kirstin Cashore (yes, Peeta and Gale are both strong characters, but still feel a little subservient to Katniss- just Peeta's unabashed love alone feels a tad pupp dog-ish.) Jack is just as strong, just as good as a fighter. They are mutually attracted to each other. Thank you M,. Young, for not perpetrating the myth that all relationships must be passionate and doomed. They can be passionate and joyful and right. Of course, it takes the characters a while to figure that out...

4. The villain! Oh the villain! The king, hands down, has been my favourite villain for a very very long while. Modeling himself after Louis the IVth, he speaks of himself in the third person (which is creepy and psychotic). I won't say anymore, but he is truly frightening.

I would recommend this book to anyone who liked the Hunger Games and other post-apocalyptic fiction. heck, I would recommend this book to anyone who needs a book that will sweep them up and away from the drudgery of their daily existence. Because it was fun fun fun!

Immortal Rules by Julie Kagawa (Blood of Eden, #1)

I have not picked up Kagawa's Iron Fey series, but have many fans of it in my library. So when I saw there was a galley for the first installment in her new series, Blood of Eden, entitled Immortal Rules, I jumped at the chance. One, because I haven't yet read a book on my iPad and it was about time I give it a whirl, and two, because my taxed brain can't take anything deeper right now than a vampire story.

Not that there is anything wrong with vampire stories.

So. Immortal Rules. Allison Sekemoto is an unregistered, which means she does not belong to the vampire rulers of the city. Though life is hard and dangerous in the Fringe, she prefers it to being the property of a vampire, where she would have to give her blood up once a month. She hates the vampires, hates what they have done to the human race. When she discovers a cache of food outside the walls of the city and convinces her gang to come help her reap the spoils, they are attacked by the rabids, sort of a mixture of zombie/vampires. She is fatally injured. A mysterious vampire saves her and offers her this choice: he can turn her into a vampire, or he can kill her before she turns into a rabid.

As you can probably tell by the summary, Kagawa has a lot of setting up to do for the reader to be able to understand her post-apocalyptic, plague-ridden, vampire dystopia. The first part is basically exposition. Though I found the writing a little onerous at first, I do appreciate her world building.

Because it is Dark (capital D intended). Before Allison turns into a vampire, her life consists of pure survival. She spends her days looking for food and not being killed by the many, many predators, vampires, rabids, human or otherwise (there is a blood curdling scene with a rabid doe- Bambi it is not). And when she does choose (spoiler alert!) to become a vampire her life consists mainly of...well, survival. Vampires rule the city. Rabids roam the country. There are gangs of merciless humans. Everybody wants to kill her.

In short, it was kind of awesome. Throw in some unease about her new vampire stat, a cute boy met on the road who happens to have been indoctrinated and trained to hate and hunt vampires, some major 'tude from Allison herself and pretty horrible villains ranging from the complex to the no so complex and you got a pretty bitchin' beginning to a new series.

The story ends the way that most series end these days, which is not at all. She manages to get her group of ragtag humans to their destination without eating any of them, but the romance is left hanging as is any sort of closure with any of the villains.

On Being a Revolutionary Turtle

2012-06-06T05:32:00.000-04:00

[I wrote this over a week ago. Since then I have joined in the casseroles almost every night going on two weeks. The talks between students and government have broken down.]

Kitchen casualties of the Casserole protest

It is hard for me to make noise. I have spent a lifetime trying to take up as little space in the world as possible- clinging to the edges of sidewalks so others can pass, wearing mute colours, not raising my voice. To raise my hand in class and give my opinion was an act that took a lot of courage and drained me of energy. Angry red blush. Hemming and hawing over what I think because I want to say it in a way that will offend absolutely nobody.As I get older, this gets a little better. I am not so afraid to express my opinion, though I do so in a crowd rarely.

I am thinking of this, because for the past three nights I have participated in the charivari (I love that word! I love its history! Do you know this protest goes all the way back to the middle ages, and was utilized when the community disapproved of an "unnatural marriage", like an older man marrying a younger woman? Fun fact.) of Les Casseroles.

Now, it has taken me a while to figure out if I support the students. This sounds stupid I know, but, in keeping with my reticence to give my opinion, I hesitate to form one when I feel I am uninformed. And because I am a pretty busy person- full-time work, children and other stuff (just like the rest of the world, I know) I haven't had time to really look into it.

And besides, it was all about tuition hikes, right?

Well, after long consideration, conversations with different people and reading the wonderful articles my very politically minded friends share on Facebook, I have come to think that no, it is not. The tuition hikes are a symptom of a bigger idea, a neoliberal vision of the world where everything is a commodity and ruled by the vagaries of the market, education included. Either we accept this or we do not.

Obviously, the people do not. I do not.

So here is the evolution of my support for the movement:

1. At first I was ambivalent about the whole tuition hike thing. I am anglophone and received my BA in BC where the tuition is way higher than it is in Quebec. So what are they complaining about? Then I read this blog post (which I have just spent a half hour trying to find unsuccessfully) and realised not only was I asking the wrong question, I was being petulant. The author tells us to ask not why Quebec students are being so whiny, but why are students in the rest of Canada not whining more?

2. That got me thinking about education in Quebec in general. I have already ranted about this, actually. How there is currently a three-tiered education system going on, One that is quickly beginning to resemble the U.S. system. We have the private schools (English private schools very expensive and French private schools less expensive) and then we have the public schools. But wait- that is only two tiers, right? No. Within the public schools we have the charter schools- that is the schools where you have to apply to get in, either through passing an exam or by an audition, or (in the case of the alternative elementary school my daughter attends, previously being the one who can endure a night in February outside to be the first in line, and presently by having your name being drawn from a lottery). So what are we doing here? We are already assigning the notion of scarcity to education. The idea that there is only a little of it to go around and that little is only available to those who a) can afford it b) are educated enough to know how to navigate the system c) are good at taking exams.

The tuition hikes is not the only issue here. It is putting the spotlight on a system that is inherently flawed. It is asking us whether we think education is a commodity or a right. It is asking us to think about what we value as a society. Do we want an educated population - innovative , creative, productive citizens who are unburdened by crippling student loans, or is education to be relegated to one class only?

Now, when I made this argument with a friend and a colleague the other day, she made several points:
1. She doesn't think higher education is a right, but a privilege.
2. That even in the Scandinavian model not everything is beautiful (a couple of my co-workers have mentioned an article written in the Gazette a few weeks ago- I wish I had seen it so I could counter it better).
3. That even if the students get a degree it doesn't mean they will get a job (this in argument to my belief that the low tuition fees will be paid for by the students as they get into the workforce and start contributing to society through their work, their taxes, etc).

Here are my arguments:
1. The right/privilege thing has always stumped me. I tend to agree with her (but here comes my reticence again) but I honestly do not know. I do think that it should be a viable option for all members of our society and that the more people we have educated the better our world will be. The great thing about the Quebec education system is that people can go to Cegep where they can either learn a trade or take courses to go to University, all for very little money. You don't necessarily need to go past that to make a decent living (have you seen what plumbers and electricians make? It was waaaaay more than I make even with a Masters degree under my belt). What is important is that everybody has the option to pursue what is best for them.

2. I can't speak much to how University works in countries like Finland and Sweden, but I am not at all surprised to hear there are some flaws in their system (though I haven't been able to get a good idea of what those are). But does that mean we throw the whole baby out with the bathwater? What attracts me to the Scandinavian model is the importance they place on education. They put their money where there mouth is in terms of teacher's education, salary and classroom freedom. I am sure that going to University still requires an application, that you still must get in even if it is free, and that is how it should be. Okay then -yes, education is a privilege, yet one where everybody should have the chance to benefit from it, not just the rich.

3. I don't know what to say to that. Of course some won't get jobs. But doesn't that just speak to the fact that our system is flawed? That a university degree is more necessary than ever, yet is the most expensive it has ever been? And that even when you get a degree it is no guarantee that you will even be able to use it?

4. Who is profiting from higher tuition fees? Well, let us just follow the money...and where does it take us? Why the banks of course! They are the ones who stand to benefit from the huge amount of interest students will have to pay. How does it make sense to have a system that requires you to go to an institution of higher learning in order to get a better job so that you can in turn spend the first few years of your working life deeply in debt. It makes me think of the sugar cane plantations and the company store:Here are the only jobs around so come work for us. However your wages are so low and our prices at our store (our only store) so high you will end up owing us money for the privilege.

Overhaul, people. We need an overhaul.

Now this is just talking about education. We have not mentioned the fascist law 78. Or the budget cuts to the arts and to much needed social programs happening in our country. Or what our governments (provincial and federal) are doing to our environment. When I wrote this, I attended a fundraiser for the artist coop the Long Haul right before going to bang on my pots. They, like so many valuable and worthwhile institutions, have lost their government funding.

The student protest is not just about tuition hikes, it is about what we stand for as a society. And though it took me a long while to figure this out (I am a revolutionary turtle) I can say for certain that I do NOT like what is going on.

So, every night at eight, despite my abhorrence at standing out and making noise, I leave the house accompanied by my children and my husband with our pots and pans.

The first night we participated, eight o'clock came and we strained to hear some pots and pans (did I mention I am also not an instigator?). In the distance we could hear some banging so J and I went to check it out and lo and behold Les Casseroles had come to our neighborhood! We rushed back got the pots and pans and my youngest, who was already in her pajamas (the oldest was too thus declined that first night). People literally came out of the wood work. It starts with a core group of people, banging on their pots. Then a few more people come from down the street. Or emerge from their house. Or seem to appear out of nowhere. We all have this huge grin, one that is mostly seen on Buddhist monks (sort of a benighted, all-encompassing, one with the world Happy). In our eyes is a slightly bemused expression- where did we all come from? I didn't know I had so many neighbours among my neighbours.

This user-generated google map shows where many of the casserole protests are occurring.

The gathering grows. People start taking over the street. There are young people- the requisite hipster youth. Mothers with their toddlers. Our Pakistani neighbours. Old ladies. A drunken man who dances to the cacophony. Cars honk in support. Bus drivers open their doors, honk their horns. Cheer us on.

On Thursday, the police blocked the street to oncoming traffic. On Friday, they stood back and watched as the protest took over the street then began to march through the neighborhood. Last night, two police came to talk to the people in the crowd. I couldn't hear what they were saying so I asked a woman I now know lives down the street from us. She said they just wanted to let us know that when we started our march, to let us know and they would lead with their cars in front and in back of the protesters to keep them safe.

The grins got wider. The clanging took to the streets. Hopefully, the government is listening.

Two Great Canadian Youth Novels I think Should be Taught in the Classroom

2012-05-26T08:50:00.000-04:00

I know. How Cancon of me. But I gotta say- it does get my knickers a bit knotted up to see how many American and British books are showcased in our English classes and how little Canadian content. So I have made it my informal, quasi-mission to find books from Canadian authors that could work for Grades 7 to 11 (11 not so much- they get a lot of Atwood and Ann-Marie Macdonald).

Here are the first two I think would be excellent.

Egghead by Caroline Pigna t (perhaps instead of Stargirl in Grade 7?)

Pignat triangulates the typical bullying story from three different perspectives: the bully, the bullied and the bystander. Will is that awkward kid. You know. The one who doesn't understand social cues. Who dresses weird. Who acts like an idiot without realising it. Katie is Will's friend, or at least the closest thing he has to one, but he doesn't make it easy. Devan is one of the gang of boys who follows Shane, the high school's prime 9th grade bully. Lewis gets on Shane and co's bully radar from day one when, in orientation, he is found in the middle of the gym, bent down staring intently at an ant. Katie tries to defend him, but no one else will come to his rescue. As the year progresses so does the bullying, until it reaches a tragic climax.

Written one part novel in verse for Will and in first person for both Katie and Devan, Pignat 's skillful, nuanced storytelling demonstrates how no situation is black and white. Everybody has a story we don't know about that influences the way we act. The storyline is simple and familiar, making it accessible to a young audience. However, never does Pignat let the moral of her story (which is a heady one and most definitely present) interfere with the development of her characters.

Katie is especially interesting as the bystander. She wants to help Will, but at the same time she is embarrassed by him and worried about her own reputation in the school. She doesn't always make the right choices though her heart is in the right place.

Egghead is a small but powerful book about bullying for about grade 5 to 7. I tried it with an older crowd and though they liked it, it wasn't sophisticated enough for them- the story was too typical (something that works for the younger audiences) and the moral too obvious. Still, it would be a great classroom conversation starter not only on the subject of bullying but also as an example of voice.

Pluto's Ghost by Sheree Fitch (perhaps instead of Perks of Being a Wallflower in Grade 9?)

I am going to just come out and say it. I loved this book. Told from the perspective of Jake Upshore, a train wreck of a teenage boy almost à la Holden Caulfield but for the small facts that he lives in small town Nova Scotia, he's poor, learning disabled, a recovering alcoholic/addict and cobbled by his anger issues.

Here is a little bit of Jake's voice:

"Murderer. It's one kick in the belly of a word isn't it? Has a taste, too. It tastes like barbed wire and has wild hyena eyes. Murderer. Murder-her. Did he? Did I? That's when I remember what I want to forget."

We first meet Jake in a cemetery where he is hauled away by the police. A body is taken away in an ambulance. We don't know what he has done. We don't know what happened. But slowly his story starts to unravel. It begins when he was five years old, the year his mother died and he met and fell in love with Sky Derucci, the smart, beautiful, daughter of the local police chief. Who, by the way, does not like Jake, not at all.

Now they are almost out of high school and are secretly seeing each other. But when Sky disappears suddenly with rumours that she is pregnant, Jake goes ballistic. He has to find her, he has to help. With only pages from her journal to guide him, he follows her and ends up on a journey where he must confront his own demons.

Fitch's prose is fiercely lyrical, a roiling ocean of pathos and humour. The character of Jake so fleshed out, so beautifully flawed and self-sabotaging, so damn...lyrical (there is that word again) I could not put it down. Her ending though hopeful was not sitcom-y nor unrealistic. This is a coming of age story, a gorgeous, moving love story, heck it is almost poetry. Sheree Fitch has popped up on my radar with big neon letters, spelling YA CANLIT CANON!

Hmmm. I wish that had a better ring to it...

The Old Hotel2Tango Goes the Way of the Dodo

2012-05-17T16:43:00.000-04:00

J's studio circa 2007. he let the riffraff in, obviously....

Remember this article in the March 6, 2012 issue of the Montreal Gazette? The one where they talk about how Mile End is "taking bold action to protect artists?"

And yes. Here comes the irony, folks.

A couple weeks after this article appeared, the artists who occupied the former Hotel2 Tango, located in an old building wedged between Van Horne just east of Parc ave and the train tracks, were given their one month's notice.

The new landlord, owner of Miniac repairs, decided he could not abide the "noise" (otherwise known as music). He limited even more the time the musicians could jam (though they still had to pay ) as Mr. Miniac claimed "their racket" wrecked the zen garage space he was trying to create. Even the pitter patter of dog feet from a visiting pet would send him (illegally)up into the space to complain.

And just in case you are wondering, yes, that old Hotel2Tango, the old recording studio that arguably served as the hub of alternative music in Montreal.

Alas, no longer.

My husband happens to be among the displaced artists . J had been there for five years. His studio was one of the larger ones, looking out on to the traffic of Van Horne below. It was perfect-a ten minute walk from our home in Parc-Ex. Close to other studios and stores. Best of all, he had daily contact with other artists and musicians in his space- talking ideas, listening to the bands jam, well you know- basically taking part in the whole artistic fermentation process. The rent was affordable, the space was large and he had a place to connect with other artists.

Happy happy shiny shiny times.

What happened?

The Gazette states that Mile End has provided some protection to artists and the community (because who wants stinky businesses in their hood, artists or not?):

The new zoning amends the city’s urban plan to recognize the importance of the creative economy and limits heights and densities to that of the district’s existing buildings. While a grandfather clause protects current companies, the new rules bar warehouses, wholesalers, transport firms and heavily polluting industries from moving in. New occupants are limited to 500 square metres.

Bi-laws are all well and good, but nothing will get in the way of a new entrepreneur who does not want you there. There had recently been a big turnover at the space where the former managers had vacated. It was being run on a volunteer basis by one of the tenants of the space, but there was no lease. Of what I heard, even the hydro was in the name of someone who had vacated the space years before.

Though the artists fought for their space, there was nothing much they could do. Mr. Miniac would not stand any noise at all. He wanted to up the rent and kick out all the musicians. I suspect he has some ulterior motive, some other plans for the space, but his dealing with the artists was underhanded and dishonest, so who knows? He also entered their space illegally on more than one occasion and, I repeat, just in case you didn't get it before, limited the time the musicians, who had paid to use the space for practice, could actually practice.

The artists of the Hotel did not feel very supported at that moment.

Now my husband, who works as a scenic painter and as a visual artist, has his paintings, sculptures, boxes of rusty bits (he really likes his rusty bits) in our basement and at the warehouse where he works. He has not had time to find another studio and probably won't until August. He is using the coffee table in our very small living room to make large drawings, and I worry for his posture (he is always leaning over his drawing like a myopic jeweler inspecting an old lady's diamond).

What pisses me off is that the signs of Montreal turning into another New York, where the artists who made it such a funky place to live in the first place can no longer afford to be there, are popping up. We have already had to move our home north of the tracks and now his studio will be going that way too. At this rate, we will be in the arctic by the time we are 60.

It pisses me off that Mr. Miniac did not have enough respect for his new tenants to be straight up with them and tell the Hotellers exactly what he was planning, but instead strung them along thinking things might work out and then making unreasonable demands. It felt very much like it was a calculated unreasonableness, one where he was being unbearable in order to get them out and do something more profitable with the space. Though I could be wrong. It has happened before. Time will tell. If you go by and see some major construction though, I reserve the right to say I told you so. (yes, I am that petty)

The attitude towards artists also pisses me off. Mr. Miniac was very worried that the Hotellers were going to trash his place before they left (granted, we did not put much effort into the clean up but there was no trashing- we are not frat boys after all- oh geez- did I just stereotype frat boys after getting mad about the stereotyping of artists? Yes. Yes, I did.). When J went to look at other spaces he came up against the same attitude- "we do not want any riff raff here. Sorry."

Hmmm, by his definition of riff raff, I do keep some low company then...

So how do we stop this sort of ignorant gentrification from happening again?

Well, for starters, the artists must organize. Not in a vigilante or even union kind of way, but in a hey! We should have a lease! Kind of way. Figure out a good way to cover the expenses for the space. Even put some away for a rainy day. Part of the tragedy of the Hotel was that it had been through so many hands so recently, nobody really knew or even remembered who had signed what. Collectives are good. Cooperatives. If only to protect your space and the right to do what you set out to do in it. J and another Hoteller are semi-looking for a space with exactly that plan in mind, however work and family and approaching absences make it unfeasible at the moment- so this story is to be continued.

Also public awareness- I guess. That sounds so lame. Public awareness of what? That artists are not usually the Caravaggio-esque debauched criminals, the Rimbaud-esque gun-running , nihilistic sops that will eat away at a space like foppish termites?

Well, yes.

Studio tours are good (they do happen around Mile End, I see them).

Blog posts like this too I think (though I do confess to a goodly amount of vitriol- you would too if your house was once again invaded by rusty bike chains and other things I can't identify).

And yes, having the support of the community also helps quite a lot. Bravo for Mile End for regulating the real estate bi-laws! Now what kind of bi-law regulation is there to contain unreasonable jerks?

Middle School Reading: Tinfoil Sky by Cyndi Sand-Eveland

2012-05-14T16:28:00.000-04:00

Mel and her mother Cecily have left Craig, drug dealer and all round creep, in the middle of the night. They threw what belongings they could find into the pinto and headed toward Cecily's hometown, where they hope to stay with Gladys, Cecily's mother until they can get back on their feet.

But things don't go the way they planned. Gladys won't open her door to them. The pinto breaks down under an overpass. They are forced to live out of their car, while Cecily looks for work. When that fails, they sing on the street for money. When Cecily ends up in jail, Mel must go live with Gladys. To her surprise, she finds a home where she least expected it.

Tinfoil Sky is a simple story about how it is to be homeless and how it must feel to be the child of an unstable adult. Cecily is flighty, has big dreams but no practical skills and gives up very easily. Although she loves her daughter, she does not provide any stability or guidance.

Sand-Eveland's skill at tackling hard issues for young readers is evident in the slim offering. The characters are well-rounded. Mel's actions and reactions seem very plausible and never too overwrought (I think the danger with books about hard issues is a tendency to over-dramatize the emotions of the protagonist). Cecily, is flawed and sympathetic at the same time. The author also does a good job at building tension in the story without going overboard. What will happen to Mel when Cecily doesn't come back to the overpass? Was that Craig she saw in the distance? Did he follow them? What about her new friend Paul? Although simple and economic, I could not stop reading Tinfoil Sky.

There were a few threads I felt could have been better developed, however: Gladys for instance. She is bitter, uncommunicative and rude. She begins to thaw eventually, but the extent of her bitterness is never quite addressed. The reader is given hints that Cecily stole from her and her husband and then left in the middle of the night. She hasn't heard anything for over 9 years. But this is just sketched in and her eventual warming up to Mel feels abrupt and unexplained. As is her habit of plastering tinfoil over the windows. Although I assume it is a symbol for shutting herself off from life, something as weird as tinfoil on windows should be at least cursorily explained. But Sand-Eveland gives us no clue as to why Gladys decided to live like a frozen dinner.

Having said that, this is still a solid story to give to a middle school girl (you could try a boy but in my experience they don't love simple stories about girls- why is it that girls can enjoy either and boys can't?). In fact, I am thinking of suggesting it to my English department for a Grade 7 book circle read.

Middle School Reading: The Agency series by Y.S. Lee

2012-05-05T07:49:00.000-04:00

The Agency Series by Y.S Lee

Volume 1

Mary Lang is a twelve-year old, half-chinese, half-irish London ragamuffin about to be hanged for thieving when she is offered the chance of a new life at Miss Scrimshaw's Academy for Girls. The Academy is an unusual institution run by two very different young ladies, Ann Treleaven, a prim, thirty-ish spinster and Felicity Frame. The students at the academy are trained in useful occupations and learn to be independent. However, if the life of a governess or nurse does not suit them, and if they have the aptitude for such work, the students have another option - to become a member for the Agency, an all-women spy, well, Agency.

With their aid, Mary transforms herself into Mary Quinn, choosing to hide her Chinese ancestry and pass as only half-irish to explain her dark, exotic looks. When the time comes for her to seek employment outside the school, uninspired with the dull like of a governess, she chooses to join the Agency.

Volume 2

And thus begins a series of mysterious adventures. Along the way, she meets her romantic foil, James Easton, a young engineer.

Although the mysteries are a little too predictable, the relationship between Mary and James is pitch perfect, reminiscent of the best Victorian-era romantic mysteries for adults: The Lady Julia Grey mysteries, Amelia Peabody and of course, who can forget Ms. Alexia Tarabotti in the Parasol Protectorate.

These were great fun, with a clear and intriguing view of London, from the everyday workings of a middle class family, to the re-building of parliament to Queen Victoria herself. In fact, I especially enjoyed Lee's portrayal of the latter, as a fierce leader and loving mother.

Pair this up with Pullman's Sally Lockhart mysteries, Shane Peacock's Young Sherlock Holmes or Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes series.

Wow. I just realised that I might enjoy this genre much more than I realised...

Follow up on the stupidity of telling your kids to follow their dreams post

2012-04-29T12:03:00.000-04:00

Just heard this Ted Talk entitled "Why you will fail to have a great career" from economist Larry Smith at a Ted-Ex talk in Waterloo, Ontario.

If you have 15 minutes, give it a listen- it is about all the excuses we make to NOT pursue our interests, which in turn ensures that none of them ever turn into passions.

Book review: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

2012-04-28T08:52:00.000-04:00

If you’ve browsed the YA shelves lately, you will have probably chanced upon a thick-ish book with a black and white cover. The title is written in old-fashioned script. The photo on the cover is of a pudge-faced girl in what looks like a turn of the century shift, a sort of tiara shading her eyes. If you look closer, you will notice that she is floating. On the back are other intriguing black and white photos. Two bald headed clown children. A girl standing alone be a pond, but the pond reflects two girls. A cloaked man and a boy going towards the light through a tunnel. A boy dressed as a bunny, crumpled on the sidewalk in despair.

Intrigued? I know I was. I finally got my hands on a copy (some lovely soul donated it to my library) and had some time to read it this March break.

The story is told through the perspective of Jacob, a slacker from a wealthy family in Florida. He grew up on his grandfather’s stories, of monsters in his native Poland, of the war and how it decimated his family, and of his time as an orphan in Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. When Jacob witnesses the violent death of his grandfather, everyone thinks he has had a nervous breakdown, including himself. It takes a trip to the small little Welsh island and to the home for peculiar children for him to find out the truth.

Through out this very creepy story are black and white pictures the author has used with permission form their collectors. And this is the part I find the most fascinating – the photos are all real. They have been collected through garage sales, bazaars by a few officianados. Riggs uses the photos as compliments to the text- they depict the peculiar children – the girl on the cover for instance turns out to be Olive the levitating girl. There is an invisible boy. A strong girl.

Another original aspect of the story is Riggs’ manipulation of time. The home lives in a time loop- where they re-live the same day over and over. This is what keeps them safe from the monsters and from the suspicious eyes of a world not ready to accept them.

I enjoyed this story quite a bit- the fantastic elements were well-thought out, imaginative and original. The character of Jacob, a typical teenage boy with not a lot of ambition or drive, is well-developed and believable as is his love interest Emma, a girl who can make fire out of her hands.

Riggs leaves the ending open for a sequel, though not so much in a bad spot that you want to kidnap the author and make them tell you the ending right now (the second Hunger Games anyone?). Still, I look forward to the next installment if only to get a glimpse at some of the fascinating photos.

But don’t take my word for it- watch his book trailer. Riggs was a filmmaker before he was a novelist, so it captures the creepy feel of the book wonderfully!

Why telling your kids to follow their dreams is stupid

2012-04-21T09:51:00.000-04:00

So I watched the new episode of Glee the other night.

Warning: spoiler alert. Oh, and a little explicit language.

If you haven't seen it, it features an intervention on behalf of Finn, Mercedes and Santana on the part of Will and Sue. Why? because the end of their senior year is approaching and they have no idea what they want to do with their life yet.

I know. Shocking.

The intervention comes in the form of a Saturday Night Fever sing off, where each of these characters miraculously find their dream in the inane lyrics of the Beegees.

Stupid plot notwithstanding, do you know what most of them want to do? They want to be famous. Mercedes wants to be the next Mariah. Santana just wants to be famous (ok, she sees the light about being famous at any cost, but still. She never lets go of the desire just to be famous.) Finn decides he wants to go to New York and be an actor.

What advice does Will and Sue give them? Follow your dreams!

What kind of stupid-ass shit is that?

The more I think of it, the more I really hate the show. Because in this case- follow your dreams is not only bad advice, it is harmful advice.

First of all, not everyone knows what they want. In fact, I would venture to say that most people don't. Oh some do, yes. Some have a passion from a young age and have no choice to pursue that passion. My father was like that. He knew from an early age that he needed to fly planes. My youngest sister was also that kind of kid- she wanted to be a veterinarian before she could spell it.

But most people I know? We flail around for a while, trying out different things, having several different careers in life. Or, our passion is not one that pays the bills ( I imagine I am one of the thousands who is trying to be a writer).

As for knowing exactly what you want to do after high school? You are 18 at the time. What the hell do you know? And why is so all-encompassing to have this dream?

These are not dreams. These are day dreams.

Follow your dream has become one of those meaningless cultural platitudes. Especially since the dream, as exemplified in the last Glee, focuses on the end result and not the process. Mercedes wants to be the next Mariah. But she does nothing outside of Glee. She isn't even in a band. She doesn't study music. She most certainly doesn't try writing it, or understanding it. She doesn't go out and sing because that is all that she can do. She is focused on the end result- fame, glory, bad sequined nightmare of dresses instead of the process. Of the love of singing.

Follow your dreams first of all supposes that every kid has a dream, and that dream is worth supporting, which as the last Glee episode indicated, is patently untrue. Not every dream is valid. Wanting to be the next Mariah is not a valid dream. Studying music, becoming a better singer, finding something in the musical arts that will pay the bills however, is.

I hereby submit a replacement of the stupid and inane advice of follow your dreams.

Take this for example. My daughter has started a new unit in her grade seven science class on astronomy. That is all she can talk about. She is captivated by the idea of supernovas, black holes, and weirdly enough, dwarf planets. In the first flush of excitement, she said, "maybe I can be an astronomer when I grow up!"

Do I really think she will be? Probably not. I am sure she will change her mind a dozen times before she even starts college. So what will I tell her?

How about this? By all means, my dear, you should pursue your interests.

Simple, elegant and focused on what matters, don't you think?

Oh, it might not have that bumper sticker quality as follow your dreams but, in my opinion, that is a good thing.

On Living longer than my Father

2012-04-18T16:44:00.000-04:00

Numbers are funny. I am often shocked by them. They don't have much meaning by themselves, but pack quite a punch when applied to our own lives. I like to tally up the years since a certain event: 24 years since I have known my husband. 17 years since we've been together. 13 years since the birth of my first child, etc. Being able to say something like, "I haven't skied for twenty years" always gives me a shaky feeling, like I'm Rip Van Winkle waking up on the side of the mountain and realising the years of my life have inexplicably gone the way of the dodo.

As a culture I think we all tend toward this linear marking of events, these number milestones. That is why we feel the need to make a bigger deal of the decade anniversaries than the simple digits in between. Why fifty years of marriage has a nice, solid, block-like feel of an accomplishment as opposed to 47. We need these markers to be able to slide up and down our own memories.

Very soon I will be turning 38. It is one of those meaningless in-between numbers, halfway between the larger milestones of 30 and 40. It doesn't even have to distinction of being the halfway mark like 35 (which I wrote about in this post). It is a wishy-washy number, easier to say 38 than the whole rigmarole of mid-to-late thirties. In terms of birthday cred, it is as valuable as a card and a dinner out if I'm lucky. Definitely not worthy of a celebration.

So why am I writing about my birthday? No, it is not because I am fishing for love (though if you want to send me some I won't complain). 38 happens to be the age my father was when he died.

My Dad in the 60s

When my daughter turned the age I was when he died (eight),I felt serious and pensive. Sort of like a "whoah, dude. I was that age when my dad died?" During his 38th year, I was certain my husband would die.. But, and this is a testament to how irrational I am on the subject, it never occurred to me that I would live longer than he did.

And in the spirit of my irrational self, my reaction is equally crazy.

With my husband turning 38 I carried a nugget of anxiety around that whole year, not quite believing he would survive the dreaded number. Why is this? I think it is just because that is my model. One just does not have a father that lives past a certain date. My husband was going to expire and that was all there was to it. I would continue like my mother, a young widow with children (though she had three and she was younger than I am now when my dad died), because that was what I knew.

Of course that didn't happen and here I am about to outlive my dad.

So how do I feel?

I feel...bereft. And angry. More angry than I have ever been at his death.

I know. How stupid is that?

Me and my dad

But it's true. My mom did such a good job of making us feel like it was a natural thing (though his fighter jet crashing would be about one of the most unnatural deaths you could imagine). Death happened and though it was sad, we could keep him alive through our memories.

Not that that isn't true. It is. But when people express their pity about my father dying, I'm a little embarrassed. I've had a good life. I have been loved. My mother did everything in her power to fill in the gap left by his absence. People were most definitely misdirecting their sympathy my way. I was fine.

Which is still true. Except that now I have to confront some truths I have never wanted to confront before. And yes, the fact that I could have believed these things at all is also testimony that I am, in most probability, insane.

1. I have had this fantasy/day dream/ fervent desire for my father NOT to be dead. Sometimes I believed it so much, I could feel him in the room. I remember one time, I was 19 and sitting alone in the cafeteria at Concordia. The feeling he was in the room was so strong I stayed longer than I needed waiting for him to appear.

He didn't, of course. I'm not that insane. Geez. Give me some credit.

My dad is on the left

When my mind wanders into daydreams, the first place it goes is to this scene: there's a knock at the door. I am in the kitchen making something hearty and healthful for my children. When I answer the door I am still wiping my hands on a tea towel. It is my father, accompanied by some sort of CSIS looking fellas. It turns out that he was on such a super secret mission they had to fake his death. Then his plane crashed in enemy territory and he has been languishing in a third world dungeon up until a few days ago when a treaty was signed and he was released. Now he is home and we have an awkward reunion where I don't immediately jump into his arms. Instead I play it cool and offer him a drink. It turns out we both enjoy scotch (I know this detail because his twelve-year old aged scotch stood proudly in our liquor cabinet until my sistersand I reached the age where pilfering alcohol from your parent's stash and creating the Frankenstein beverage, the shit mix ,was du jour. Then it made its last voyage down the pipe along with regurgitated vodka, Bailey's and crème de menthe.)

I know. I am certifiable. Or I watch too many spy movies with outrageous plots.

2. I am going to have to figure out how one lives after they outlive their father. Of course I know the answer: just keep on keeping on. Same old, same old. But I feel like a malevolent being has taken away my walking stick, the one I use to guide me through my life and has whittled it away. And they didn't even make anything interesting with it- no caduceus, or long Giacometti. All that is left is a pile of shavings at my feet.

3. It might be possible that I am angrier than I ever thought about him dying. The fact that it has taken me 30 years to face this fact (yes, it is the three decade anniversary of his death as well. A whole panoply of things to celebrate, no?), shows how NOT in touch I am with my emotions blah blah blah.

But whatever. Enough self-indulgent moaning. Get over it already will you?

So just in case you were wondering, here is how I think the discussion would go, if his ghost were to suddenly make a special 30-year appearance at my dining room table (and yes, although he is a ghost, he still enjoys scotch.)

Me- So how's tricks? (I would be so nervous I would resort to phrases I would never say in real life)

Dad- You know, can't complain. Though being dead can get kind of tedious.

Me-I can imagine.

Dad- So I hear you're feeling bereft? What's that all about?

Me -(I take a large sip of scotch and shrug my shoulders like a petulant teenager) I don't know.

Dad- Yes you do. Stop being so petulant.

Me- Well, maybe I wouldn't be so petulant if you had been around to show me how not to be petulant.

Dad- (eyebrow glare).

Me- Sorry. That was uncalled for.

Dad- I should say so. Like your mother put up with petulance anyway.

Me- True.

Both sip at our whiskey.

Dad-so about this bereft thing?

Me- Oh yeah. It's just that I never thought I would live to be as old as you were. It feels like an ending.

Dad- That's stupid.

Me- I know. I just feel that now that I am older than you, my dreams of you suddenly coming back can't be true anymore.

Dad- (Looks at me like I just dipped my tuna in my hot chocolate.)

Me- I know.

(sip more scotch)

Me- Can I ask you something?

Dad- Sure. But it doesn't mean I'll answer. (My dad is a smart ass, apparently)

Me- Do you regret anything? I mean would you do anything differently?

Dad- Are you kidding? I spent the better half of my life in the sky. I flew!

And, on that Icarean note, that is where the conversation ends, because what else is there to say after that?

My dad flew. I guess I should endeavour to do the same.

My new Favourite Poet

2012-04-05T05:38:00.000-04:00

I have a new favourite poet. His name is Bruce Taylor. He was born in 1960. He lived in Montreal for a while and now lives in Wakefield with his family. That's all I really know. When I googled him, the information on him was as slim as a wheat field after a horde of locusts - a veritable data-less dustbowl. A few reviews, which I don't want to read before writing this.

So how did I come to know him? It is true I could be a little more vigilant in my pursuit of new poetry. I do try to write the stuff. And I do read the literary journals (well the ones where I get a "free subscription" whenever I submit to one of their contests). Luckily, I have a friend named Alice who reads more journals than I do and though she keeps insisting she doesn't know anything about poetry, she does know a lot about reading. She also has the most wonderful habit of ripping out pieces of the literary journals when she sees something one of her friends might like. She scrawls a note to herself on the page, something like, "Lina might like this" and then stuffs it in her purse so they are ready to hand over to the lucky person when next they meet.

I have recently started a file folder of all the pages she has given me. I love that she does that. And I always read what she has so carefully chosen to give me with great attention.

One of the stacks of ripped out papers contained poems by Bruce Taylor from an issue of ARC. It was the science issue, called Quarc which I think came out last summer. Now, I had never submitted anything to ARC that year and therefore did not receive it. His poems, about the microscopist, Anton Van Leeuwenhoek, were accompanied by illustrations of small creatures. I recollect a lobster. Perhaps a mollusk. The poems were wonderful. The language richly textured, like the feeling of sinking your bare feet into warm sand.

I checked to see if I had any of his books in my library, which for a high school has a quite decent selection of poetry ( I thank my predecessor for that) and lo and behold we had his first two books, Cold Rubber Feet and facts. I randomly picked up facts and was blown away.

How does he make words do that? How does he make them fit into these compact images, rhyme and meter intact? Because Mr. Taylor is a master of form, or so it seems to my unedumucated brain (I always hesitate to make such grandiose review pronouncements when I feel so daunted by academic analysis). All I know is that meaning, imagery, rhyme and meter are so intricately entwined it is hard to separate them. In fact, it took me several poems even to realise that what was making the cadence, what was helping me trip along from line to line so musically, was rhyme. I just opened the book to a random page and came across the first few lines of his poem, Ancestors:

At the exact moment when the great

ancestors pass away,

the great names slip from the great

cadavers and the bare idea of Cartier

climbs from its floppy riding boots and meat,

grows an asphalt back and gravel feet

and falls across St. Lawrence, dabbing stone

piles in the unhealthy slime; and lo,

two meaningless immensities are joined.

See? See what I mean? The man kills me. A simple idea, elegantly executed, so deeply resonant of Montreal, of the river, then wham! Two meaningless immensities are joined! I imagine the unmovable object and the unstoppable force colliding! A tectonic rendez-vous!

Reading this poem you can feel the cold sludge lap against your leg, see the ghosts of those ridiculously dressed French men.

A sidenote here: I happened to be reading this book when I saw a facebook prompt claiming that to find out what your sex life would be like in the next year, you had to pick up the book nearest you and turn to page 45. The first line in the book would predict your erotic future for you. So I dutifully turned to page 45 of Bruce Taylor's facts. The poem is called English Lessons. The first line is, "Thank you, but the meat you sell is old."

Hmmm. Lesson indeed- never mix facebook and good poetry. It might turn on you...

I am looking forward to reading his earlier work, Cold Rubber Feet, and his most recent release No End in Strangeness.

I will leave you with one more poem, brief but eerily to the point:

Bus Station

Kids are doing things they're not supposed to.

Sweethearts take the escalator up.

A man with too much hair is getting close to

something in a polystyrene cup.

How painfully that lady walks,

and how oblivious to what she wears.

Somehow she finds the rows of chairs

where Television blooms on stalks.

She feeds a coin to one and stares.

Is it a fact that everybody longs

to do things nobody discusses?

Go, people. Ride away from here in buses.

March Break: St. Adèle Chapter

2012-03-31T09:14:00.001-04:00

Before March my break my friend sent me a link to a Dealfind at Le Chantecler, a fancy (by my standards, which admittedly, are not fancy at all) hotel in St. Adèle, a small town in the Laurentians. For $119, it included a room with two double beds, two adult ski lift tickets to a nearby ski hill, two snow shoe or skate rentals, and two adult tickets to the breakfast buffet. And the best part- the kids stayed for free. My friend, whom I call my activity director because she reminds me before it is too late, was going and she thought it would be fun if we went together.

I agreed. We were going to get out of the city, by George! Back to nature! And trees! and snow that doesn't look like it has been dumped into a large blender with rocks, and grime and dog poo! Fresh air! Exercise!

Here is the proof that we actually did leave the city, because I know you don't believe me.

The Girls ready for their day of skiing

As you might know, J doesn't ski. Being a skateboarder all his life, he feels it is unnatural to strap your legs into two separate waxed pieces of wood and then point them down a long, steep hill. "That is for people who don't mind breaking their arms," he says. "I don't want to break my arms."

So the girls went with my friend and her daughter , who were also using their passes. The weather was perfect spring skiing weather- not too cold but not too hot so the snow is a slushy mess. The sky a perfect blue.

Once we set the girls up with their passes and equipment, J and I availed ourselves of the free snowshoe rentals and went for a two and a half hour hike int he woods:

Me of the mountain. Okay Me of the mole hill.

J of the mole hill

Us. Look! We are outside!

Right about here we witnessed a horse buck its rider off and then run away down the path. The rider ended up in about hip-deep snow but was okay. The other horses were spooked as well. I think it might have been J's too cool for school sunglasses...


Which way? Which way?

After our hike, J and I went to play squash in the hotel raquetball court. We had never played before and wondered if our ball was faulty. The darn thing just wouldn't bounce. We played for about an hour, finally getting the hang of it, and LOVING it! For J it was an aesthetic thing- he really like the sparse white walls with the ball marks echoing themselves all over. I just liked to hit things really hard.

The girls came back from their skiing and we went to our room to regroup. There was a line up for the pool (we weren't the only ones who found the Dealfind) so we had a drink before going back down. When we arrived at the pool , there was hardly anyone there. It was wonderful- whirlpool, pool, sauna. Need I say more?

After our swim, the girls took one room and we took the other. They ordered room service and watched a movie, while we went down to the bar for food and drink. The food was nothing to write home about, and took ten years to get to us, but who cares? We had wine and Jamesons.

When we came to say good night to the girls, they were fast asleep.

The next day, the weather had plummeted by 15 degrees, so we took our time over a leisurely breakfast, eating about three times more than we usually do, just because we could.

Breakfast buffets are the bomb

After breakfast, we forced the kids to walk on the lake with us. This felt very risky, as there were many sections that looked like they had already melted.We also risked the eternal displeasure of our children, for making them go outside when they didn't want to. Needless to say, the experiment was short-lived.

Bouncy Castles are still fun even though we are cool teenagers (and one tweenager)

Thank god for bouncy castles, one of the saving graces in the -20 weather.

The view of the lake from the hotel

Still, it was beautiful. What more can you say?

Icicles off the side of the hotel window.

The rest of the morning was spent swimming and playing raquet ball. We also played pool, table hockey. As our friends hadn't used their snow shoe rental the day before and as they were statying another night. The last event before we had to go back to town was snowshoeing. J and I walked with them.

Now this also took a lot of cajoling. In fact, my oldest was on the verge of real anger with me. The pouts were palpable. Until she actually started padding around on the waist deep snow as if she was a light as a feather bird and then the smile was back.

And thus concludes our semi-outdoor adventure.