Drainless Shower

romanticized reality

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Mon, 01 May 2017 18:09:00 +0000

Sturdy
-such satisfying couple syllables

His arms gripped my entire body
I floated in an in-between state of surrender and control
I melt my head
-apprehensive
Graced upon his wide, open chest
my arms insecure
Hands, unknowing of how to behave
I needed that embrace
But I could not reciprocate it
-and many more to come
A part of me, inept to intimacy
And another, aching for it

Such a thing about love is it avoids logic
there is no room for theory
One can only understand it through its touch and feel
Experiential learning
his every touch and feel
the small crimes of sloppy love

-how wrong we were to think we knew

Heartbreak does not always prompt a broken heart;
it is merely the change of place and pace for the heart.
I loved a love that could not pretend
any longer than I could have.
what was once real crumbled between the folds of unspoken silence,
it was a story pretold;
words I had whispered not too long ago.

Yet
I avoided its inevitable end,
masquerading as though I wasn't its creator.
My heart stumbled across where he invested his life;
clumsily mismanaging our love.
Mishandlings and misunderstandings
-escalate, percolate, incinerate

Our sloppy love
Like dandelions mingled in the weeds,
Nature's vermin
-the resilient and undesirable growth on cultivated space
Root out the downward spirals anchoring our toxic bond,
its emerging malice simply too toxic in its novel ecosystem.

This moment of romanticized reality,
this heartbreak is but a moment of distinguished, emotional hurt.
It's loss, and grief, and failure at once.

The image of a ruptured essential organ attempts to elicit the truth of my misery,
but my heart beats a pitter patter that sings waves of solace through my core.

Sloppy was our love in reality
And now I sigh a breath of relief.

Diversity in Cultural Expression

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Fri, 21 Apr 2017 00:23:00 +0000

As I sit on my bed, attempting to cram for my exam tomorrow on cultural industries in Canada, my mind is spiralling into thoughts on why the critiques I am reading over are not accessible points of conversation in the world around me. Maybe they are, but I personally have found that critical consumption-although popular, is not nearly truly understood and acted upon.

Creative industries have a growing cultural significance on people that is malleable and individuated, from person to person. These industries are social network markets that combine creative innovation with financial gain. Creativity as a process of innovation exists as the fragrance of individual freedom- WE ARE ALL BORN WITH THE RIGHT TO FREEDOM OF CULTURAL EXPRESSION. The combination of art and commerce has a significant impact on Canadian cities and provinces. As a largely growing proportion of the GDP in Canada, creative industries provide many jobs as well as services to its inhabitants.

Canada’s media industries are currently highly concentrated and often linked to American revenue, slow changes are making its way for more authentic content. Despite considerable gains in recent decades, the media still embody an institutionalized Eurocentric bias that privileges the White vantage. However, the significant amount of ethnic media outlets in Canada provide spaces for groups to tell their own stories, free from the cultural mediation of mainstream media. It is a legally supported approach towards institutional inclusion since the creative industry has economic and social implications. Canadian companies along with the government have been recently more likely to respect the spirit of Canada’s laws and more importantly, responsive to distinct Canadian needs. The world wide web acts as an altruistic, virtual networks that resembles what is considered “real” life. New media information and communication technologies have been pervasive in the lives of young men and women. Society requires humanity to stay critically engaged, informed and connected now more then ever.

We live in a world accustomed to the mainstream institutional designs are often highly hegemonic & representative of whiteness. There is systemic representational bias around the media coverage of racialized and gendered minorities. This in turn has caused an otherness of minorities against the white-o-centric visual representations in mainstream media that audiences consider as “we”. In Canada, we have the Ethnic Broadcasting Policy that incites criteria for over the air radio and tv shows. There is a largely untapped demographic of ethnic minorities, as we can see looking around this classroom and campus. Ethnic media in Canada is a direct response to Eurocentrism; newly implemented incentives, policies and funding for such programs have been instrumental to minority groups. It includes specialty channels which can be a commercial broadcasting or non-commercial television channel that has programs focused on a single genre, subject or targeted demographic. Some of them include Punjab Times, OMNI Channel which have online presence as well. So, ethnic television programs help to inform and enlighten new and racialized Canadians with tangible services and social networking. An example I wanted to mention is Tamil Vision International (a channel abbreviated as TVI) which is a Canadian Tamil language specialty channel, based in Toronto, Ontario. In 2012, the CRTC approved TVI to convert their license as a specialty third language service. Their programming includes local and international news, films, soap operas, game shows, local community events, kid shows, comedy and much more. It was originally owned by the Diversity Media Group who also owned and operated CMR Diversity FM-a radio station. The channel, station, online platforms and special events in Toronto help many Tamil families. They provided them with stepping stones in becoming accustomed to a new environment and finding a community within it as immigrants. Specialty TV can be really instrumental for minority groups, especially immigrants.

In this day and age, access to new media services has become more essential to livelihood in modern societies. Television and the internet has embedded itself in high-impact areas such as healthcare, education and government services. Although the web exists in a virtual, boundless, idea of a space-it depends greatly on existing infrastructures to deliver and provide digital services. The infrastructural investment that sustains developments on the Web in Canada and around the world is both public and private investment that is currently market driven. Unfortunately, technology and access to the internet is still an infrastructure that is not easily accessible regardless of where one is. The Internet has become a mass information utility, enabling individuals to explore endless horizons of insight and enlightenment. A multitude of skills and electronic networks offered via the internet, can encourage the formation and sustenance of schools, communities and homes. In today’s competitive global state, the internet serves purpose as an invaluable source of information and communication technology (ICTs). This modern era must work further into intersections of cultures, values, and practices instead of asserting dominance over marginalized populations.

The digitalization of the 21st century has had an immense impact on modern societies across North America and yet, inequalities continue to exist. The Internet has become a fully integrated part of most western communities however the access and usage of ICTs among minorities continues to be limited by persisting colonial forms. Although accessibility has increased in recent years, being marginalized by locality and ethnicity has dispirited, isolated and disengaged countless minority groups. There are existing digital divides within Canada and more so around the world. New media continues to be closely linked to an already thriving society with dispensable incomes as more profitable sectors of investment. Government and industry stake holders overlook the multidimensional characteristics of the consumers they so clearly depend on. If I've learned anything from my three years at SFU, it's that new media can be used as a tool for connectivity, democratization, and equitable cultural exchange for many minorities. However, it is essential that present systems be revisited and rebuilt to ensure that the voice of the marginalized is not silenced by Western discourse.

a story pretold

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Tue, 27 Dec 2016 03:04:00 +0000

Stories confound life,

give purpose to our daily participation.

Every life is a story told,

and every story-

a life.

Each of us, a pilgrim of Earth,

grounded in the construction of wilderness in this globe.

A great burden weighs down our shoulders as we are onward on our journey.

An unforeseen path,

a trail embedding within

many worlds, existing for expedition.

Each mind, a universe aligned by the multiplicity of desires

among the interconnecting galaxies of the ecosystem.

Perceptions are moulded,

bought, sold,

compacted

and stretched,

in a continuous loop,

through our journey.

Every written word of the past writes the future

yet the pieces never come together.

We write our histories into the projection of our futures;

an unpaved path yet a trail carefully constructed by life.

We are all strangers on a pilgrimage of purpose,

the fragments of our past,

of words spoken and unspoken,

do not correlate but rather create.

Every story is experience-

experiences fragment life,

experience fabricates life.

Puppeted

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Wed, 20 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

Not so subtle peaks

This simply occurs everyday

As I speak into the eyes of a man

They meet at every other word uttered

Peaking down at my chest in attempts to configure the shape, size, shade of my womanhood

My shirt loosely clings off my body

Hiding the natural curves I had supposedly been blessed with

I occupy a misshapen form to cover my hourglass figure

As though it could deceive enough to make me a human

A person rather than the presumed form of a woman

An identity distorted by societal order

A toiled perception that permeates a patriarchal vision upon the nature of women

This is me;

A hollow entity

A puppet on strings

Pashu

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Tue, 19 Jul 2016 06:13:00 +0000

Home is where the heart is

My hearts been fragmented

Pieces have been taken

Pieces have been left behind

Like an unsolvable puzzle

My heart is riddled with missing pieces

Scattered around the world

Some pieces, never to be seen

My home stands incomplete

With a missing foundation

Home is where the heart is

Yet

My heart has been spread far

And I cannot piece my home together

Home is where the heart is

My chin resting in the palm of my hand

“You’ll miss us too” they reckon

I smile knowing I will

Home is where the heart is

I search for a construct that is merely a sentiment

A bond that lays sacredly between myself and my connection to the external world

Nostalgia beats into the rhythm of my life

Home is where the heart is

Like the pine trees dispersed in the pearl of Africa

Home can be anywhere

Home is everywhere

Home is here

My Weekend of Hunger, Anxiety & Abandonment Issues

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Sat, 02 Jul 2016 07:42:00 +0000

I started writing this last week at 10:30pm on Saturday. I was laying in bed at Mamba Hotel in Kampala. Gloria and Sarah who were sharing the room with me had just said, “good night” in response to my “boothabeh” (gnite in Luo). Esther took the three of us along with her to run a whole bunch of COHU errands in regards to purchasing material, observing new designs for products and repairing cars, sewing machines, etc. There is a lot to experience in Kampala, namely the nightlife that I am yet to enjoy because I’ve travelled here with women who have no interest in drinking nor dancing, especially not in the same dwelling. Personally, I haven’t gone to a club since last summer because I grew tired of wasting money and enduring prolonged panic attacks after being inevitably groped. The doors and windows of the room we were occupying had begun vibrating and I was sure I wouldn’t end up sleeping the way I didn’t the night before. We arrived in Kampala around 1am, Friday night, and spent the night at a place that accommodated people after a night out. I spent the night itching myself out of a mixture of paranoia and mosquito bites. I felt the bass of the music outside keeping me awake and it was the same situation for another night in a row.

On Thursday I was made aware that I would be joining the three to Kampala Friday morning to return the next day. However, fixing the vehicle we were going to ride to the big city only started Friday afternoon. I sat patiently at the office, waiting for African time to kick in so we could finally leave but that didn’t happen until 5pm. As soon as I got into the vehicle, I regretted accepting the invitation to join the group as they, unlike me, were well acquainted and fluent in Luo. I spent the drive attempting to read then moving onto podcasts as I couldn’t pay attention with all the conversation around. I kept myself occupied enough to ignore the fact that the jeep had to keep stopping for minor repairs as well as the fact that the place we went to for dinner had absolutely no food I could eat as a vegetarian. Once we reached the bar accommodation, Gloria fell asleep immediately after speaking to her husband and child. I laid there waiting until my body would finally give into the rest it needed. It didn’t happen.

Early the next morning we went to give the jeep in for major repairs. As Esther and her brother spoke to the mechanics, we were given breakfast to eat in the car. Then we took a Kampala taxi, a large white van with broken seats filled in with as many people as it can fit, to the heart of the city. Everything was overwhelming once we got there, there were thousands of people around poaching you to buy their food, toys, shoes, or just simply give them money. With my backpack clinging onto my shoulders and two bags on both hands, I followed Esther unaware of where we were going next but determined to walk closely behind her. I knew I wasn’t safe, especially not as a foreigner and most definitely not as a woman. Most men I walked passed tried to or succeeded to grab onto me when I didn’t respond to their crude comments. We finally reached a tailoring building in which tailors rent spaces to sew and supply clothes. We brought two sewing machines with us to get them repaired. Gloria and I left shortly after to adventure the city’s craft shops. We first went to a few craft shops that sold a variety of handmade items from keychains, coasters, art, clothes, shoes and jewelry. The two of us bought a few things after attempting to bargain. Then we went to a mall to visit the Banana Boat Crafts shop. Everything in there was gorgeous and a lot more heavily priced as it was for foreigners to purchase them. We were soon pretty tired so we sat down for some freshly squeezed lemonade and cold water, as I ate a veggie burger and she had fish and chips.

As we were eating, Gloria began telling me of more of her hardships-we spoke more than we had all the while we’ve known each other during that time. It was a nice lunch. Something in me felt compelled to pay for lunch, I regrettably did without considering the monthly income she had while I am paying to volunteer. Then we went to the East African crafts shops in Kampala for more browsing rather than purchasing. Once we were done with crafts department errands, we returned to Sarah and Esther who were still waiting on the sewing machines. I sat on a bench in the building, waiting as the three of them talked and then left me with the bags to go look at fabrics. A lot of time went by as I sat there. Once the machines were ready, we were back to walking around for no reason I could understand as everyone seemed distressed, speaking in Luo. After some more time had passed, we met with Esther’s brother who brought us into Mamba Hotel. I immediately set my things down and went out to smoke two cigarettes and reply to my friend in BC who is discovering new love (SUH CUHYUTE). I tried to think positively, to wash away my resentment towards being a foreigner among the people I was with. I am yet to grow close to any of them and I simply may not because we are so different beyond language and culture.

For dinner, I had an egg sandwich while the two girls ate fish and chicken. The service at Mamba Hotel was horrible-I mean you wouldn’t go to many places in Uganda for good service but people were just understaffed and rude to paying guests here. I gave the waitress and chef a piece of my mind when we were overcharged- the chef giggled as he said sorry and referred to me as “little mama”. Gloria, Sarah and I returned to our room to continue our conversation on child birth before they knocked off to sleep. I gave up trying to sleep around 5am and went to take a shower which amazed me with hot water. It was a pleasant surprise, I stood with the shower head for about 45 minutes (the longest shower I’ve taken since coming to Uganda). Then I returned to my phone, in bed, speaking to my friends so I don’t feel as alone as I was starting to feel. Once Sarah and Gloria woke, they got ready and went back to bed. Instead of inquiring about the itinerary for the day, I just closed my eyes and laid in bed until further notice.

Later in the morning, we walked over to where the car was being repaired- to no one's surprise we found that it was not ready. We sat in an office for a couple hours and then Gloria decided we’d go to town. I followed her and Sarah around a series of markets in silence. The place they chose for breakfast once again did not have vegetarian options so I went for a walk about to find something to snack on. More groping and hollering occurred so I ran back to the girls with no food. At the giant, main market in Kampala, the men were extremely aggressive. I saw a guy walk towards me with his palm open and directed at me. Noticing the hand, I moved my arms up to cling onto my backpack straps as I looked away so as to not make eye contact with this creep. What I didn’t realize was the hand was not being prepared to grab my hand but rather grope me from the front. Despite having my arms and butt grabbed or caressed by strangers all weekend, I had no idea how to handle direct, public molestation like that. I immediately pushed the guy and turned around to look at his face in complete terror to ensure he was going to leave. He turned back smiling and gave me a flying kiss goodbye as he walked away. I had absolutely no power, no control, no space to move, no way of communicating with him or the people I was with about what had happened. I did not have any power, control or the ability to openly communicate in regards to this trip either.

Once they were done shopping, we went to a hotel bar for a snack. It was 2pm and I finally got to eat; my tastebuds rejoiced as I stuffed my mouth with french fries. The waiter brought out an ash tray so I could smoke on the balcony. Esther joined us after an hour-I say us but I was sitting separately so I could smoke while they spoke to each other in Luo. Then the three of them left me, once again, with the bags. As soon as they left, I could no longer push back my anxieties. It only took a day and a half but I felt absolutely neglected. I thought back to the many times my mother and sisters left me behind at home, or stuck me with my father or made me hold their bags as they, to my understanding, went off to have fun without me. I sat with this wave of emotions spilling out for several hours until they returned at 6pm. Then we headed to a taxi that would drive us back to Lira.

There is no real reason why it took me so long to write and post this other than the fact that I needed some time this week to recuperate emotionally. Fortunately, I have made friends out of the two intuitive fellas who live at home with me. The three of us are an odd mix but we work really well together. Spending time with them this week, indulging in more roll eggs, joints and maize was exactly what I needed-a sense of Lira-style comfort.

The Shit Starts Here

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Fri, 24 Jun 2016 12:34:00 +0000

It’s been about two weeks since my last post. So much has happened that I couldn’t possibly go over all of it while genuinely capturing how my experiences continue to evolve my sense of self or humanity. I feel myself changing in ways, becoming comfortable with the ever-changing rhythms of life. I’m taking small steps towards the present; able to control my impulsive fits of anger towards the sounds of crickets, roosters and rats-able to prevent myself from succumbing to my ‘emotion mind’ rather than overlooking its avoidance of reason. I suppose I’ve had my wise mind on lately, I’m making every possible effort to understand my range of emotions and it’s been a slow yet steady progress. The turtle is my spirit animal, I’m no longer the spotted hyena I thought I was; no longer pretending to be stronger than I am and rather learning to believe in my strength. Maybe a wolf someday, I have very many dog-like tendencies. The weekend before this one was very special to me and my growing understanding of self-discovery, change, wisdom, sustainability, and human welfare. This passed weekend, I met an altruistic pair who founded a little initiative called The Shit Starts here or rather The Guardian Project in Uganda.

After a busy week of writing grant proposals, completing COHU financial reports, celebrating African Day of The Child and making new friends-I had a difficult time separating the good from the doom and gloom waiting to burst out within me. It was a great week but I was still so homesick on Friday. I found myself missing the way I could throw my body onto my boyfriends and be held by hands I trust. I was missing the simplicity of talking to my friends without need for hand gestures and a slower pace. I wanted to feel the touch of my mothers embrace, squeezing the shit out of me despite my reluctance. The next morning a new found friend gently told me to snap out of it as he handed me a joint (that’s right, thank the seven lords). It was as simple as that, there was no point being sad about what I’m missing out on when I just have so much more to experience. So then I got dressed up a little and went to a traditional African wedding for a bit. It was so exciting, I was ogling at all the gorgeous women wrapped in vibrant, colourful fabrics. There was so much dancing that I didn’t see time go until it started raining-the festivities went on but I returned home to relax before going out for dinner. Jeff and Rita, a humanitarian couple who have committed their life after retiring to engaging with disadvantaged communities for sustainable development, invited me over for dinner with Esther’s family. I had no prior expectations to meeting as I didn’t know anything about their work. However, our night was exactly what I needed. We had meaningful conversations on travel, religion, politics, technology, gender and all over many bottles of beer and cigarettes. It was a taste of home in the heart of Uganda, not because they were from Toronto (WOOOT WOOOOT), but because they’re views and experiences were familiar or on the path I hoped to reach. The food was great, the drinks were great but the company was what made the cold, rainy night so warm and comforting. At the end of the night Rita and Jeff both hugged me and it was the first time I felt comfort from touch since I left BC, I clung onto them, asking them if it was okay for me to join their adventures for the next day. They were so excited to have me so Solomon, Esther’s husband and The Guardian Project’s right hand man in Uganda, brought me along for the ride on Sunday.

Sustainability avoids depletion through maintenance. It is the commitment to uphold an act, project or system for the further growth and development that may be an outcome of it. The Guardian Project is a beautifully, sustainable engagement with disadvantaged communities in need of implementation of resources for further development. In countries like Uganda, where infrastructures, opportunities and resources are not made equitably available-an unbelievable number of villages exist in which education, healthcare and government-funded subsidies are utopic ideas. Jeff and Rita provide support for these communities, their approach is effective because as they reiterated, “no mazungas- (or mono’s/foreigners/white people) Ugandans helping Ugandans”. They essentially provide these communities with a sample number of beans or goats that they can raise as a community for income generating. It’s environmentally friendly micro-financing at its best. After a nice breakfast and running around Lira for last minute beans, ropes, whatnot-we drove out of the district to visit a cooperating community. Jeff and I read in the car as Africa time trickled in and we waited for members to arrive after church service. Then the meeting started and I was immediately amazed to find that this village received 24 goats last year and now have over 750. Since each household has at least 3, they are paying forward 250 for the next community. A member of the village, married to a woman who received one of the goats made a point to explain that they found goat manure to be a great source of nutrients that stays cool regardless of sunshine. A woman mentioned the pumpkins in the community garden grew twice as large with the manure in spite of the dryness this season. Jeff and Rita gathered organic material to demonstrate a composting model that can be very useful for gardening. Rita explained that it was a smaller model compared to what she wanted them to build at homes as she gathered sticks, dry grass, broken organic material, soil, and a little bit of water. As she went through the steps, Solomon translated and I took notes while Jeff had a couple smokes.

Add a little manure if you have. It should be a metre by metre in size, not too large but you can have as many compost pits as you want. No seeds. No plastic. Always remove from the bottom. Jeff handed out pictures of other cooperatives’ gardens, compost pits and goat beds. Rita explained that making a makeshift bed for goats to pee and poo onto grass would be very useful for composting. Using this grass in compost would maximize the collection of manure. Rita also explained that the weeds can be used as organic material so natures thieves can give back to the crops rather than stealing. To take it to the next step, try mulching. Pull out weeds that grow around crops and use dry leaves or straws to keep the plants cool after watering them. Many ideas were put forth like growing veggies in plastic bags or creating kitchen gardens so crops can grow within a small area with less watering.

Most projects fail because of money but with sustainability in mind, The Shit Starts Here flourishes through people. There were 13 community gardens in this village so Jeff and Rita provided them with 100kg of Kaula beans as well as 100kg of Black beans for them. The village then is to decide on 10 of the gardens for the new seed generation program in which 300-350 seeds will be grown from it to pay 10kg of seeds forward. The first harvest is not for eating but rather income generating until it can be shared equally among members. Jeff spoke wonderfully of how this is an opportunity for the community to help one another. He uses the analogy of providing one in need with a fish hook rather than a fish that will be consumed immediately. The meeting ended with a gorgeous prayer that the women sung in unison, at points some voices stood out to synchronize and my chilled skin grew goosebumps. It was an amazing way to end such an exciting flow of information, love and support. This project has given a number of communities throughout Africa and Asia tools to sustainable incomes in providing a small number of animals, seeds and tactics to nurture them. Like many developing countries, foreign aid has become seen as customary in Uganda-I’ve met too many people who think I come from a magic land in which I can print out as much money as I’d like to use. We drove to Gulu from the village to drop off Jeff and Rita after the meeting. On our drive we listened to both older, nostalgic songs as well as some new and interesting tunes (check out Allan Rayman on Spotify) while eating yummy snacks, smoking and chatting as per usual. At a few points, I stuck my head out the window to dry away my insistent tears. I wasn't upset, I was overwhelmed. The flashes of North America, Asia and Africa I saw out the window in the multitudinous variety of Ugandan forestry paired with good food, good music and good people, were all too surreal for me.

I am ever so grateful to be here right now regardless of how much its ripping into the bank or creating a distance between me and my loved ones. I couldn't be more appreciative of the time that I have left here with the people (and pets) that I am growing attached to each and every day. Jeff told me if I could smile at someone, touch them, connect with them in one way or another-I'm doing enough. I have been learning the language better, breaking out of my shield and taking the time to speak to everyone as much as I can. Despite how helpless I may feel to the poverty, rapid spread of HIV or access to education here, it's important I understand that I'm just one person and the human connections I make here are what are most invaluable. Relationships are uniquely irreplaceable to the people involved and the most sustainable approach to creating strong, grounded bonds between cultures, identities and whatever else that creates barriers between us.

the Persistence of the Male Gaze

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Sun, 12 Jun 2016 08:31:00 +0000

This past week went by so fast. Every moment I spend here is one I learn from and I’m learning a lot. Some days were harder than others as I dealt with a couple panic attacks and succumbed to my dysregulated anxiety. However, I did acquire enough in myself not to ruin everything I have going for me at this time in my life. Working out as well as the aforementioned books have been my saving grace on top of the support of some loved ones. As much as I struggle to trust the loyalty and love of another, I have found that distance hasn’t profoundly effected the important relationships I hold onto dearly. It is just a matter of trust and communication that I have to continuously work towards.

This Monday I went to Barlonyo for an annual meeting with the faculty, staff and board members of Children of Hope Uganda. I was so glad to meet the amazing people working in Barlonyo and look forward to the many visits to come. Important to note is that before going to Barlonyo, I met Ojumyo Daniel who is in BCP1 and unable to pay school fees. He rode with us to school so he can work at the compound for fees while attending school. His single mother works as a pigeon farmer and isn’t making enough to pay his fees. I also Emily Acan who was supported by COHU from primary school. She is currently going through a program to become a nursery teacher at St. Peters College in Lira. Her father passed away and she is currently struggling to pay school fees while supporting her mother, sister and a few orphans who also live with her. These are just a couple of the many heartbreaking pleas for help I’m confronted with daily.

In the meeting, Tony a board member from the Ministry of Education, clarified the need to focus on sustainability through income generating activities. The Principal at Barlonyo Technical and Vocational Institute, Frances’ speech went over the good and the bad. Students are dropping out so the need to raise numbers was brought up. However, attendance and retention has been slowly increasing. He mentioned that female students have been challenging as many registered aren’t showing up. One of the cases involved a pregnant student who did not have access to resources or support to continue her education. Stella Auma, principal at Barlonyo’s early education nursery mentioned that parents have been struggling to buy their children new uniforms or pay fees for food stamps. Solomon, the director of Children of Hope Uganda discussed taking initiative at COHU by constructing a system of roles and responsibilities in relation to the income generating activities. Tony repeatedly asked “are we together?” to ensure COHU’s passion to become a self-reliant and sustainable enterprise. Esther, executive director and soul of Children of Hope Uganda, encouraged teachers to move as a team and benefit from each other. Many of the teachers spoke passionately in regards to education, poverty and agriculture. Maxwell, the income generating officer at COHU, (who has been a mentor to me in many ways) fervently asserted everyone to “work harder, do it with you heart and mind”. The highlight of the meeting was of course, Betty, a member of parliament at the Ministry of Education who quickly addressed many of the issues brought up, and seamlessly spoke of gender inequality on top of it. There’s a lot of work to be done and I’m excited to witness the progress of the income generating activities over the next two months.

I suppose gender might be the topic of this post as I’ve been acutely aware of the double standard lately. The meeting on Monday was a huge success but I couldn’t stop dwelling on how silent the women stayed. Stella Auma was the only woman to voice her opinions however had to be cut off shorter than she hoped for due to time. Although the two were not even mentioned in the itinerary, Betty and Esther were the only other women to speak aside from the few things I mentioned. I was surprised at this as Esther has been the backbone of sustainability from the start of COHU and Betty was very intelligent, articulate in regards to the issues raise.

Emmanuel, a friend who lives in Esther’s place, spoke of gender in terms of biology saying, “men are the head, women are the neck”. Although I hate this differentiation, it is the truth of the matter here. Esther is the neck of COHU, doing everything in her abilities to rehabilitate these communities. She devotes all her time to volunteering with the Rotary Club of Lira and being an amazing mother when she isn’t bending over backwards for the schools. However, I feel as though she has been repeatedly dismissed this week.

On Wednesday, I joined Esther with the outgoing president of Rotary Club Lira, two students and a guy who works at World Vision’s Minokulu Office to check 16 wells in the villages of Oyam. During lunch we were joined by the rest of the team who went to different locations. Esther sat next to me with the rest of the students as the outgoing president sat with a man who worked for a water service or something. I honestly don’t know because this man made my blood boil. As soon as he walked in, he commented on the seating of the incoming and outgoing presidents. He referenced the G20 meeting that Bush went to even though America had just voted Obama in. He spoke of how unimportant Obama was right before he noticed me, the foreigner. After that story, he asked me why I don’t eat meat and before I could complete my answer, he laughed at me, telling the guys about a time in which he met a vegetarian Caucasian lady in Cambodia and told her not to respect animals like we do people. Then he asked me about my background, only to suggest the students say I look like a Pakistani as though the Indian and Pakistani separation had effected me, as a Canadian-Sri Lankan, enough to anger me for that label. I mean, I’m not Pakistani or Indian or racist. I simply disregarded my urge to punch him in the face and suggested he find out more about Sri Lanka. Once Esther and I finished our meals we were ready to go but the men stuck around to drink more soda as they chatted. Esther had to insist we leave while I impatiently read outside.

To make things worse, one of the guys who came with me incessantly caressed my hand and hair throughout the day. I pulled away every time, mentioning my boyfriend repeatedly but that didn’t stop him from staring at me whenever he wasn’t charging me with personal questions or compliments. The work we did on Wednesday was inspiring despite being confronted by the presence of dominating masculinity. Each well we visited was a unique experience in itself. Unfortunately, I found many children on the streets and by the well on a school day. When I asked a few why they weren’t in school the response was often the same story I have heard too often-they had been orphaned or suffering from HIV/AIDs or too far away from a school they can afford the fees for. It broke my heart but as consolation, most of these villages were inspiring to visit in some ways. I was able to witness war affected regions rebuilding their communities; there were many solar panels on shacks, smiling faces and safe water sources. The warmth of Uganda stands out vibrantly in spite of poverty.

This Friday was considered a very historic moment that occurred in Barlonyo. After four years of planning and 2 years of implementation, the Barlonyo Wash project was celebrated as complete with 80% satisfaction. In all honesty the event was vague. The implementation of hygiene and water sanitation in this war affected community is vital to its development, however, celebrating an incomplete project for doing so rubs me in the wrong direction. Many ‘dignitaries’ spoke of their dedication towards supporting the community from the Ugandan government, the Ugandan Ministry of Water and Environment, the Upper Nile Water Commission, Rotary Club of Kampala, Barlonyo Rotary Community Corps, Barlonyo Water Committee, and more. All were men, and spoke to cameras rather than faces. The event was short, there was no mention of Children of Hope Uganda nor Esther or Solomon whom were the two to initiate a need for this project located in the schools. Some community members who joined the ceremony drank soda as the speeches were followed by the performance of a comedian-artist from Kampala (he also didn’t fail to hit on me before we parted ways). The ceremony felt insincere and worst of all, I was seeing Esther being completely disregarded once again. As the incoming President of Rotary Club Lira and Executive Director of COHU, I know her commitment towards Barlonyo’s development will continue to work on the completion and maintenance of the Wash Project. It’s unfortunate that I can’t speak for the other men with the same assurance.

The reason I didn’t fail to mention the comedian as well as the engineering student is because making friends here has been difficult as a female foreigner. Being different in anyway makes you a target, being a woman makes it ten times harder. I am yet to really make any local friends (disregarding those I work with/live with) because most of them do not understand how faithful I intend to be with my boyfriend back home. I struggle between the part of me trying to be respectful and the part of me avoiding harassment every time I meet someone new. As I walk to the supermarket, a minute away from the COHU office, the boda boda drivers never fail to holler at me. Men have sung songs, complimenting my body as I pass by them or send children over to inquire about me. Yesterday, I went on a hike with Emmanuel who was genuinely upset by the constant hollering and glares. Lots of guys asked him who I was, where I was from, whether he was with me and suggested things like taking me home to his village. One man spoke of tasting a different fruit, another man repeatedly screamed, “I LIKE YOU SO MUCH, COME BACK,” as I walked on past him. One of the men who were working on the trail told Emmanuel to leave me here so he can keep me and then share me around. I’m sorry, am I a walking, talking vagina? NO. There is a difference between harmless flirting with a foreigner and nagging at someone who is clearly not interested. These men reduce me into a hole to be penetrated with their obnoxious egos or downright harassing a stranger. I get dressed for comfort every day. I haven’t put makeup on since May 23rd and it’s been refreshing in a lot of ways. I make many efforts to forget about myself as a sexual being and yet, I constantly fear my safety and feel as though I’ve been summed up to that, alone.

The male gaze isn’t unfamiliar to me, I have experienced it before, in varied countries and in worse, but that has not made it easier to handle. I just think it’s about time we see women as multidimensional, competent and capable human beings rather then objects or props. Am I right?

A Peacock Learning to Fly

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Wed, 08 Jun 2016 06:06:00 +0000

This is a long and personal blog post. An update on my life as I come to understand it better. An older post of mine was entitled ‘Flightless bird’. I grew a fascination with the idea last year as I felt cripplingly disadvantaged and hopeless. I continue to feel as though I am this flightless bird; a peacock, sadly trying to learn how to fly. Mechanical wings, anyone?

Since arriving in Uganda, I have had a lot of downtime to read. As a young woman, travelling alone with limited funds, I do not have a lot of options in regards to how I spend my weekends. I’ve been reading two very different books, Delta of Venus: Erotica by Anais Nin as well as The Buddha and the Borderline by Kiera Van Gelder. Let’s quickly gloss over the fact that I’m reading erotica (the stories tell intricate tales of power balance, desire and the human condition) and focus our energies on Kiera’s memoir. This book is slowly changing my life and I can feel it so strongly as I read it. My wonderful ex-roommate and friend bought this for me after my new, therapist suggested I purchase it since I have displayed symptoms of borderline personality disorder for at least half my life.

If you Google BPD, you’ll see all the reasons why one would want to stray away from such a label. The world has inundated the borderline personality to be a sort of monster that I cannot be easily compared to at face value. Words like apathetic, selfish, neurotic and psychotic are often associated to this personality disorder that is essentially a response to the lingering trauma of childhood abuse and/or neglect. However this label has brought me the solace I have craved for too long.

Going back as far back as I can remember-I have felt like a caged-in, emotional creature hopelessly misunderstood and neglected. I have since realized that this need to be understood came from my own inability to do so. Borderline personality disorder is defined as “a pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image and marked by impulsivity beginning by early childhood and pre-set in a variety of contexts”. Kiera’s prologue goes on to describe aspects of BPD. Efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment? Yes. A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships? Yes. Identity disturbance? Sorta, yeah. Impulsivity (promiscuous sex, substance abuse)? Yes and yes. Recurrent suicidal behaviour, self mutilating behaviour, feelings of emptiness, inappropriate and intense anger-the list goes on to identify all the reckless behaviours I have taken part in since I was about 10 years old.

I’ve seamlessly kept aspects of my life a secret to the people around me for a long time now, meticulously creating a caricature of myself based on what others desired me or us to be. I say 10 because I can vividly remember it being the first time I thought to self harm. No one would find out about this until I was suicidal at the age of 13 and my teachers had to step in. (My family had no clue until I was 17.) I don’t remember the exact cause but I can recall enough to understand the magnitude of my pain then. It was a consuming agony that fuelled my boiling blood and I had to release it somehow. I broke a black mirror I bought myself from Dollarama for my junior cubby locker and used the edge of a shattered piece to carve into my skin. Kiera describes one of the the first time she cuts as a moment in which her own flesh wept for her. I watched the blood seep out as though they were tears slowly collecting into beads, percolating through the wound. It gave me a sort of relief that I held onto.

I have always been inspired by art, culture, and people. I was curious about the world and motivated to effect change to many aspects of it. This intrigue enabled me to get involved; to dispense my energies into creating something or doing something that mattered. I volunteered, I travelled, I went to leadership training and was quite involved within my community. In spite of my drive, I found that something in me has always been destructive by nature. Although I did well in school and was civically active, I never felt good enough. My self-destructive tendencies attracted drugs, toxic boys and reckless behaviour throughout my adolescence. My exes were generally a perfect combination of the three. Not that I had genuine relationships with any of them. Kiera says relationships have been like rubber bands in her life. This analogy is perfect to me. As young as I am, I can say that I have had this rubber band effect on most if not all my relationships. “Eventually something breaks and there’s no way to fix it,” she says, and in my experience the breaking point has often been my projection of deep seated insecurities-just enough to lose control of my pain, making me runaway from the relationship before it is stretched apart. ‘Self-sabotaging’ should be my middle name.

Kiera writes that she did all she could to keep herself afloat when she felt as though she was drowning. That is how I’ve conceptualized my life from the age of ten to the seventeen or so. I never felt as though I belonged at home. I was fuelled by the neglect I felt. However, I struggled to create a home for myself upon moving to BC and was immediately crushed by all the unexpected difficulties I encountered. In anticipation for the next chapter, I often expect my life to go perfectly well and find myself constantly crushed by reality. I ache with rage when I let myself down. When I fuck up, no one can be harder on me than myself. My insecurities take possession of me and I revert to emotion mind regardless of the reality of the situation.

As Kiera mentions, “beginnings have never been too hard”. It’s always what happens next and for me, that has always been a struggle. Resiliency is not easy for a borderline; already having a low sense of self and self worth makes for a difficult path in recognizing and achieving what you want. Running away, starting anew, has always been easy for me. I despised the idea of my dysfunctional home. I did all I can to get out. I moved to the west coast and despite all my efforts-I struggled to construct a home for myself, struggled to let go of my dysfunctions and essentially lost hope. When I returned home, I remembered why I had to leave in the first place. I felt like a failure, like I couldn’t belong anywhere. Then I went back to British Columbia and planned a trip to Uganda for the summer. Now, I’m here in Lira and as amazing as it is, I struggle to stay in the moment at every moment of every day.

This is a difficult time for me but it is also very sacred to my core being. Applying myself to the work I do for COHU gives me a great sense of self and self worth. However, my forceful efforts to practice mindfulness on my downtime have been much easier in theory. This diagnosis isn’t permanent, it isn’t a confining label but rather a description of where I’m at. As difficult as it is, it is only a matter of time and commitment towards getting better with the right support. Who knows where I’ll be next! Not me, I’m trying to stay present. As Kiera, the self proclaimed ‘escape artist’ remarked, “the only way out is through”.

Education; Not just a "privilege"

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Thu, 02 Jun 2016 07:23:00 +0000

Universal access to education is the ability of all people to have equal opportunity in education, regardless of their social class, gender, ethnicity background or physical and mental disabilities.

In this digital age of the 21st century, education continues to consistently stay a privilege rather than a right to the human condition. Although accessibility has increased in recent years, being marginalized by locality and ethnicity has dispirited, isolated and disengaged countless individuals. The monopolization of education over the last few years has been assisted by the capitalistic system we have all grown too comfortable with. Regardless of what country you visit, its economic system often thrives on educational institutions in one form or the other. The democratization of literacy that occurred during the enlightenment period encompassed the idealization of knowledge for all, however access stayed limited through a hegemonic placement of economic power. The empowerment of the systemically marginalized has been and continues to be both politically and economically corrupt.

In Canada, education from preschool to university is compulsory. However, many schools still suffer the shortage of funds. The Internet has become a fully integrated part of most western communities however the access and usage of ICTs among minorities continues to be limited by persisting colonial forms. For example, run down schools in Indigenous communities are in dire need of repair and new technology as these schools receive about half of the per-student funding of public schools. In addition, I went to a publicly funded, Catholic high school while a couple of my cousins went to a privately owned, rundown Hindu school. Education may be free but the quality of education is subject to socioeconomic status, region and often race or religion. Beyond Native reserves and high school, those who do not have the fees for university or college are commonly expected to apply for a government loan. The idea of being a poor student, in debt has become the new normal. It is the expected condition prior to entering the white collar, capitalistic world of employment.

The cost of education seems to increase by need. Western societies had adapted the education system to seamlessly fit into capitalisms’ pyramid scheme. In effect, it has created a larger disparity from East to West. As countries in the developing world like Sri Lanka and Uganda, attempt to rehabilitate their communities from the tragedy of war, access to academic resources become more and more limited. Over the years, violence and poverty has struck down the need for education. There are few government schools and even less that provide quality education. Families must learn to thrive under these such circumstances. Most people I’ve met don’t even trust the government enough to apply for loans as the system is unscrupulous. We hear it on those sad commercials with Sara McLachlan singing in the backgrounds and it isn’t far from the truth; most children do not go to school for several reasons. There may not be a school close enough, or they often do not have the money to pay fees. Walking down the street on a “school day”, I witness many children out and about-most of which simply cannot get an education because they must do house chores or earn a living for the family. It isn’t uncommon to deny a child their right to play, education, growth and self-assurance but it is heartbreaking.

Tomorrow, I will be going to Barlonyo, 45 minutes north of Lira. I will be visiting families that have signed their children up for school and yet haven’t shown up. The Early Childhood Development Centre as part of COHU costs $90 thousand shillings per student, that is around $36 dollars in Canadian. This year 80 students signed up and only 35 have actually attended. The shared sentiment has been the value of early childhood education, or rather the issue of cost and whether it would be worth the money spent. The beneficiaries of Children of Hope Uganda have been incredible with supporting many children in the past. Tomorrow, I will see which children need the money in order to attend as no child should be denied the education they desire. As part of our work in Lira, we will be doing everything possible to get the sponsorship required for the children wanting to attend the nursery. The persistence of colonial dynamics and traditional mindsets continue to influence how issues regarding marginalized groups are evaluated by those in power. Many countries require the restructuring of educational infrastructures and it starts with acknowledging the necessity of education.

Cultural Relativism and Global Solidarity

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Tue, 31 May 2016 07:36:00 +0000

Prior to my arrival in Uganda, I fretted over the cultural differences that I would encounter as a foreigner. The multitudinous ethnic backgrounds, beliefs and practices of Canada truly enabled me to become an enigmatic, amalgamation of diverse attitudes. As a young, Sri Lankan woman, born and raised in Scarborough, I never really considered how different I would be if my parents hadn’t fled their homeland to Canada. For instance, I may not have been born. But if I had been brought into the world to witness the atrocities of Sri Lanka’s civil war-I may have not had the same humanitarian outlook I do today. I certainly would not have been allured by piercings, tattoos, cigarettes and western pop culture if I had.

So, upon deciding I would travel to Africa alone, I furiously googled the cultural contrast that I would face. It wasn’t until a couple hours after I arrived, that I felt compelled to ask my predetermined driver, all the questions I had been asking Google. He simply told me it is not common or safe to smoke in public but I should be fine otherwise as I am a foreigner. Since then, I have heard the same sentiment among those I’ve bombarded with the same inquiries. Many have encouraged me not to be shy or commended me for my deference.

It’s all about respect, acknowledging a cultural difference goes along way as it shows a sign of understanding beyond tolerance. Growing up as a Sri Lankan in Canada has actually made the balance of traditional versus western lifestyles easier for me to comply with. I move away from Esther’s place to smoke the same way I moved away from my aunt’s place or decided not to smoke last summer. I’ve found that it is necessary for me to prove how similar we are then not, here. The idealizations individuals have about Canada or America is often heartbreaking to me. To feel so disconnected and disempowered by your government, to see the positive in Donald Trump becoming a president (not that that’s common here)-it’s frankly distressing.

But what about the larger picture of western cultural dominance in effect here? Is it? I’ve come from Canada in order to aid a small organization in Northern Uganda become a self sustaining enterprise. To try and lessen the differentiation, I have had many ongoing discourses on cultural relativism with the people of Lira. Many have echoed the need for foreign investment due to the continuous failure of the country in supporting the people of Uganda.

Speaking to individuals in regards to the Invisible Children, Kony 2012 controversy has been incredibly interesting. I initially understood that people felt disenfranchised by the film as it was a caucasian man from a powerful NGO taking control over the framing of a war that did not effect him. However, I have also heard quite the opposite as many believe the film had the right intentions and platform. I remember the night the film came out, it went viral immediately and I was momentarily ecstatic because I had been in tenth grade, organizing an event in which I would fundraise for Children of Hope Uganda with my Take Action Team. I asked Lorna Pitcher, who founded the registered charity after meeting Esther Atoo, to come in for a day long assembly Pope John Paul. I sold crafts over the next week and we were able to raise $1,440 by selling the jewelry and toys that COHU's income generating activity provided. This money was allocated towards establishing the foundation of what is now called the ECDC nursery school.

Children of Hope Uganda was established as a response to the atrocities of the Lord’s Resistance Army in order to help support the recovery of two war-affected communities in Northern Uganda. Barlonyo was the site of the LRA massacre of 301 villagers on February 21, 2004. COHU assists both Lira and Barlonyo with the reintegration of children who have been marginalized by Africa’s longest running conflict. Sustainable efforts of the organization provide education and income generating activities for war affected youth and their families. However, the resources required to effectively empower these communities are not easily accessible.

War and corruption in politics have created districts in Uganda that depend greatly on foreign investment. When I get on a boda boda to the COHU office, I also pass by quite a few signs that read the names of popular western NGOs. Microfinancing projects have been vital to Uganda's economy in recent years, most vibrant and successful self sustaining enterprises have been founded through foreign support. I am not here to nurture the dependance on foreign involvement but rather learn and serve the organization with whatever skills or resources I have been privileged enough to be equipped with. I believe an equal balance of awareness and curiosity is all that's necessary to breaking the boundaries of cultural differences.

From Vancity to the Pearl of Africa!

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Fri, 27 May 2016 05:37:00 +0000

05/26/2016

It only took four flights, 2 drives, 1 train, 1 shuttle and a few layovers but here I am in Uganda. So here I am, writing this blog two days after my arrival so I can post it for tomorrow. It is currently 8:34pm and I am sprawled on a large, creaky bed with a mosquito net surrounding me. I just ate supper and said good night to Esther; the incredible executive director of Children of Hope Uganda as well as the wonderful mother of three children. I live in Esther’s guest room-small but adequate for the few things I’ve brought along with me. Sara, the house keeper and her children also abide here. Although I am evidently a guest to this home, in just a couple days-I’ve found it one of the most welcoming I have ever lived in if not the most.

My trek here was complicated as mentioned earlier. On my first flight to Calgary, I watched the film How To Be Single which seamlessly sparked my excitement to reconnect with my sense of self as well as my anxiety towards my relationship. Fortunately, I was able to separate my imagined anxiety for the sake of the comedy. After a short layover in Calgary, I was off to London. I sat in the back with three seats to myself, providing me with enough space to spread out my legs with both my carry ons tucked under the seats in front of me. It was an ideal space however, the flight was so cold and I was so close to the chatty air hostesses that sleep was less than ideal. I watched Whitney Cummings’ HBO special and then a couple short films. Then I decided to watch Adderall Diaries-which, if you’re anything like me, you won’t want to watch on a flight. It was unexpectedly close to home in depicting the lingering trauma of abuse. Something I didn’t want to read into although it happened organically. Struggling to stay silent while crying, I decided I had to put all my energy into being mindful of the present moment. For the rest of the plane ride, I sat there trying to look at the triggers I was feeling and accept them as they are instead. With a lot of commitment, a discourse within my mind brought about rational attempts of looking at the experiences in my past that continue to haunt me. In spite of having a panic attack near the end of that film, I found myself proud of the way I handled the overwhelming pain I felt. It could have gotten much worse but it shouldn’t have to and it didn’t.

I thought; “see, I’m already growing up!”-but that would be no surprise. Travelling alone is daunting, especially somewhere foreign and through a number of security in different countries. I arrived in London, England at 10:00am. The Heathrow airport is gargantuan. It took me 20 minutes to get to border control, in another hour I got to the front of the line. The woman who questioned me was a gorgeous, dark skinned Sri Lankan, it took her some time but I got her to really warm up to me with my no filter jokes. Following her directions, I went to baggage claim, grabbed my suitcase, went down to car parking and smoked a cigarette before boarding on Heathrow express to terminal 4. It took a while with all three of my bags, predominantly filled with books, however my next flight wasn’t until 9:55pm. I changed, got refreshed, smoked a few cigarettes and sat down to Skype my sister followed by my friends. Time went by so fast that I was the last to board onto my flight. This would go to Doha where I would have to get onto another flight to Entebbe.

My first Qatar Airlines trip to Doha was quite luxurious, unlike my flight to Entebbe, as expected. They had night time care packs, face towels, refreshment napkins, blankets, and more. After watching that Frankenstein movie with James McAvoy and Daniel Radcliffe, I fell asleep. Upon arrival, I went straight to the smoke lounge which was possibly the most disgusting room I’ve experienced. Cigarette smoke was so confined I felt like puking within 2 minutes. I left soon and sat waiting for the shuttle to take me to my last flight. On the shuttle, an older woman told me about her daughter who had adopted a child in Uganda. I also looked around to observe in a way I normally didn’t. Being alone, tired and surrounded by strangers gave me the confidence, I didn’t know I had, to be genuine with the people who spoke to me. My last flight was not as long as the last two, it gave me enough time to pull off a little nap prior to my arrival. After getting through the line at customs and purchasing a visa, I went into baggage claim. I saw the older woman struggling with her bag and insisted on helping her as I watched my bag pass by me. It was a hell of a trip-I was exhausted on all assets so I struggled carrying her luggages of baby formula and the like. Moses, a prearranged pick up driver welcomed me at the front of the doors witch my name written in skinny block letters on a piece of lined paper. A smile stretched out my cheeks from side to side as I took in my first sight of Africa. Driving from Entebbe to Lira took around five to six hours. Although I was tired, no part of me could reason taking a nap while driving to Northern Uganda. It was gorgeous and fascinating. Individuals, animals, vehicles of all sorts symbiotically worked together. Moses was both very kind, and intelligent. He ensured my safety and kept me company through discussing contemporary issues in society.

We got to Esther’s place around 10pm at night on Wednesday, May 25th. As I got out of the car I was greeted immediately by both Tiger, Esther’s dog, and Lorna, her sweet daughter. Lorna stayed by my side and her excitement upon my arrival gave me the energy to speak to everyone else who had been there to welcome me. The Children of Hope Uganda staff collectively waited for me with dinner prepared. My welcome couldn’t have gotten any better.

Cognitive Distortions of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Sat, 30 Apr 2016 23:52:00 +0000

There was once an existent feeling of comfort that I associated with loneliness; a sense of liberation and independence. I am now realizing that these sentiments have been perceptually intertwined in my idealistic scope of adulthood. Being liberated or independent does not require one to be alone-however I left the place I was born and raised, on my own, for those very reasons. Growing up, it seemed necessary to do things on my own. As someone who indulges in solo adventures, I found that being alone enabled my creativity, and confidence. Doing things alone has brought about many enriching and liberating experiences. However, as I make my way into my 20s, the sense of comfort in being alone has diminished. There is a difference between being alone and being lonely that is only understood when one settles for something less deserved or reaches for that which cannot be attained.

Aloneness seeks freedom in isolation while loneliness is the isolated feeling of an expectation unmet. My thoughts, ideas and desires pertaining to the future are inextricably influenced by the unreturned expectations of the past. I move towards some thing just as much as I am moving away from another. My mind perpetually looks to the future to somehow better the present, enabling a self sabotaging cycle. Moving to the West Coast was a liberating thrill of adolescent independence. I intended to seek freedom in isolation and yet I left home unintentionally holding onto the resentment of my failed expectations. I held onto the romantic notion of a home characterized by the unmet expectation of care and stability. I thought I would start paving my own path of self discovery in the transition however the move only re-established the strong ties I have to what was 'home'-to what was in my past.

Everything about my 'home' was seemingly toxic, however losing the physical intimacy that I once shared with my loved ones has been difficult. I tried running away from the dysfunctions of my past as I clung onto those who inhabited and uniquely depicted 'home' in Ontario. Establishing a new home, in the west coast, has been hard on my own. I crave the support of love and stability but hesitate to accept it from those who are new to my life. So here I am; nostalgic of my unstable past and anxious to pursue my present, in fear of the future.

The cold of December often invites the warmth of others. During a time in which everyone was off school and work to spend time with their loved ones-I spent my time off drinking Merlot, smoking pot, painting and swiping away on Tinder. That is how we 'met'. A quick swipe to the right, a match, a few messages that turned into texts and we were on our first date almost immediately. At the time, I did not understand what I wanted out of the date however that night I felt our connection eluded to something more than a tinder hook up. Never did I think I would fall in love with him.

Holding people at a distance came to be a skill of mine as I prioritized my independence and embraced freedom. I became accustomed to it as a form of protection the way many others have. My serially monogamous boyfriend readily committed to us from the start, the way I desired to, but I have yet to let down my defences and completely trust him into my life. I've made vulnerability a slow process for the two of us by hiding behind cynicism, pride and trying to remain emotionally strong when I am not. I fear the power that attachments have had on me thus far which has in turn complicated a relationship that I am invested in. Moments of hesitation towards new love has hindered my ability receive the care and support I yearn for. Cycles of depression and crippling anxiety have had a detrimental impact on the security of my new relationship. Now, when I'm feeling low or withdrawn, I crave closeness rather than isolation in order to prevent the pervasive manipulation of my mind. My perception is easily skewed by ruminative thoughts; I lose control of sleep, concentration, motivation and irritability. Constant feelings of uncertainty infiltrate my mind as I stay within it.

My boyfriend and I have been together since we met in mid December; I had been post my frenzy of non-committal dating-he had just gotten out of a relationship that "should have ended sooner" than it did. I say "met" as though we gazed upon each others eyes on opposite ends of a glistening ice rink or coincidently bumped into each other, landing under a mistletoe. This is not at all how it went. It might sound harsh but our meeting was not a magical moment in any way.

Although I am still settling into my new home, I have since begun forming new bonds that aid in establishing its stability and comfort. Unreturned love and unmet expectations of my past often distort my perception, cultivating insecurity and self-doubt. However, I fell for my guy intuitively, without noticing the magnitude of our small moments of love. I find myself adoring him, falling in love with his quirks and habitual wit-when I am myself. My fear of commitment, vulnerability, and dependence has not been strong enough to overcome my desire to love and be loved. I have discovered that love is attainable; it does not hinder freedom nor does it imply dependence-it just needs to be allowed in and nurtured.

Cognitive Distortions of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Sat, 30 Apr 2016 23:52:00 +0000

Buzzed; Revealed; Liberated

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Mon, 18 Apr 2016 21:55:00 +0000

I was 13 years old when I decided to take control of my hair. In eighth grade, right before graduation and my highly anticipated valedictorian speech, I decided it'd be a good idea to give my look a little character with a pair of craft scissors. You see, I thought the leg warmers, arm warmers and dark make up I had already been accustomed to wearing wasn't enough-so layers and bangs seemed incredibly appealing. The moment I began chopping strands off of my long, virgin hair, I felt a sense of liberation. Fortunately, the control I had seemed to set me free and I realized how little the overwhelming sensation had to do with my appearance. I say fortunately because I wound up giving myself a mullet. Let's just say, I don't wish to revisit my graduation photos any time soon.

I began experimenting with my hair, against my mother's word, post eighth grade. Something about cutting hair felt innate; I acquired a skill for it over a short period of time. I tried a pixie, a bob, short bangs, side bangs, anything one can name off the top of their head. It wasn't long until I began dying my hair various colours. From pink to green to blue and purple, every style managed to change my look without completely transforming me. Last September I shaved the side of my head, the rest of my hair, thick strands of black and pink, rested slightly below my shoulders. I initially considered it a dramatic look but it somehow wasn't.

At the moment, however, I essentially have a buzz cut.

I find it fascinating how much of a transformation this new look has been. I suppose it's been more of a transformation this time around. For the first time in a long time, I went to into a hair salon and told the barber: "I think I want a buzz cut". The man didn't want to give me a buzz cut, he asked me detailed questions as to how short I had really wanted it. He then proceeded to shave the sides and back of my head, leaving quite a bit on the top to style into "spikes". After he finished chopping random bits off the top of my head, I asked, "do you think you could just buzz most of the top off? You can leave a little more on the top than the sides," I really just wanted most of my hair to be the same length. He did it, despite his disappointment to follow through with a buzz cut. I watched the electric shaver glide around my scalp. I found myself taking deep breaths as it happened. It was an emotional experience unlike any other I had gone through. Until then, what I appreciated about my hair was how easy it was for me to cut it off. But to watch it almost disappear-slowly and at the mercy of another-can be harrowing. Since then, I've realized how much my hair has been covering up.

I had never felt as naked and unattractive as I did that morning when I got back home to really look at myself in the mirror. My scalp is practically flat in the back. My ears are gargantuan for my head. My hair line doesn't seem straight. My sideburns don't seem even. Once the hair around the neck grows, it's game over. And fuck, my face is just out there with the rest of me. How long have I been hiding behind my hair?

I am currently into my fifth day with a buzz cut and I have zero regrets. I see myself in a different light now; I make an effort to strut down the streets unapologetically with a new-found confidence. Responses have been varied but I couldn't care less. I feel as though I have been liberated enough to take control this time around. For the second time in my life, my hairstyle has nothing to do with appearance. For the first time in my life, I see a reflection that's a confrontation of what's been distracted by my colourful hairstyles: me.

Regionally Discrepant Lives

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Sun, 17 Apr 2016 21:41:00 +0000

Onthe 23rd of May I will board on a flight from Vancouver, Canada to London, England. Then I'll pick up my baggage to get onto another flight to Doha, Qatar where it will stop for a short layover before taking me to Entebbe in Uganda. I'll go on a six hour drive after that and arrive in Lira, which will be my home for the next two and a half months as I do volunteer work with a small organization called Children of Hope Uganda.

I first came to know about Children of Hope Uganda (COHU) in December, 2011 when my friends and I went to the Toronto City Hall for a conference. A woman named Lorna, the lovely co-founder of COHU, was selling products from the charity there. After hearing about the organization, and purchasing some jewellery, I took her contact information knowing it would come in handy one day. The next year I organized an event increasing awareness of child soldiers in my high school, Blessed Pope John Paul, with the help of many. Lorna came in to speak of the horror that has occurred in Northern Uganda recently and we sold enough COHU products to raise $1,700 for the children attending the Barlonyo schools. Now, Lorna and I have come into contact again!

The idealistic goal of my stay in Lira is to aid Children of Hope Uganda, a not for profit organization in Northern Uganda, become a more self-sufficient enterprise rather than a charity. The organization helps war affected communities through education and income generating activities. The Lords Resistance Army led by Joseph Kony displaced 1.8 million people in Northern Uganda between 1987 and 2006. Over 100, 000 villagers were killed and 20, 000 children were forced to be child soldiers and sex slaves. COHU assists the recovery and rehabilitation of the children affected by this. Children who have lost their parents to aids or the LRA are supported through education. The work I will be doing for the organization will help raise awareness of this large cause and encourage the empowerment of those affected by the war in Northern Uganda.

Social media and communications skills are vital for smaller organizations to thrive and raise awareness of the larger cause at hand. I will be going to Uganda as an extra hand for the staff of COHU as well as a videographer and social media consultant. I will be working directly with the beaders, basket makers, sewers as well as the nursery and vocational schools' income generating activities. The videos that the organization has asked me to make are measures to commercialize the products they sell in order to increase profits for the labourers. Is this a result of commercialization and globalization or ethnography? I'd like to think it is a healthy mixture of both but I am not aware of what is to come.

Western ethnography and anthropology has had a tumultuous history of disregard to ethics, cultural relativism or the dominance and institutionalization of Western ideologies. Identities have been collected, re-represented and distributed unethically for many years now. The question is; can there be a post-colonial, feminist ethnography? In documenting the stories, practices and lives of the beaders, basket makers, sewers, teachers and students; I will simply provide an open space to convey or communicate what they choose to. Although I will record, capture and distribute; the power lies in the culture, tradition and identity they express.

My work with Children of Hope Uganda will be valuable to COHU but especially: my own self-growth. Travelling alone will be a challenge but it will liberate me into an unknown world with unknown people who have stories and lives that matter as well as lessons to teach me about life. I've been quite a champion at being independent, although, it's always been tough and I've also made a seemingly unreasonable amount of mistakes doing it.

Life's tough, especially when you're 20 years old, struggling to keep up with school and work in addition to the ol' "social life". A part of growing up is realizing that you're the only constant in you're life and you need to make effort to maintain or deepen relationships. I've been feeling very lonely lately but I'm learning that loneliness is a human construct like any other sentiment; dwelling in it won't make circumstances better. I've taken some people in my life for granted and let many step all over me, this summer, genuinely being alone in the Pearl of Africa will provide me with a sense of clarity about life. Or at least I hope it will.

I believe it's vital to clarify that the two and a half months I spend in Lira will be an exchange of knowledge, tradition and care through a convergence of different parts of the world. There exists a continuing geopolitical conflict between humanitarian work and cultural relitivism. As a young Sri Lankan woman, born and raised in Canada, I believe it is important to acknowledge privilege and power relations.

I fear that my travelling to Lira will somehow be seen through the Western gaze. However, the way in which I have conceptualized the work I will be doing is not as an unpaid internship or a voluntourism trip but rather a time for me to travel alone, discover a part of the world I haven't experienced before and do something worthwhile. Discrepant dislocations can be relocated with honest representations.

vulnerability

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Sat, 23 Jan 2016 21:58:00 +0000

One of the dictionary.com definitions for 'like' is "to indicate one’s enjoyment of, agreement with, or interest in".. So it goes like this, when one takes interest in another, they find enjoyment in spending time together so long as it is reciprocated and consensual. Unfortunately, what I've found is that during this process, somewhere along the way, the two become vulnerable with each other. Google defines 'vulnerable' as an individual who is "susceptible to physical or emotional attack or harm". Synonyms for 'vulnerable' include the following: helpless, defenseless, powerless, impotent and weak. Feeling vulnerable at the start of a new relationship can be detrimental to one's self confidence and sense of identity. However, vulnerability is an essential stepping stone into building a trusting bond. Wikipedia defines 'love' as "a variety of different feelings, states, and attitudes that ranges from interpersonal affection to pleasure; it can refer to an emotion of a strong attraction and personal attachment". In my experience, love is indescribable, organic and generally unconditional.

Maybe not just my experience, more so my beliefs.

Western societies have incurred many rules and regulations to dating that seem essential to abide by regardless of sex, gender and sexual orientation. The idea of commitment and monogamy are overtly politicized for the 21st century. People still believe in 'love at first sight' or 'soul mates' even though we are all quite dependent on white lies, tricks-or any of the other "games" we see on TV, in the movies, and of course, in our own lives, -to be loved. It's commonly understood that love is chaotic in the sense that it irrationally tangles individual lives, feelings and emotions. It's also commonly accepted as an everyday problem people encounter.

I have often dated guys with no end goal in mind; I've hated labels for a long time now and I've always been in a constant state of change and renewal. I fear being hurt more than I want to love. I am also afraid to surrender any power or control. So monogamy, commitment and vulnerability has never appealed to me-in the romantic sense-as much as it has now.

My life has often been a roller coaster of emotional highs and lows. The past year, 2015, was quite a low for me as I slowly started to lose my hope, determination and strong will. I came to a point of dejection that left me with very little self worth and self love. I went back home for the summer which made things worse in a lot of ways. I felt myself succumb to the vile, little, depressed and anxiety filled creature I used to be. Once I came back to British Columbia it was time for me to commit to self care. It's a lot easier said than done and it's vital to realize that it takes time.

During this transition, I also met someone new. I've grown to like him so much that I've made many unexpected exceptions in our 'getting to know each other' period. We've gotten too close too fast but who's to say there's a right time for any of that, right?

I haven't entirely gotten rid of the monster within but I've become strong enough to stop it from taking control. I'm learning to love myself and my flaws. But it has been difficult to share that with someone so new.

Maybe that's on my part, maybe I'm still taking my time to get to know him and slowly build a trusting relationship. I don't believe in playing games to attract people, love at first sight or the idea of soul mates. I want to believe in the possibility of healthy relationships between two people who can support each other at their most vulnerable state through communication and understanding. The person you love or like or date should not be your therapist, however, I do think it's important to feel comfortable being at both highs and lows with your significant other. I believe I need him to be able to listen and to understand, somehow intuitively. The only thing is I need to be ready to be vulnerable first.

Relationship; "the way in which two or more concepts, objects, or people are connected, or the state of being connected". In order to be vulnerable I need to be okay with who I am and who I have been in my past. I'm still working on my relationship with myself. Who's to say I can't work on more than one relationship at the same time, right?

It's just that I am scarred from my past in a way he may not understand.

And I am afraid he won't like what he sees when he sees more of it.

As soon as someone probes into my past to see the kind of person I've become, I pull away. At this point in my life, I am an avoider of all things unpleasant when I have the control to be. Opening up, exposing my wounds, gives me an unsettling feeling of insecurity that makes me feel as though I can't be vulnerable. This is going to be interesting.

misc.

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Sat, 23 Jan 2016 13:27:00 +0000

Sometimes I say things out loud and immediately regret. The long hairs on my arms rise as I fuel with momentary embarrassment followed by laughter. I don't learn to laugh at myself, well I might be in the process but what really occurs is a moment to fall in love with. We underestimate the vast and ever changing dimensions of ourselves within. I speak of intersectionality in every paper I write, recognizing the complexity of humanity yet limiting myself to the ordinary order of life. These moments protest the decaying process of life called adulthood. I dwell on these moments, falling in love with the undesired dimensions of myself. Realizing and accepting the randomness of this universe. Hiding behind the ordinary walk of life, walking the talk of societies elites: we are almost herds of sheep being raised on an isolated farm. We have nothing but each other, ordered, conformed. And every time I mess up with conformity, I laugh and store a file in my miscellaneous island of tangy memories.

flightless bird

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Wed, 21 Oct 2015 21:39:00 +0000

I think thoughts as though they have been embedded into the skull of my head, bouncing off intricate details of desires to be desired for a long way ahead. Yearning for what-I do not know, yet these webbing impulses infiltrate my mind for what seems to be the end of despondency. I see in shades of indigo now, my blues deepen softly as if to say 'I am going to be fine' but I do not know what's to come. I am stuck-living inside myself. I can love you, help you, hold you so you don't break; keep you safe. But I cannot fix myself. I covet my individual future as a means of protection from my past; looking forward at what's to come and what is to be done, hoping to flourish my all encompassing desires. But I am immobile.

Swaying and fraying

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Fri, 09 Oct 2015 04:12:00 +0000

I feel lonely

It’s funny, cause I always wanted to be alone

I wanted everyone to just leave me alone

But now, I feel lonely

I used to hope that one day

I will have space

I will have no boundaries

I will have no expectations

I will have no commitments

I used to hope that one day

I will be here

I will be me

And it went as planned

But I’m lonely

I look through the contacts in my phone

To break the silence

And those I want to hear won't answer

They’re not alone

I’m living the life I wanted to live

Being the person I wanted to be

And hating myself for it

I sit on the bus, alone

Listening to the same songs in my head

Those lyrics that sing all day and night

My lips, moving intuitively to those words

As I stare out the windows

At those trees

Dancing to the rhythm of the wind

Those songs, those windows, those lyrics, those trees

No thought in my head

Spaced out as if I were dead

I just feel so lonely

This is not a poem

It barely rhymes
These thoughts, these rambles

They speak to record these times

When life feels too heavy

For me to handle

But I’m capable of carrying through

No matter how fragile

Looking out at the world through those windows

I hate the weak little thing I’ve become

I don’t want to be here

But I have to

I have to be alone

power play

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Thu, 04 Jun 2015 09:21:00 +0000

He sat back and looked at her from behind; sitting on his bed, watching some lame comedy on his Netflix, sipping on his whiskey in his glass. She seemed like she belonged there and he felt like everything about that moment made sense. He laughed whenever she laughed but didn't seem to catch a single joke. He was distracted by the small of her back in her open back, black dress, and the oak tree tattoo on the side of her left thigh. There was something intriguing about her; it made him feel nervous and excited at once.

“Did you not hear what he just said? Are you even paying attention?” she turned back and looked up at him, allowing her hand to rest on his thigh. He smiled, looking down into her dark brown eyes, dilated. “I’m paying attention to you, I can’t focus on the movie,” he said.

She smirked looking down at his hand which had begun caressing the side of her thigh. “I think you’re a little too honest with me,” she whispered into his ear. She knew what she was doing; she knew she had him wrapped up around her finger the moment she met him. He was just so-easy, she couldn’t help it. To her it felt like a board game to usurp kingdoms, conquest territory and gain power or rather, control. That’s what dating had always been to her. Manipulating people into falling for her ‘mysterious’ ways, playing the right amount of games and using the right amount of white lies. It seemed like harmless fun.

His heart raced, he was an adult man, falling for a girl he could not comprehend. On their first date-if it was even a date-he told her there were three kinds of women; women who’d befriend him, women who'd pursue him romantically, and women who’d never associate themselves with him but she could not be so easily sorted into any one of the three. The moment he met her he knew she’d be trouble; she was an incomparable wild card, the romanticized facade of a manic pixie dream girl-quirky, filled with mystery, cute and sexy at the same time.

“I can’t help but say the things I’m thinking when I’m around you-you make me nervous,” he grabbed her chin, then subtly grazed her lips with his thumb as though he was the lead in a Woody Allen film. She moved in closer and lightly gave him a peck, then moved back, knowing he’d inch his way closer. He wanted to start slowly but he couldn’t help it. Their bodies moved intuitively, as his apprehension diminished and she let him take some control. He immersed his fingers into her long, curly hair and pressed his lips up against every inch of her body, working his way down. She felt him between her legs, and pulled him up before he could get any further.

“I want to feel you grow inside my mouth,” she whispered as she disrobed him without patience. She didn’t necessarily enjoy engulfing her mouth around his phallus as much as she did take pleasure in the way her mouth could make men feel. She believed the human body was wonderful in all its ways and wits; blow jobs were a form of sorcery with the way it transformed a man. Every time she looked up at him his entire body seemed to react. Her lips, her tongue, her mouth felt like a supernatural force on him. He didn’t talk often during sex but felt the need to with her. It was like losing his virginity all over again; he didn’t see it coming although he had hoped it would for a long time. He pulled her back up and tore off every garment she had on. He wanted to see her, touch her, kiss her all at once and so he did. He intended to relish every part of her as it was the first and most likely the last time he could. Her legs wrapped around his neck as he propped her hips up. His touch was gentle yet passionate and commanding, unlike anything she had ever experienced before. He cared for her pleasure as much, if not more than he cared for his own.

Her night with him was liberating as she was able to let go of the control she constantly craved. His night with her was intoxicating as he was able to hold onto someone he didn't want to let go.

It was a toxic relationship as most relationships were; she didn’t need him but made herself want him — he didn’t want to but made himself need her.

when night becomes dawn & mornings become late;

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Tue, 28 Apr 2015 07:26:00 +0000

i lay awake

unable to close my eyes,

to drift away;

dreaming of the endless skies

waking up

through shouts and cries

sweat, a clinging sheet

and lips dry

my toes curl

and my fingers tremble

as i follow my silhouette

walking through puddles

rushing wind sweeps past my desiccated skin

each step casts a shadow

and i trail off somewhere i've never been

i take out a pack of smokes

one, or two, and maybe a few more

the mind is restless

heavy and hollow

a couple hours

to the best of my ability

before i hit the shower

and ponder my identity

such a necessity i could not perform

sleep; an essential that had me torn

vulnerability becomes me

the facets of facades shape me;

a reflection of judgements missing a source,

an anxious mind with no remorse

it's not me, it's you

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Fri, 03 Apr 2015 06:18:00 +0000

subtract yourself from this amalgamation

bring me the difference;

the difference is me

take away what can be rid of in this compound you've stirred

just let me go

just let me be

you've got me tightly wound

like a wooden spool of thread

ready to rip apart

at any moment

who are you

just let me go

let me be

i spring up like a cat, startled by your seemingly invisible presence

seeking comfort away from an inconceivable pressure

just

let me go

please

let me be

10 Things I have learned since moving to BC:

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Fri, 03 Apr 2015 06:04:00 +0000

You know nothing.
High school isn’t as long ago as you’d like to believe.
The events in your life do not define you.
Trauma travels with you.
Any form of escapism is a reminder.
Abstinence does not necessarily equate to ‘figuring things out’.
Everyone is addicted to attention.
No one is entitled to you.
Expectations are horrifying; expectations are inevitable.
You too must live.

Time to redefine myself.

noreply@blogger.com (Maneesa Sotheeswaran) — Fri, 13 Jun 2014 01:21:00 +0000

There was this girl in eighth grade. Graduating with a seemingly high self-esteem. She was quite popular among the students and the teachers. She was never like that before but this year was different. She stopped cutting, burning, smoking and drinking. Everyone started to see something in her. And so did she.

One day she took out her hand-me-down laptop that was falling apart and she started making plans. Go to high school. Get over it and move on. Move far far away. To BC. To a place where no one knows you and you can redefine yourself.

And then she went on to grade nine. It was high school. She knew she'd hate it and was already starting to. She had her old friends. And she made some new friends. Didn't know if either sets of friends really liked her. Didn't know if she liked either sets of friends either. So she just went on with life, tried to keep to herself.

Seasons past.

Faces changed.

And it was summer.

She started to volunteer for hours she never collected. Met some new people. Two of whom took an interest in her. And so did she. Took an interest in both of them; two smooth talking boys, one more mysterious then the other. And with lots of alcohol and drugs she barely knew anything about, it didn't really matter which one she liked better. But than one tried to have sex with her when she didn't want to. She ran away and was called a slut by everyone. It wasn't very much fun.

That summer really stained her mind. And well, it was grade 10. She was in IB which was complete bull. She expected her old friends to welcome her with arms spread wide open. But it didn't really work out that way. They spread their arms wide open and but turned away. Like they had to but didn't want to. So she tried to make new friends. And she did. These two girls she barely knew existed. The only problem was that she was having trouble with life and no one to understand. She kept to herself because she didn't have much else. Her friends outside of school had their own shit to deal with. Her sister was going to go crazy and her mother was already there. So she started to drink the alcohol laying around the house and taking pills that weren't prescribed to her. She resorted back to scratching through her skin so she'd watch the blood ooze out the way it used to and she never felt any better.

But then the summer was nearing and her friends outside of school knew something was up. She was going through something and she couldn't find a way out. So during that summer she tried to clean up her act. She started to take care of herself even if her family didn't give a crap.

Grade 11 was the year that really defined it all. No hope for her family, nothing was right or wrong. Her new friends were good friends and her friends outside of school were great. She stopped cutting and burning and drinking and swallowing but she still wanted a break. So she picked up a pack of Belmont's, large, king and found her new thing. Her friends disapproved, her family never knew. It wouldn't make a difference to a family like hers. Each member couldn't get over themselves to care about her. Her sister was back but not at her best. She tried to take care of her but being fucked up herself, did not help. She went through that year with many highs and lows. Her main objective was to just go with the flow. She got that she was loyal and compassionate and sincere. But she learned that a time for her was coming near. You don't have to to take care of anyone but yourself, they said. So she started to follow with a pack of smokes that helped.

That summer was full of laughter despite the fog. Everything cleared up for the most part. It's as good as it'll get, she thought. And she was right.

Grade twelve stayed the same with the highs and lows. She enjoyed many things and regretted more. The best part was her friendships with her four girls that bloomed. And in school, she was pretty cool for a nobody. The year went by slow and yet really fast. She met a new guy that actually might last. Just for the summer though. Because she somehow got into Simon Fraser and was going to finally move far far away.

Now she spends a lot of time thinking. She doesn't know what's going to happen but the summer better be good, she thought. She's moving to BC, like she planned. She's finally gotten over it, she's going to move on.