Hey all,
Just a quick note to say I hope everything is good and joyful; and that I'll be posting new creative writing and other forms or musings after mid-terms!
Don't be shy to leave comments, ideas, suggestions, kudos and such in the "comments box"!
Take care, folks.
Andréa
Monday, February 15, 2010
Honey, you need a more secure career…
(Rewritten on January 17th 2010)
With my gymnast Barbie in one hand, and my grade two report card held firmly in the other, I run around the house in a sparkly spandex leotard, shouting “I’m ready! I’m ready! Where can I join the circus?” My mother, pressed flat against the living room wall to avoid a collision, promptly halts my bee-like circuit and says
“Andréa Lucie Peters, how many times do I have to tell you not to run inside? And take last year’s Halloween costume off right now, or next time I do the wash it’ll disappear for ever!”
Ouch. Not such a good start to the summer vacations. Immediately I stop in my tracks, and can tell that she awaits some sort of brilliant explanation from me. Judging by her raised eyebrows – it better come soon. I rack my brains for something clever to say, but my head is a whirl wind of useless snippets of ideas. Two minutes pass, and I can’t stand the silence anymore so I blurt out something like
“Mama, Mama! I got all A’s on my report card today so that means that I must really be getting smarter and Miss Carter my gym teacher said nobody does somersaults as well as me in all four of her classes! At recess I can stay hanging upside down from the monkey bars the longest and I go the fastest on the swings so will you drive me to a chief clown right now?!!”
I gasp for air, and from mom’s startled expression, I start to wonder if she noticed I forgot to say please… Another long silence goes by before she takes me by the hand, and says these five little words that are never good news “Andréa, we need to talk.”
Triple poop. That’s a definite No for the circus. Slumping in an armchair, I expect the usual introductory talks about how much of a “safety hazard” it is to leave my cow print rubber boots laying in the entryway, or why I should seriously stop watering her plants with orange juice because despite what I think, it does not help them grow. Instead, my mother cuts to the chase and begins throwing around big words like “life opportunities” and “retiring pension plans” in the conversation.
“There’s something you need to understand. Daddy and I work very hard to provide everything you and your brothers need. This means that even if the money we make isn’t that good, it’s at least enough to feed, clothe, and give you a home. We get an honest pay for an honest day of work, you know? But these circus people, they’re not our kind of people, okay?” I don’t really get it, but I think it best at the time to nod anyway while she goes on
“Honey, you need a more secure career. Wanting to join the circus was okay as long as I thought it was just in your imaginary world, but it’s starting to go too far, now. You really need to let that dream go and focus on doing well at school, so you can have a good job when you grow up. Something that’s more important than swinging off a trapeze, alright?”
Frantically, I try to interrupt this horrific talk and say “You don’t understand, Mama! I’m meant to be in the circus, it’s my destiny!” But she doesn’t look convinced.
“Andréa”, she warns, “I don’t want you to talk about joining the circus anymore. Do I make myself clear?” I nod again.
“How about becoming a doctor? Or a lawyer? Think about it, it wouldn’t even matter there that you’re so accident prone. Isn’t that great?!”
Unsure as to why I’m supposed to feel better by hearing this, I start tearing up. Mom pats me on the head and gives me a tissue, saying in a motherly tone how it’s not the end of the world because I won’t even remember it the day I get married; that it’s just a silly dream job anyway.
I hiccup and protest “But Mama, what I am gonna do with my life now, if I can’t join the circus?” She takes off towards the kitchen and says over her shoulder
“Well, you could certainly begin by putting away your rubber boots, don’t you think?”
With my gymnast Barbie in one hand, and my grade two report card held firmly in the other, I run around the house in a sparkly spandex leotard, shouting “I’m ready! I’m ready! Where can I join the circus?” My mother, pressed flat against the living room wall to avoid a collision, promptly halts my bee-like circuit and says
“Andréa Lucie Peters, how many times do I have to tell you not to run inside? And take last year’s Halloween costume off right now, or next time I do the wash it’ll disappear for ever!”
Ouch. Not such a good start to the summer vacations. Immediately I stop in my tracks, and can tell that she awaits some sort of brilliant explanation from me. Judging by her raised eyebrows – it better come soon. I rack my brains for something clever to say, but my head is a whirl wind of useless snippets of ideas. Two minutes pass, and I can’t stand the silence anymore so I blurt out something like
“Mama, Mama! I got all A’s on my report card today so that means that I must really be getting smarter and Miss Carter my gym teacher said nobody does somersaults as well as me in all four of her classes! At recess I can stay hanging upside down from the monkey bars the longest and I go the fastest on the swings so will you drive me to a chief clown right now?!!”
I gasp for air, and from mom’s startled expression, I start to wonder if she noticed I forgot to say please… Another long silence goes by before she takes me by the hand, and says these five little words that are never good news “Andréa, we need to talk.”
Triple poop. That’s a definite No for the circus. Slumping in an armchair, I expect the usual introductory talks about how much of a “safety hazard” it is to leave my cow print rubber boots laying in the entryway, or why I should seriously stop watering her plants with orange juice because despite what I think, it does not help them grow. Instead, my mother cuts to the chase and begins throwing around big words like “life opportunities” and “retiring pension plans” in the conversation.
“There’s something you need to understand. Daddy and I work very hard to provide everything you and your brothers need. This means that even if the money we make isn’t that good, it’s at least enough to feed, clothe, and give you a home. We get an honest pay for an honest day of work, you know? But these circus people, they’re not our kind of people, okay?” I don’t really get it, but I think it best at the time to nod anyway while she goes on
“Honey, you need a more secure career. Wanting to join the circus was okay as long as I thought it was just in your imaginary world, but it’s starting to go too far, now. You really need to let that dream go and focus on doing well at school, so you can have a good job when you grow up. Something that’s more important than swinging off a trapeze, alright?”
Frantically, I try to interrupt this horrific talk and say “You don’t understand, Mama! I’m meant to be in the circus, it’s my destiny!” But she doesn’t look convinced.
“Andréa”, she warns, “I don’t want you to talk about joining the circus anymore. Do I make myself clear?” I nod again.
“How about becoming a doctor? Or a lawyer? Think about it, it wouldn’t even matter there that you’re so accident prone. Isn’t that great?!”
Unsure as to why I’m supposed to feel better by hearing this, I start tearing up. Mom pats me on the head and gives me a tissue, saying in a motherly tone how it’s not the end of the world because I won’t even remember it the day I get married; that it’s just a silly dream job anyway.
I hiccup and protest “But Mama, what I am gonna do with my life now, if I can’t join the circus?” She takes off towards the kitchen and says over her shoulder
“Well, you could certainly begin by putting away your rubber boots, don’t you think?”
Madame Leclerc, why is there a dirty sweater in my cubby?
(Written on Feb 12th 2010)
On a bright morning in the month of May, I was woken up by birds who chirped by my window. As custom, I ran across our shared room to enthusiastically nudge my twin brother on the shoulder, knowing that today just had to be the day.
“David, David! Get up!! The sun’s shining, and we need to do this –now–, before Mom and Dad wake up!” He groaned and looked at his Superman watch
“Andréa, you slime-head, not this again? We still have an hour to sleep before breakfast. Go back to bed, and leave me alone. This is stupid anyway.”
He rolled over and pulled his bedspread over his head. Clearly, he did not understand how important this was, so I repeated while enunciating more, hoping he might have just misheard me the first time. “Go to bed, Andréa. I don’t want to get up now, and I told you already!”
I jumped up and a down a little, pleading,
“but David, it’s now or never and I want my Spice Mice tee-shirt, TODAY!”
“Oh who cares, about the Spice Girls anyways? Superman can fly, at least. All they do is sing and dance around –Yooppi...”
“I care!! I know mom and dad bought me a tee-shirt with grandma’s heritage money; I heard them talking about how guilty and bad they felt about it last week! If we do something really really nice they’ll want to reward us, so that rids them of the guilt, and I get my tee-shirt today! Now get up!”
He studied me carefully before saying,
“Well, what do I get if I help you sweep all of this winter’s sand out of the driveway?”
I beamed, pretty proud that my master plan was starting to work out. “You, David, get the brand new remote controlled car I spotted Dad with in the garage, yesterday. And if you help me convince them it is warm enough out to let us go to school without a coat today, so everybody can see my pretty tee-shirt right when I walk in, I won’t tell you like Joanie Richards and that you got in trouble at school for pushing her at recess.” Suddenly, I had all of his attention.
“ Andreeeeeeaa!” he squealed, “You can’t tell I got in trouble or else I’ll have to wait ages to get my car! And I don’t even like Joanie, girls have major cooties!” I grinned.
“So, it doesn’t really matter if I tell her you like her, then?” I asked.
“Fine. Let’s do this. But you better pinky-swear to not tell on me!”
“Done!” I replied.
As I sat an hour later eating breakfast in my super amazing cool tee-shirt, the news played on the radio. I saw Dad’s thick eyebrows frown and he put down his fork to listen, but I didn’t make anything of it at the time. On my way to the bus stop I dribbled with rocks on the sidewalk, and sang to my purple puppet gloves, ecstatic that today we’d finally get to finish the art project we had started the previous Friday.
Our bus was always early and when I got to school, the classroom was empty aside from my third grade teacher, Madame Leclerc. I dashed to my little wooden locker in the hallway and shoved my lunch box in my cubby, but it fell right back out. So I tried a second time, and it fell back out again. Getting annoyed, I reached in to see what was in the way, and pulled out a light blue sweater that looked gray, and had holes in it. It stunk ten times worst then my bowling shoes, so pinching my nose, I brought it to my teacher and asked
“Madame Leclerc, why is there a dirty sweater in my cubby? I cleaned it on Friday like you told me to, and this is not mine.”
“Hi, Andréa. Nice tee-shirt! Look, I have someone for you to meet.” She walked me to my desk beside which another orange plastic chair had been brought. A scrawny and frightened girl about my height sat in it. Madame Leclerc made us shake hands, but neither of us had spoken yet, so she took the lead.
“Andréa, far far away from here, there’s a country called the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and one of its provinces is called Kosovo”.
I interrupted before she even had the chance to tell me: “Why is she here, Madame Leclerc?”
“You see, Andréa, in Canada we are all of different ethnicities and live in peace, but this little girl’s name is Besa, and her country has been at war for a very long time, now. She’s eight years old too, but she lost her family in bomb explosions last week, and has been chased out of her country by soldiers, along with almost one million more of her country’s people. The military base where your Daddy works has a big aircraft hangar where 300 refugees are sleeping and living right now, until their hospitality requests are processed by our immigration system. They arrived this morning, and the Red Cross thought it best to keep her busy here while they searched for a surviving family member. The older children are in other classes.”
My mouth hung open as I tried to process all this. Only two words stuck out: war, and hangar. “So you need to be nice to her, okay? I’ll be right back”, said Madame Leclerc. I was left alone with her, and I didn’t know what to do. We stared at one another in complete silence for what must have been the longest time ever. Her tee-shirt was ripped, she had odd slippers on that were too big for her feet; and her hair was matted with blood and dirt. I feared if I looked longer, that I would offend her. So I looked down and whispered “bonjour”, but she didn’t answer. I had no idea what language she spoke, so I hesitantly smiled. Though her lips did not move fully upwards, I could see a hint of a smirk at the corners of her mouth.
I tried thinking as hard as I could about what all this meant to me. The only thing I understood of faraway wars was that for six to eight months at a time, I only got to talk to my Dad once every second week on a staticky line, and that this made my mom cry a great deal. My brothers and I knew better then to put up a fuss about taking a bath, or to fake sick to skip school when mom cried. No, during what we called “Dad’s adventures”, we had to complete our homework straight upon our arrival from school, and could only play after dinner if our chores were done and if we remained quiet until bedtime crept around. When Dad wasn’t there, nobody read to me at night. So instead, I often stared out the window wondering how many tied sheets I would have to throw as high up in the sky as I could, in order for it to hook on a star and allow me to climb up to the moon. I thought about how it would feel to sleep in a big and dark hangar with a lot of other people in it, but I couldn’t imagine it.
Pulling me out of my distant thoughts as she gently tugged on my sleeve, Besa pointed to the crayon drawing of my dog I had scotched-taped to my desk the month before. I thought she might want to color, so I took out my construction paper and crayons, and suddenly realized I didn’t feel like working on my art project at all anymore, so I just looked at her as she drew a little figure in a yellow dress in front of a small wooden house, and wrote on top “Home”. She drew several other little figures and two dogs on the picture, and all of them had a big red question mark on top of their heads. Her dark and sunken eyes filled with tears, and my heart tightened. I didn’t know how to speak English or her own language, but I just reached out for her hand and held it tight.
Madame Leclerc eventually came back, and Besa was brought to the school infirmary to bathe and change. Just before lunch time and the end of our science class, Madame Leclerc said to follow her to the hallway, where a Red Cross worker invited us to join the refugee’s barbecue in the school yard. Besa ran to the hot-dog station, looked at them uncertainly, and began wolfing the hot-dogs down even without ketchup on them. Every one else also seemed really hungry, but I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. I sat alone on a nearby playground bench, and watched them all for a long while. Quiet, hatched conversations; filthy hands and clothes, and an overwhelming joy to be here, seemed like the most apparent features in the large group of refugees.
I just wanted to rush home and throw out all of my brothers’ play war action figures because it didn’t seem fun anymore, but I didn’t move. Now I understood why Dad never talked much about his UN peace making and keeping missions. I had never known war was so ugly, and couldn’t believe this was Besa’s daily life. I felt ashamed of sticking out like a sore thumb in my new t-shirt, and wished I had my coat to cover it up. As I sat there, I remember thinking this was the first time I felt so intensely what I later came to know as “despair. ”
The next few days are a blur, as I spent them playing outside with Besa, in class, in the cafeteria sharing my lunch, and at the hangar listening to the elderly refugee’s singing. I had taught Besa a few French words, and she walked around repeating them to everyone even though no one else understood her. It kind of warmed my heart a little that she found joy in doing so. In return, she had drawn several pictures of the war in her country for me, and had taught me two traditional songs. On Friday of the second week after Besa’s arrival, I was cleaning my cubby before heading home for the week-end, and decided to fold my new Spice Mice tee-shirt and hand it to Besa before getting on the bus. I had noticed how much she stared at it in class, and wanted to share even though I knew I would miss it a lot. It just didn’t matter, in comparison to the warm smile my small gesture put on her face.
As I waved her “later” from the school bus’ rear window, her drawing still in my hand, I thought I was lending her my tee-shirt just for three nights so she could feel special too. I thought she would be my friend forever because she was the only one in our whole class who didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t like Sailor Moon, and who didn’t tease me because of my wild hair. I thought we would soon learn each other’s languages to be able to play something else than mime games and drawing interpretations.
When I came back on Monday morning eager to see my friend again, Madame Leclerc took me outside the class and told me Besa had been sent back to her country until our government could find the appropriate papers to prove her identity. I burst into uncontrollable tears at the news, because I knew that wherever she was, Besa was alone and afraid. Madame Leclerc then brought me to the Principal’s office to wait for my Mom to bring me back home. While waiting, I sang one of her songs to my purple gloves, but it brought me no comfort. I wished I had at least gotten to say goodbye.
Ever since, I wonder if she found her family and dogs. I wonder if she was allowed to come back to Canada as a permanent citizen, and I wonder if she remembers me a little bit. I also wonder if someone cared enough about her to clean or replace her dirty sweater, and if she still has my shirt. I wonder if she’s sort of happy, but mostly, I wonder if she’s still alive and safe. I just hope she doesn't remember my disgusting ignorance of her and her people’s brutal reality, prior to my exposure to them. Because I didn’t want her to make her feel like she didn’t belong here, as a result of being too privileged to take interest in other’s misery unless it directly affected me.
Two months later, I learned Dad would have to go over there to help make the peace, and for eight months, I desperately hoped he would see her again. When he came back, Dad told me he had heard from Red Cross officials that Besa had received Brazilian citizenship, and was doing well. But I’ve never had enough courage to ask him for the truth.
On a bright morning in the month of May, I was woken up by birds who chirped by my window. As custom, I ran across our shared room to enthusiastically nudge my twin brother on the shoulder, knowing that today just had to be the day.
“David, David! Get up!! The sun’s shining, and we need to do this –now–, before Mom and Dad wake up!” He groaned and looked at his Superman watch
“Andréa, you slime-head, not this again? We still have an hour to sleep before breakfast. Go back to bed, and leave me alone. This is stupid anyway.”
He rolled over and pulled his bedspread over his head. Clearly, he did not understand how important this was, so I repeated while enunciating more, hoping he might have just misheard me the first time. “Go to bed, Andréa. I don’t want to get up now, and I told you already!”
I jumped up and a down a little, pleading,
“but David, it’s now or never and I want my Spice Mice tee-shirt, TODAY!”
“Oh who cares, about the Spice Girls anyways? Superman can fly, at least. All they do is sing and dance around –Yooppi...”
“I care!! I know mom and dad bought me a tee-shirt with grandma’s heritage money; I heard them talking about how guilty and bad they felt about it last week! If we do something really really nice they’ll want to reward us, so that rids them of the guilt, and I get my tee-shirt today! Now get up!”
He studied me carefully before saying,
“Well, what do I get if I help you sweep all of this winter’s sand out of the driveway?”
I beamed, pretty proud that my master plan was starting to work out. “You, David, get the brand new remote controlled car I spotted Dad with in the garage, yesterday. And if you help me convince them it is warm enough out to let us go to school without a coat today, so everybody can see my pretty tee-shirt right when I walk in, I won’t tell you like Joanie Richards and that you got in trouble at school for pushing her at recess.” Suddenly, I had all of his attention.
“ Andreeeeeeaa!” he squealed, “You can’t tell I got in trouble or else I’ll have to wait ages to get my car! And I don’t even like Joanie, girls have major cooties!” I grinned.
“So, it doesn’t really matter if I tell her you like her, then?” I asked.
“Fine. Let’s do this. But you better pinky-swear to not tell on me!”
“Done!” I replied.
As I sat an hour later eating breakfast in my super amazing cool tee-shirt, the news played on the radio. I saw Dad’s thick eyebrows frown and he put down his fork to listen, but I didn’t make anything of it at the time. On my way to the bus stop I dribbled with rocks on the sidewalk, and sang to my purple puppet gloves, ecstatic that today we’d finally get to finish the art project we had started the previous Friday.
Our bus was always early and when I got to school, the classroom was empty aside from my third grade teacher, Madame Leclerc. I dashed to my little wooden locker in the hallway and shoved my lunch box in my cubby, but it fell right back out. So I tried a second time, and it fell back out again. Getting annoyed, I reached in to see what was in the way, and pulled out a light blue sweater that looked gray, and had holes in it. It stunk ten times worst then my bowling shoes, so pinching my nose, I brought it to my teacher and asked
“Madame Leclerc, why is there a dirty sweater in my cubby? I cleaned it on Friday like you told me to, and this is not mine.”
“Hi, Andréa. Nice tee-shirt! Look, I have someone for you to meet.” She walked me to my desk beside which another orange plastic chair had been brought. A scrawny and frightened girl about my height sat in it. Madame Leclerc made us shake hands, but neither of us had spoken yet, so she took the lead.
“Andréa, far far away from here, there’s a country called the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and one of its provinces is called Kosovo”.
I interrupted before she even had the chance to tell me: “Why is she here, Madame Leclerc?”
“You see, Andréa, in Canada we are all of different ethnicities and live in peace, but this little girl’s name is Besa, and her country has been at war for a very long time, now. She’s eight years old too, but she lost her family in bomb explosions last week, and has been chased out of her country by soldiers, along with almost one million more of her country’s people. The military base where your Daddy works has a big aircraft hangar where 300 refugees are sleeping and living right now, until their hospitality requests are processed by our immigration system. They arrived this morning, and the Red Cross thought it best to keep her busy here while they searched for a surviving family member. The older children are in other classes.”
My mouth hung open as I tried to process all this. Only two words stuck out: war, and hangar. “So you need to be nice to her, okay? I’ll be right back”, said Madame Leclerc. I was left alone with her, and I didn’t know what to do. We stared at one another in complete silence for what must have been the longest time ever. Her tee-shirt was ripped, she had odd slippers on that were too big for her feet; and her hair was matted with blood and dirt. I feared if I looked longer, that I would offend her. So I looked down and whispered “bonjour”, but she didn’t answer. I had no idea what language she spoke, so I hesitantly smiled. Though her lips did not move fully upwards, I could see a hint of a smirk at the corners of her mouth.
I tried thinking as hard as I could about what all this meant to me. The only thing I understood of faraway wars was that for six to eight months at a time, I only got to talk to my Dad once every second week on a staticky line, and that this made my mom cry a great deal. My brothers and I knew better then to put up a fuss about taking a bath, or to fake sick to skip school when mom cried. No, during what we called “Dad’s adventures”, we had to complete our homework straight upon our arrival from school, and could only play after dinner if our chores were done and if we remained quiet until bedtime crept around. When Dad wasn’t there, nobody read to me at night. So instead, I often stared out the window wondering how many tied sheets I would have to throw as high up in the sky as I could, in order for it to hook on a star and allow me to climb up to the moon. I thought about how it would feel to sleep in a big and dark hangar with a lot of other people in it, but I couldn’t imagine it.
Pulling me out of my distant thoughts as she gently tugged on my sleeve, Besa pointed to the crayon drawing of my dog I had scotched-taped to my desk the month before. I thought she might want to color, so I took out my construction paper and crayons, and suddenly realized I didn’t feel like working on my art project at all anymore, so I just looked at her as she drew a little figure in a yellow dress in front of a small wooden house, and wrote on top “Home”. She drew several other little figures and two dogs on the picture, and all of them had a big red question mark on top of their heads. Her dark and sunken eyes filled with tears, and my heart tightened. I didn’t know how to speak English or her own language, but I just reached out for her hand and held it tight.
Madame Leclerc eventually came back, and Besa was brought to the school infirmary to bathe and change. Just before lunch time and the end of our science class, Madame Leclerc said to follow her to the hallway, where a Red Cross worker invited us to join the refugee’s barbecue in the school yard. Besa ran to the hot-dog station, looked at them uncertainly, and began wolfing the hot-dogs down even without ketchup on them. Every one else also seemed really hungry, but I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. I sat alone on a nearby playground bench, and watched them all for a long while. Quiet, hatched conversations; filthy hands and clothes, and an overwhelming joy to be here, seemed like the most apparent features in the large group of refugees.
I just wanted to rush home and throw out all of my brothers’ play war action figures because it didn’t seem fun anymore, but I didn’t move. Now I understood why Dad never talked much about his UN peace making and keeping missions. I had never known war was so ugly, and couldn’t believe this was Besa’s daily life. I felt ashamed of sticking out like a sore thumb in my new t-shirt, and wished I had my coat to cover it up. As I sat there, I remember thinking this was the first time I felt so intensely what I later came to know as “despair. ”
The next few days are a blur, as I spent them playing outside with Besa, in class, in the cafeteria sharing my lunch, and at the hangar listening to the elderly refugee’s singing. I had taught Besa a few French words, and she walked around repeating them to everyone even though no one else understood her. It kind of warmed my heart a little that she found joy in doing so. In return, she had drawn several pictures of the war in her country for me, and had taught me two traditional songs. On Friday of the second week after Besa’s arrival, I was cleaning my cubby before heading home for the week-end, and decided to fold my new Spice Mice tee-shirt and hand it to Besa before getting on the bus. I had noticed how much she stared at it in class, and wanted to share even though I knew I would miss it a lot. It just didn’t matter, in comparison to the warm smile my small gesture put on her face.
As I waved her “later” from the school bus’ rear window, her drawing still in my hand, I thought I was lending her my tee-shirt just for three nights so she could feel special too. I thought she would be my friend forever because she was the only one in our whole class who didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t like Sailor Moon, and who didn’t tease me because of my wild hair. I thought we would soon learn each other’s languages to be able to play something else than mime games and drawing interpretations.
When I came back on Monday morning eager to see my friend again, Madame Leclerc took me outside the class and told me Besa had been sent back to her country until our government could find the appropriate papers to prove her identity. I burst into uncontrollable tears at the news, because I knew that wherever she was, Besa was alone and afraid. Madame Leclerc then brought me to the Principal’s office to wait for my Mom to bring me back home. While waiting, I sang one of her songs to my purple gloves, but it brought me no comfort. I wished I had at least gotten to say goodbye.
Ever since, I wonder if she found her family and dogs. I wonder if she was allowed to come back to Canada as a permanent citizen, and I wonder if she remembers me a little bit. I also wonder if someone cared enough about her to clean or replace her dirty sweater, and if she still has my shirt. I wonder if she’s sort of happy, but mostly, I wonder if she’s still alive and safe. I just hope she doesn't remember my disgusting ignorance of her and her people’s brutal reality, prior to my exposure to them. Because I didn’t want her to make her feel like she didn’t belong here, as a result of being too privileged to take interest in other’s misery unless it directly affected me.
Two months later, I learned Dad would have to go over there to help make the peace, and for eight months, I desperately hoped he would see her again. When he came back, Dad told me he had heard from Red Cross officials that Besa had received Brazilian citizenship, and was doing well. But I’ve never had enough courage to ask him for the truth.
“Feh” #3
(Written on October 12th 2009)
Whoever said booze is a man’s best friend was – lying –. A single look at the empty bottles and the ill-colored lemon slices strewn around me is all I need to assure you the contrary. I say to nobody in particular with a very dry and foul tasting mouth: Tequila, you've done it again, you dirty skank…
Now sprawled out on my car’s back seat, I consult my watch. It is Monday morning and as if waking up in fetal position with a throbbing headache in an unknown parking lot wasn’t awkward enough for starters: my cell phone is dead, and I’m still in Friday night’s elastic party pants. Must I add that my shirt smells like anything except fresh? Sort of mimics the scent of a cross between fish food and old hockey gear, I think. However, I’d have to check to be sure, to tell you the truth.
Greasy McDonalds temptingly creeps up in my mind, and looking in my pockets for some change, all I find to help me piece the week-end together is a crumpled paper with edges fuzzy and frayed. I scrunch my eyes as I contemplate the piece of paper, but the printing is too faded to clearly read out a girl’s number or any other clue indicating my nightly whereabouts. My vision becomes blurry, and I start to distinguish the letters “F..e?...” and “h.” That’s all I get? “Feh”? What does that even mean?!!
Good thing I’m only two hours late for work and am not quitting to become a private investigator, because at this rate, I’ll never find how what the hell happened to me…
Whoever said booze is a man’s best friend was – lying –. A single look at the empty bottles and the ill-colored lemon slices strewn around me is all I need to assure you the contrary. I say to nobody in particular with a very dry and foul tasting mouth: Tequila, you've done it again, you dirty skank…
Now sprawled out on my car’s back seat, I consult my watch. It is Monday morning and as if waking up in fetal position with a throbbing headache in an unknown parking lot wasn’t awkward enough for starters: my cell phone is dead, and I’m still in Friday night’s elastic party pants. Must I add that my shirt smells like anything except fresh? Sort of mimics the scent of a cross between fish food and old hockey gear, I think. However, I’d have to check to be sure, to tell you the truth.
Greasy McDonalds temptingly creeps up in my mind, and looking in my pockets for some change, all I find to help me piece the week-end together is a crumpled paper with edges fuzzy and frayed. I scrunch my eyes as I contemplate the piece of paper, but the printing is too faded to clearly read out a girl’s number or any other clue indicating my nightly whereabouts. My vision becomes blurry, and I start to distinguish the letters “F..e?...” and “h.” That’s all I get? “Feh”? What does that even mean?!!
Good thing I’m only two hours late for work and am not quitting to become a private investigator, because at this rate, I’ll never find how what the hell happened to me…
"Feh" #2.
(Written on October 12th 2009)
The photograph’s camera systematically goes off, and mesmerized I watch all shapes of astonishing legs strutting down the cat walk. In exceptionally outlandish and eccentric hues, shiny sheer fabrics, and haunting patterns, “Feh”- The Collection, has come to life. I can see the disgust and disapproval painted in the spectator’s eyes, and I know from the twitches of their mouths that they absolutely hate it. But at the end of the day, I make the big bucks, so they can just sit it out! Seven years, that it took me, to put this very moment together. The lights are low, the echo of stilettos soft- I haven’t a place to go. Here I am, in this constant state of going nowhere.
From behind the stage I hear the thoughts of my fidgety models: “I can’t believe I’m doing this. What are my parents going to say?” I half chuckle to myself, and deep in my soul, I can assure you it’s something of this nature…. “We worked so hard to raise her well within our meager means, and this is what she’s doing with it?!”
Provocation is a peculiar route to take, in life. But I’m certain that this time it’ll pan out; as soon as these semi functional closed-minded idiots take their heads out of their asses, and find it in their hearts to accept the richness of the challenges it has to offer. No rewards ever come from social loafing like a poor sheep in a vast green field… It’ll all be okay, I can feel it.
The photograph’s camera systematically goes off, and mesmerized I watch all shapes of astonishing legs strutting down the cat walk. In exceptionally outlandish and eccentric hues, shiny sheer fabrics, and haunting patterns, “Feh”- The Collection, has come to life. I can see the disgust and disapproval painted in the spectator’s eyes, and I know from the twitches of their mouths that they absolutely hate it. But at the end of the day, I make the big bucks, so they can just sit it out! Seven years, that it took me, to put this very moment together. The lights are low, the echo of stilettos soft- I haven’t a place to go. Here I am, in this constant state of going nowhere.
From behind the stage I hear the thoughts of my fidgety models: “I can’t believe I’m doing this. What are my parents going to say?” I half chuckle to myself, and deep in my soul, I can assure you it’s something of this nature…. “We worked so hard to raise her well within our meager means, and this is what she’s doing with it?!”
Provocation is a peculiar route to take, in life. But I’m certain that this time it’ll pan out; as soon as these semi functional closed-minded idiots take their heads out of their asses, and find it in their hearts to accept the richness of the challenges it has to offer. No rewards ever come from social loafing like a poor sheep in a vast green field… It’ll all be okay, I can feel it.
Postcard Stories- "Feh" #1
(Written for fun on October 11th 2009)
It’s 11 pm, and I throw the “single’s special” Thai takeout box out. I’m 37, I haven’t had sex in 14 months and three weeks, and the only things to my name are this crummy little home and a graying hamster. Through my bedroom ceiling, I hear my newlywed neighbour’s laughter, accompanied by the custom racket. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Fay and Andrew, who met through a hiking group.
What kind of half-sane person, goes hiking for fun?! It takes a ton of effort, you sweat like a beast, you’re in old jogging pants; and worst of all, you find yourself in what some people call – nature! Needless to say, I don’t get it. Apparently, some Cupid of a Fall tree was whispering through its leaves: “Attention male hikers, all paths lead to Mount Fay”, because here I am, bitter divorcee, once again exuberantly coming face-to-face with their rotted “joie de vivre”.
I loathe admitting it: but I’m a bit jealous of this brunette happiness-owner. Even if she seems to enjoy picking up her dog’s feces on her morning walks way too much for my liking. And then it begins.
“bang. bang. Bang. Bang. Bang!”…
“Ahhhhhh!”
“How’s that? Yeah?”
“A little to the left, Honey… Oh yeah! Just like that!”
This is IT! I can’t cope anymore! As I get up and reach for the broomstick in preparation for my fierce and routine retaliation, overwhelming groans and moans float down to me
“Aaahhhhhh, Faeeeeehhhhhh!”
It’s 11 pm, and I throw the “single’s special” Thai takeout box out. I’m 37, I haven’t had sex in 14 months and three weeks, and the only things to my name are this crummy little home and a graying hamster. Through my bedroom ceiling, I hear my newlywed neighbour’s laughter, accompanied by the custom racket. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Fay and Andrew, who met through a hiking group.
What kind of half-sane person, goes hiking for fun?! It takes a ton of effort, you sweat like a beast, you’re in old jogging pants; and worst of all, you find yourself in what some people call – nature! Needless to say, I don’t get it. Apparently, some Cupid of a Fall tree was whispering through its leaves: “Attention male hikers, all paths lead to Mount Fay”, because here I am, bitter divorcee, once again exuberantly coming face-to-face with their rotted “joie de vivre”.
I loathe admitting it: but I’m a bit jealous of this brunette happiness-owner. Even if she seems to enjoy picking up her dog’s feces on her morning walks way too much for my liking. And then it begins.
“bang. bang. Bang. Bang. Bang!”…
“Ahhhhhh!”
“How’s that? Yeah?”
“A little to the left, Honey… Oh yeah! Just like that!”
This is IT! I can’t cope anymore! As I get up and reach for the broomstick in preparation for my fierce and routine retaliation, overwhelming groans and moans float down to me
“Aaahhhhhh, Faeeeeehhhhhh!”
Dawned Upon
(written on November 23rd 2009, in celebration of Auntie Sasha's 2 year of recovery b-day :)
I know you've seen her eyes
twisted in our most natural mirror;
to observe her reflection there
is to see through our life so much clearer
Do you greet her with a smile?
as her body is mangled to your horror
will she think back for a while,
before her puke hits the bowl’s water?
Stranded by
a darkened night’s embrace
nothing stands between the road
and my pounding feet
Up high in my mind’s sky I reach
with pulsing fingers of thoughts outstretched
a melody made of tangled stars
freely unsealed from my lips,
humming ugly untold truths
A rhythmic pattern undisturbed
the echo lost in time
bullets of sweat drip down,
my burning eyes soul search
the stern silhouettes of passersby’s
Feeling
as if everything and nothing matters
my heart races
in synchrony with the tick of my watch
I’ve got nowhere to be
but everywhere to get to
Nothing to stop me,
shielded from grease glazed billboards
hushed comments in the halls,
a shriveled salad’s stare
scaled numbers dropping
and my husband’s averted glances.
A loose sweater and runners soon thrown on
again brings us to circling thoughts:
nothing to stop me
until the moment
dawn breaks
My mind’s of steel,
but when the sun shines out
daily hassles devour me
and the night’s peaceful space
fills up again
Weighing
too much to bear
it sits on
my frail shoulders,
unmovable
Until dusk’s
calling back out to me
my friend’s concerns I ignored.
One last race, it tells me
Its gentle whisper turns into hated roars
gentle whisper turns most to the most
feared and hated roars
a rocking breeze begins to brew
and follows through to find its mark
Orion with a word,
persuades me to take a blind step in the dark;
a little further, just down this hill, he insists-
how could I refuse?
A rhythmic pattern undisturbed
the echo lost in time
bullets of sweat drip down,
my burning eyes soul search
the stern silhouettes of passersby’s
The rocking breeze seethes some more
and it follows through to find its mark,
Orion swallows the dusk, and thrusts his
fucking dagger straight through my heart
It renders me in the nick of time
more than ever
alive,
and at last able to take
my loved ones lent hands
This was for the best,
as the only thing I had left
for them to find after my death,
was just a small note to say
that I’d been buried at sunset.
I know you've seen her eyes
twisted in our most natural mirror;
to observe her reflection there
is to see through our life so much clearer
Do you greet her with a smile?
as her body is mangled to your horror
will she think back for a while,
before her puke hits the bowl’s water?
Stranded by
a darkened night’s embrace
nothing stands between the road
and my pounding feet
Up high in my mind’s sky I reach
with pulsing fingers of thoughts outstretched
a melody made of tangled stars
freely unsealed from my lips,
humming ugly untold truths
A rhythmic pattern undisturbed
the echo lost in time
bullets of sweat drip down,
my burning eyes soul search
the stern silhouettes of passersby’s
Feeling
as if everything and nothing matters
my heart races
in synchrony with the tick of my watch
I’ve got nowhere to be
but everywhere to get to
Nothing to stop me,
shielded from grease glazed billboards
hushed comments in the halls,
a shriveled salad’s stare
scaled numbers dropping
and my husband’s averted glances.
A loose sweater and runners soon thrown on
again brings us to circling thoughts:
nothing to stop me
until the moment
dawn breaks
My mind’s of steel,
but when the sun shines out
daily hassles devour me
and the night’s peaceful space
fills up again
Weighing
too much to bear
it sits on
my frail shoulders,
unmovable
Until dusk’s
calling back out to me
my friend’s concerns I ignored.
One last race, it tells me
Its gentle whisper turns into hated roars
gentle whisper turns most to the most
feared and hated roars
a rocking breeze begins to brew
and follows through to find its mark
Orion with a word,
persuades me to take a blind step in the dark;
a little further, just down this hill, he insists-
how could I refuse?
A rhythmic pattern undisturbed
the echo lost in time
bullets of sweat drip down,
my burning eyes soul search
the stern silhouettes of passersby’s
The rocking breeze seethes some more
and it follows through to find its mark,
Orion swallows the dusk, and thrusts his
fucking dagger straight through my heart
It renders me in the nick of time
more than ever
alive,
and at last able to take
my loved ones lent hands
This was for the best,
as the only thing I had left
for them to find after my death,
was just a small note to say
that I’d been buried at sunset.
The Dough of Life
(written on September 20th 2009)
“Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise”.
- Still I rise, Maya Angelou
Millions of centuries old,
bottom-rung pittance to the fool
but food of the Gods to the poor;
a recipe whose main ingredient is faith,
grown until tall in breezy fields, and
present every step of the run.
it’s kneaded in every niche of the world,
and is introduced shortly after birth,
as unwavering golden sums,
Just like moons and like suns.
A sustenance best served warm and with love,
rooted at the core of many cultures,
an antidote to hunger and revenge,
a fresh scented start to a day,
risen from lively ashes-
a nurturer's creation built with pride
it emerges with crust on all sides,
the greatness within waiting to be
an ally through thorns, that guides
With the certainty of tides.
Existent in many forms,
rolled, sliced, or bundled-
but nonetheless carried throughout the day,
a promise that my feet must keep going,
each step illuminates the next; into a moral quest-
and as a reckless constellation’s star in the night’s sigh,
I try to elucidate why some people will kill for more,
while others are happy to have only its crumbs;
the path of a colorful kite in the sky
is just like one’s hopes springing high.
In solitude I lit the past with tomorrow’s fuel,
and with it I lit my wildest grains of dreams,
horses rush freely,
into a vast universe of half-chances.
while valiantly testing the limits of unfeasibility,
tears occasionally wipe pain from my profile,
but never strength from my heart,
I think to myself before I lie.
just like yeast in the batter of life-
Still I'll rise.
“Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise”.
- Still I rise, Maya Angelou
Millions of centuries old,
bottom-rung pittance to the fool
but food of the Gods to the poor;
a recipe whose main ingredient is faith,
grown until tall in breezy fields, and
present every step of the run.
it’s kneaded in every niche of the world,
and is introduced shortly after birth,
as unwavering golden sums,
Just like moons and like suns.
A sustenance best served warm and with love,
rooted at the core of many cultures,
an antidote to hunger and revenge,
a fresh scented start to a day,
risen from lively ashes-
a nurturer's creation built with pride
it emerges with crust on all sides,
the greatness within waiting to be
an ally through thorns, that guides
With the certainty of tides.
Existent in many forms,
rolled, sliced, or bundled-
but nonetheless carried throughout the day,
a promise that my feet must keep going,
each step illuminates the next; into a moral quest-
and as a reckless constellation’s star in the night’s sigh,
I try to elucidate why some people will kill for more,
while others are happy to have only its crumbs;
the path of a colorful kite in the sky
is just like one’s hopes springing high.
In solitude I lit the past with tomorrow’s fuel,
and with it I lit my wildest grains of dreams,
horses rush freely,
into a vast universe of half-chances.
while valiantly testing the limits of unfeasibility,
tears occasionally wipe pain from my profile,
but never strength from my heart,
I think to myself before I lie.
just like yeast in the batter of life-
Still I'll rise.
The Diary
The Diary ( written on Dec 8th 2009)
Clumsily strewn on a page, are
the words of my first journal
Entry.
a sentinel waved me through,
the gate of heightened
living.
Leaves of paper roses
awaken by my pen’s irrigation
felt-embedded musical notes,
that wildly rip through silence
just like a child’s carefree laughter,
echoing from a nearby playground.
Seated in a desert garden with
the sun’s warmth on my neck,
as sand is to glass, through careful revision,
my gritty parchment thoughts born of dark ink sputters,
helped me see clearly.
at the terminal of a bound book,
arrival of my mind.
Flipping through the catalogue that is my head
nomadic words traveled around the world.
moved to another place-
by them,
a tempestuous deluge of ideas at sea,
who resemble a stray creature starved for more.
Writing is the punctuation
of our fast-lane lived lives,
and as I began to welcome
my arsenal of sewed opportunities,
letters became the bridges to my heart.
A reflection of a road’s crackled pavement-
yet a treasure hunt
with no certain destination.
Eastings that softly fall off the map,
each line, a new Spring’s unearthing.
Syllables linked together,
their own flowing embrace.
into lofty air-
majestic white birds fly,
whispers of forming words, alive in my ears-
tamed bulls, teased by a handkerchief.
It’s then that I discovered,
a great deep beauty,
called my-
Imagination.
Clumsily strewn on a page, are
the words of my first journal
Entry.
a sentinel waved me through,
the gate of heightened
living.
Leaves of paper roses
awaken by my pen’s irrigation
felt-embedded musical notes,
that wildly rip through silence
just like a child’s carefree laughter,
echoing from a nearby playground.
Seated in a desert garden with
the sun’s warmth on my neck,
as sand is to glass, through careful revision,
my gritty parchment thoughts born of dark ink sputters,
helped me see clearly.
at the terminal of a bound book,
arrival of my mind.
Flipping through the catalogue that is my head
nomadic words traveled around the world.
moved to another place-
by them,
a tempestuous deluge of ideas at sea,
who resemble a stray creature starved for more.
Writing is the punctuation
of our fast-lane lived lives,
and as I began to welcome
my arsenal of sewed opportunities,
letters became the bridges to my heart.
A reflection of a road’s crackled pavement-
yet a treasure hunt
with no certain destination.
Eastings that softly fall off the map,
each line, a new Spring’s unearthing.
Syllables linked together,
their own flowing embrace.
into lofty air-
majestic white birds fly,
whispers of forming words, alive in my ears-
tamed bulls, teased by a handkerchief.
It’s then that I discovered,
a great deep beauty,
called my-
Imagination.
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