Mom, is Heaven a stranger place than the world you left behind?
It's been just over 6 months now since she died.
I don't think I have ever seen 6 months sail past me as quickly as it has - I realize they say that time flies when you get older, and I agree, but like this? As always, I am thinking of my Mom; reminiscing about life as a child following my Mom everywhere she went, mimicing her every move, her laugh, her expressions and sayings.
A few years ago if someone had told me I was a spitting image of her I would have cried 'shenanigans!' But this is a comfort to me today, when my biggest fear is losing what I have left of her. It was hard to go through her clothing and belongings and give them away without protesting and storing everything in my closet - not only do I not have room for all of it, but it cannot be healthy if I am unable to let go of a material object. One thing for sure, I don't know that I am so happy to see my aunt, her sister visiting us wearing everything that once belonged to my Mom. She does not do it on purpose, and if not for lack of clothing, maybe because my mom had better fashion sense! ( ha! she'd smack me for saying that about my aunt and then say I was Bang on!); but it feels as though someone is trying to take her place, and my Mother was solid gold, valuable in every sense of the word and completely irreplaceable.
I have many questions circulating now about where she is... and will I ever see her again. I do not want to hear another soul tell me she is in a better place, and that we will be reunited again one day. That is no comfort to me. But I cannot keep worrying about these details or questions because it only brings upon more doubt and right now I need to feel sure and so I thank God for not making her endure the pain for long and instead I look at her photos and remember her expressions and imagine her laughter - and that is comfort to me.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Sept, 2005
In that place between Young and Old.
So I arrived here today at my 1/4 of a century age - and I get asked the typical question that never fails to leave someone's lips : " Do you FEEL any older?"
No, I do not, but I know that I am and therefore, am absolutely sick with misery.
I have been dreading this birthday for some time now... I don't mean from the day I turned 24, but rather since I returned home from Europe on a backpacking trip two years ago, when after working sometime I realized the debt I incurred in the foreign countries was easier to create than it is to eliminate. And a year later I was nowhere in my progress, if anything I had set myself back even more, because credit cards are good for that, a life-saver one day and a life destroyer the next. I know I am being dramatic, and I have learned a lot this year - in fact what I have been through should have turned my hair white - but it hasn't ( thankfully) but I am wiser now because of it. All around me, my friends and family my age are all getting engaged, married, having kids, buying their houses, their cars and getting a dog on top of it all, while I am now 25 years old and at that age where you should definitely have everything figured out by now - at least.
poop.
oh well, at least there will be cake.
So I arrived here today at my 1/4 of a century age - and I get asked the typical question that never fails to leave someone's lips : " Do you FEEL any older?"
No, I do not, but I know that I am and therefore, am absolutely sick with misery.
I have been dreading this birthday for some time now... I don't mean from the day I turned 24, but rather since I returned home from Europe on a backpacking trip two years ago, when after working sometime I realized the debt I incurred in the foreign countries was easier to create than it is to eliminate. And a year later I was nowhere in my progress, if anything I had set myself back even more, because credit cards are good for that, a life-saver one day and a life destroyer the next. I know I am being dramatic, and I have learned a lot this year - in fact what I have been through should have turned my hair white - but it hasn't ( thankfully) but I am wiser now because of it. All around me, my friends and family my age are all getting engaged, married, having kids, buying their houses, their cars and getting a dog on top of it all, while I am now 25 years old and at that age where you should definitely have everything figured out by now - at least.
poop.
oh well, at least there will be cake.
Oct. 30th, 2005
My Mother's Handwriting
This morning I was going through some old bills I had found bundled up by a blue rubber band - mail still being delivered to my parents house though I had lived in a new place by then. I have since moved again but had yet to open these bills, not a good practice; though I had already paid them I should still LOOK at the bills in careful detail (though it was later instead of sooner - hey but it's better than NEVER! this was obviously not a trait passed down to me by my parents!).
I turned over the brown envelope that had my bank statement enclosed and noticed my mum had written herself a note on there to drop off some medical information at the doctor's office - it was a note written in pencil, slanted and almost running off the paper in haste, but it was my mum's penmanship no doubt, a thing of beauty I always thought and tried to imitate; I was never able to convincingly forge my mum's signature.
I worry sometimes that I will forget about her, the smallest details but I am painfully reminded still how fresh everything is about her when all the memories and feelings and smells come flooding back. I have a photo I took of her last Christmas, she was sitting on the couch by the window with the sun upon her, watching my youngest sister decorate the Christmas tree. This was always Mum's job to decorate, ours was to take it down. This year though she was too ill, unable to stand for too long and in too much pain to move around. She gave up this position easily and watched with a smile on her face, no criticism whatsoever, only pride. She knew after all this would be her last tree and she wanted to enjoy it.
Whenever I look at this photo, it takes me right back to that moment as I sat beside her and held her hand and kissed her cheek. Her skin was dry and paper-thin, her cheek still soft and fuzzy but cooler and her smell is one that hurts me to remember, of sweet perfume but illness close behind. I can feel her tiny frame as I hugged her, ironically as if careful not to squeeze the life out of her instead letting her hug me back with all the strength she could muster. The last time she hugged me that way was the last time she was able to 'mother' me the way she always had, consoling me as I cried and speaking softly in my ear " I know, I know..."; this was the day the doctor told her the chemo treatments would stop and it would only be a matter of weeks left for her to live. I think back now and I am in awe of a woman who after being told she was down to her last days on earth still had it in her to look after her grown adult daughter who was facing the inevitable loss of her mother. When someone should have been consoling her, mothering her, she thought of nothing else but to dry her eldest child's tears. I hope that I continue to find little scraps of her handwriting. The chances are becoming smaller and smaller as my dad and younger sisters move on with their lives and make changes in the home that they once shared with Mum, giving away her belongings and packing away her own old, forgotten bundled up bills and letters with notes jotted in scribbled pencil on the back.
This morning I was going through some old bills I had found bundled up by a blue rubber band - mail still being delivered to my parents house though I had lived in a new place by then. I have since moved again but had yet to open these bills, not a good practice; though I had already paid them I should still LOOK at the bills in careful detail (though it was later instead of sooner - hey but it's better than NEVER! this was obviously not a trait passed down to me by my parents!).
I turned over the brown envelope that had my bank statement enclosed and noticed my mum had written herself a note on there to drop off some medical information at the doctor's office - it was a note written in pencil, slanted and almost running off the paper in haste, but it was my mum's penmanship no doubt, a thing of beauty I always thought and tried to imitate; I was never able to convincingly forge my mum's signature.
I worry sometimes that I will forget about her, the smallest details but I am painfully reminded still how fresh everything is about her when all the memories and feelings and smells come flooding back. I have a photo I took of her last Christmas, she was sitting on the couch by the window with the sun upon her, watching my youngest sister decorate the Christmas tree. This was always Mum's job to decorate, ours was to take it down. This year though she was too ill, unable to stand for too long and in too much pain to move around. She gave up this position easily and watched with a smile on her face, no criticism whatsoever, only pride. She knew after all this would be her last tree and she wanted to enjoy it.
Whenever I look at this photo, it takes me right back to that moment as I sat beside her and held her hand and kissed her cheek. Her skin was dry and paper-thin, her cheek still soft and fuzzy but cooler and her smell is one that hurts me to remember, of sweet perfume but illness close behind. I can feel her tiny frame as I hugged her, ironically as if careful not to squeeze the life out of her instead letting her hug me back with all the strength she could muster. The last time she hugged me that way was the last time she was able to 'mother' me the way she always had, consoling me as I cried and speaking softly in my ear " I know, I know..."; this was the day the doctor told her the chemo treatments would stop and it would only be a matter of weeks left for her to live. I think back now and I am in awe of a woman who after being told she was down to her last days on earth still had it in her to look after her grown adult daughter who was facing the inevitable loss of her mother. When someone should have been consoling her, mothering her, she thought of nothing else but to dry her eldest child's tears. I hope that I continue to find little scraps of her handwriting. The chances are becoming smaller and smaller as my dad and younger sisters move on with their lives and make changes in the home that they once shared with Mum, giving away her belongings and packing away her own old, forgotten bundled up bills and letters with notes jotted in scribbled pencil on the back.
Oct. 20th, 2004
Le autobus
I love mornings like this one today. The air is biting and the wind is blowing and the hum of leaf-blowers seem to haunt us. The air was so startling, smacked me right in the face when I opened the door as I left for work. I could see my breath as it cut through the cold, it seemed to hold its shape, frozen momentarily and then floated away. The birds were floating on the breeze, swooping with each strong gust that blew through the trees and buildings; the wind threatening to pick you up off your feet and bring you along on its journey. Over the skyline, with lights from the buidlings and cars still luminous, the clouds split apart to reveal the appropriately cold blue. I got off the train and waited at the bus-stop. My friend Erin soon joined me and then we were the object of stares as we described odd dreams of mashed potatoes the night before. I am thankful for her odd 'mashed' dreams... they make my own feel somewhat sane, if there is such a thing as sanity ( which I question everyday the more people I meet). We talked about running and getting older and the boys that never cease to stare at us every morning as we wait for our ride. We discussed motorbikes and unicorns, vaseline and paperwork that sat there waiting for us to complete it. John came on our bus with coffee~ once again, none for us. If you come with coffee...you must bring some for all - there is nothing worse than catching a bus jammed full of grumpy people who are upset they have to stand and there is no arm room to spread out their huge financial newspapers, and bringing with your extra body a cup full of aromatic java. You are literally asking for your death sentence. At least, that's how me and Erin see it. Erin starts to nod off....I listen to Natalie Merchant and observe my surroundings. I catch the 'not-so-discreet-over-the-shoulder-lookers' who gaze at the reading materials of the guy sitting beside them; I notice the guy finally catch on, and grumble and pretend to shift his body as he brings his paper closer towards him, shutting the shoulder-gazer off and leaving him no other choice but to read the bus advertisements, that no doubt he has probably read every morning this past week. Over my own music, I can hear that of someone else positioned somewhere towards the back, it's loud and I see the unapproving faces, as though their ears have been violated and subjected to the heavy bass of hip-hop. I turn my volume down a notch, just in case.
The bus empties out...fills up briefly once more and once again, it is empty. Perfect.
My stop is nearing and I dread the mornings where I have to push through people who are absorbed in their books, their songs so loud they can't hear my apology 'but could you just move an inch', the people who try so hard not to spill their coffee or the girls who are so wrapped up in conversations about random dreams, work and boys with fixed eyes. The doors open and once again I am bitten by cold, my nose snatched away by Jack Frost.....and there he is: The leaf-blower...looking cranky as ever, once again blowing the same leaves he attacked just yesterday.
life and its comings and goings.
I love mornings like this one today. The air is biting and the wind is blowing and the hum of leaf-blowers seem to haunt us. The air was so startling, smacked me right in the face when I opened the door as I left for work. I could see my breath as it cut through the cold, it seemed to hold its shape, frozen momentarily and then floated away. The birds were floating on the breeze, swooping with each strong gust that blew through the trees and buildings; the wind threatening to pick you up off your feet and bring you along on its journey. Over the skyline, with lights from the buidlings and cars still luminous, the clouds split apart to reveal the appropriately cold blue. I got off the train and waited at the bus-stop. My friend Erin soon joined me and then we were the object of stares as we described odd dreams of mashed potatoes the night before. I am thankful for her odd 'mashed' dreams... they make my own feel somewhat sane, if there is such a thing as sanity ( which I question everyday the more people I meet). We talked about running and getting older and the boys that never cease to stare at us every morning as we wait for our ride. We discussed motorbikes and unicorns, vaseline and paperwork that sat there waiting for us to complete it. John came on our bus with coffee~ once again, none for us. If you come with coffee...you must bring some for all - there is nothing worse than catching a bus jammed full of grumpy people who are upset they have to stand and there is no arm room to spread out their huge financial newspapers, and bringing with your extra body a cup full of aromatic java. You are literally asking for your death sentence. At least, that's how me and Erin see it. Erin starts to nod off....I listen to Natalie Merchant and observe my surroundings. I catch the 'not-so-discreet-over-the-shoulder-lookers' who gaze at the reading materials of the guy sitting beside them; I notice the guy finally catch on, and grumble and pretend to shift his body as he brings his paper closer towards him, shutting the shoulder-gazer off and leaving him no other choice but to read the bus advertisements, that no doubt he has probably read every morning this past week. Over my own music, I can hear that of someone else positioned somewhere towards the back, it's loud and I see the unapproving faces, as though their ears have been violated and subjected to the heavy bass of hip-hop. I turn my volume down a notch, just in case.
The bus empties out...fills up briefly once more and once again, it is empty. Perfect.
My stop is nearing and I dread the mornings where I have to push through people who are absorbed in their books, their songs so loud they can't hear my apology 'but could you just move an inch', the people who try so hard not to spill their coffee or the girls who are so wrapped up in conversations about random dreams, work and boys with fixed eyes. The doors open and once again I am bitten by cold, my nose snatched away by Jack Frost.....and there he is: The leaf-blower...looking cranky as ever, once again blowing the same leaves he attacked just yesterday.
life and its comings and goings.
Oct. 30th, 2004
Norm, you can't take your grudges to Heaven, but here's some Glenfiddich for the road
Norm finally gave in and left this lonely world of ours. I last saw my good friend about two weeks ago, like I do every saturday. He was in his room, trying to get some sleep. He told me that it was the first time in his life that he ever had to use an inhaler, that his breathing had become too hard for him on his own. That day was also the only day he didn't tell me that he was going to die. I could see that not only was he more weary then I had ever seen him before, but also his mind was in a million places all at once... it was almost impossible to keep a conversation going while staying on topic. He had said some things that had made me uncomfortable, that combined with his deteriorating body and pain, I found it hard to be near him. I didn't visit him the following Saturday, or the next. I was making excuses and I realized that this was not his fault....he had no control over what words came out of his mouth and I had to put that behind me and continue being the only family he had. I went into his room this morning, only to find a new gentleman had moved in. I apologized for intruding on this man and asked a nurse who was cleaning rooms. I asked where Norm was and she told me to hold tight for one sec while she grabbed another nurse. Together they told me that he had passed on about two weeks ago. "He told you, didn't he? That he was going to die?" the one nurse asked me as I broke down from a wave of sadness, guilt and shock all at once. He had told me...almost everytime I saw him. He was the boy who cried 'wolf' one too many times, I had called his bluff almost every week. But as it turned out, our last visit was the one time he never mentioned it. "You should have been notified...are you family?"No. I am just a friend who comes, signs in, visits and leaves quietly. Noone ever knew who I was - except for Norm.So there you have it you cranky old bugger, you're finally out of pain and out of the hell-hole you refused to call 'home' at the lodge. I won't stop looking for your written works done at UBC and in Penticton....and I only hope that you are finally now flying in the Cessna-150 airplane that you knew so well. Thanks for the good laughs Norm. I'll have my sisters play the pipes for you and we'll have some Glenfiddich in your name.
Norm finally gave in and left this lonely world of ours. I last saw my good friend about two weeks ago, like I do every saturday. He was in his room, trying to get some sleep. He told me that it was the first time in his life that he ever had to use an inhaler, that his breathing had become too hard for him on his own. That day was also the only day he didn't tell me that he was going to die. I could see that not only was he more weary then I had ever seen him before, but also his mind was in a million places all at once... it was almost impossible to keep a conversation going while staying on topic. He had said some things that had made me uncomfortable, that combined with his deteriorating body and pain, I found it hard to be near him. I didn't visit him the following Saturday, or the next. I was making excuses and I realized that this was not his fault....he had no control over what words came out of his mouth and I had to put that behind me and continue being the only family he had. I went into his room this morning, only to find a new gentleman had moved in. I apologized for intruding on this man and asked a nurse who was cleaning rooms. I asked where Norm was and she told me to hold tight for one sec while she grabbed another nurse. Together they told me that he had passed on about two weeks ago. "He told you, didn't he? That he was going to die?" the one nurse asked me as I broke down from a wave of sadness, guilt and shock all at once. He had told me...almost everytime I saw him. He was the boy who cried 'wolf' one too many times, I had called his bluff almost every week. But as it turned out, our last visit was the one time he never mentioned it. "You should have been notified...are you family?"No. I am just a friend who comes, signs in, visits and leaves quietly. Noone ever knew who I was - except for Norm.So there you have it you cranky old bugger, you're finally out of pain and out of the hell-hole you refused to call 'home' at the lodge. I won't stop looking for your written works done at UBC and in Penticton....and I only hope that you are finally now flying in the Cessna-150 airplane that you knew so well. Thanks for the good laughs Norm. I'll have my sisters play the pipes for you and we'll have some Glenfiddich in your name.
Nov.1st, 2004
You know your day is off to a bad start when....
You don't wake up to your alarm clock until a half an hour later and the first thing you do when you finally roll out of bed is stub your toe! Ow.
I finally get all my gear together and I leave the house and I realize I need my umbrella - I left it at work on Friday, great, it's pouring too.
AND THEN... if it's not bad enough that I am soaked but I realize that my bus pass to work has expired and I need to get to a store to buy a new one. One good thing though, I had enough coinage to get the proper fare together to board a bus to that store. By the time I get there, I am supposed to be at work in about 15 mins and it usually takes me 45mins -1 hour to get there, RIGHT ON.
So I get to work and as it turns out pretty much everyone else is running late also. But we are stinking busy at work, no time to breathe, only to run round like a chicken with its head cut off. I am in a rut.... I was doing so well keeping myself out of it between Norm's death and my mom's sickness - but now its hitting me. Lord help me change my attitude and my heart - noone else in here needs this. Hmm at least Muzikdude has made me laugh today at his appreciation for Italians and their fine culinary talents.
You don't wake up to your alarm clock until a half an hour later and the first thing you do when you finally roll out of bed is stub your toe! Ow.
I finally get all my gear together and I leave the house and I realize I need my umbrella - I left it at work on Friday, great, it's pouring too.
AND THEN... if it's not bad enough that I am soaked but I realize that my bus pass to work has expired and I need to get to a store to buy a new one. One good thing though, I had enough coinage to get the proper fare together to board a bus to that store. By the time I get there, I am supposed to be at work in about 15 mins and it usually takes me 45mins -1 hour to get there, RIGHT ON.
So I get to work and as it turns out pretty much everyone else is running late also. But we are stinking busy at work, no time to breathe, only to run round like a chicken with its head cut off. I am in a rut.... I was doing so well keeping myself out of it between Norm's death and my mom's sickness - but now its hitting me. Lord help me change my attitude and my heart - noone else in here needs this. Hmm at least Muzikdude has made me laugh today at his appreciation for Italians and their fine culinary talents.
Nov. 2nd, 2004
The train left the station LONG time ago!
Ok so my signing is a bit rusty. I used to sign for a young deaf kid that came to our youth services every couple of weeks or so...and then I would accompany him and his friends to their high school dance where I would ask the girl they were interested in " Will you dance with me?" She would look at me, horrified - " Are you serious?? I don't dance with GIRLS, I like boys"
" Umm yeah so do I, but it isn't me asking, it's HIM, he just can't ask you himself" . Yeah good times.
So this kid stopped coming to church.... his parents aren't christian but they support him in his choices...I guess at the time he lost interest. Well now he wants to come back and he is fervent. And this scares the daylights out of me!!
This past sunday I was telling myself to relax, it won't be another week or so that he comes.... I don't need to sign for anyone - wrong. I had an old friend of mine from school come to check out our church - her old church, the deaf one of the same denomination, she felt was no longer helping her grow. So there I was interpreting for the entire service and worship included. That was 100% the work of God. Out of nowhere I was remembering signs to words I had long forgotten, and the movement was so fluid. At the end of it, I asked my friend if she understood and she happily signed back " YES!!! Thank YOU! I will be back next Sunday!"
oh.
Ok so my signing is a bit rusty. I used to sign for a young deaf kid that came to our youth services every couple of weeks or so...and then I would accompany him and his friends to their high school dance where I would ask the girl they were interested in " Will you dance with me?" She would look at me, horrified - " Are you serious?? I don't dance with GIRLS, I like boys"
" Umm yeah so do I, but it isn't me asking, it's HIM, he just can't ask you himself" . Yeah good times.
So this kid stopped coming to church.... his parents aren't christian but they support him in his choices...I guess at the time he lost interest. Well now he wants to come back and he is fervent. And this scares the daylights out of me!!
This past sunday I was telling myself to relax, it won't be another week or so that he comes.... I don't need to sign for anyone - wrong. I had an old friend of mine from school come to check out our church - her old church, the deaf one of the same denomination, she felt was no longer helping her grow. So there I was interpreting for the entire service and worship included. That was 100% the work of God. Out of nowhere I was remembering signs to words I had long forgotten, and the movement was so fluid. At the end of it, I asked my friend if she understood and she happily signed back " YES!!! Thank YOU! I will be back next Sunday!"
oh.
Nov. 6th, 2004
Cancer is spelled : U-G-L-Y
I hate that word.
It actually LOOKS ugly when I see it. I never realized that before that I favour the appearance of certain words and despise others. Like the word 'HOPE'. It's so beautiful. Everything it stands for, everything it represents is good. It even has an element of beauty to it when I read it. Now how can someone tell me to have HOPE when it comes to cancer? How do I have hope when cancer has taken two of my friends from this world this week alone and now it has decided to bring my mom with it? God is going to have to stick toothpicks to hold my eyes open real wide so I can see the HOPE in this one.
I hate that word.
It actually LOOKS ugly when I see it. I never realized that before that I favour the appearance of certain words and despise others. Like the word 'HOPE'. It's so beautiful. Everything it stands for, everything it represents is good. It even has an element of beauty to it when I read it. Now how can someone tell me to have HOPE when it comes to cancer? How do I have hope when cancer has taken two of my friends from this world this week alone and now it has decided to bring my mom with it? God is going to have to stick toothpicks to hold my eyes open real wide so I can see the HOPE in this one.
Oct. 9th, 2004
I burned the coffee this morning. How do I manage to do stuff like that? I woke up, my throat begging me, practically choking me to get out of bed and go put on a pot of coffee. So I obeyed. Frustrated because making coffee meant that I had to take out the trash that someone else failed to do the night before- and it's raining outside. Spill the old wet grinds on the floor, and we all know how impossible it is to clean that stuff up. It gets everywhere, like sand from the beach when you are wearing pants rolled up to your knees and you attempt to dry your feet before putting your socks and shoes back on, with all the grains of sand stuck between your toes. You get home and unroll the bottoms of your pants, and the sand spills out like water from the Niagara Falls, like pieces of glass from a dropped plate, like a bag of dropped marbles. Years later you are still finding coffee grinds under the fridge.Coffee's finally on, I stumble up the stairs to the computer, happy to see that my yahoos from the Cafe are already awake and waiting. Such a nice way to start the day with warm words from what you have pictured in your heart and mind to be the fresh-scrubbed, friendly loving faces of your dear family on Christian Forums. Hours fly by, my life passed.A strange smell permeates the air a whole floor up. I recognize it instantly. I am reminded of walking into a Starbucks - burnt coffee beans. But it's ok....because my addiction has been replaced by something new that's offered in a cafe, the NEW CAFE that is...and that is the love of my friends here in CF.I am a clutz, things fall when I walk into a room, hence the name 'Calamity-Jane'. Some say I am like a 'Light' because people scatter like cockroaches when I enter the room. Thankfully, that's not the truth, they just don't want to get hurt.My name is Heather, and I am an addict in so many ways.
Oct. 10th, 2004
So much the naked eye thinks it can see....So I am sitting here at my computer desk eating ice cream, listening to Ben Harper and looking at the view outside my window that overlooks a river, expansive mountains and the city that never stops. It's Thanksgiving weekend - and I have SO much to be thankful for. I could be one of those poor folks I see huddled in the doorways of shops on our dowtown streets, that will get shooed away by a blast of cold water once dusk has settled in. I don't have to worry where my head will rest, I do not think twice about whether I will have a meal to eat tonight, let alone a BIG dinner where I sit down with a family who loves me. I live in a country that is safe and a city that is considered to be one of the most beautiful in this world. Our climate is a calm one, rain being more of an annnoyance than a threat. Our homes don't get washed up with floods and do not get ripped apart by tornadoes, one after another. Free speech will not get me killed here, and I can vote. As a woman here in Canada, I have rights, I am a PERSON, a contributing citizen with the chance to get an education so that I may have a career where I can experience equal opportunity. So often I forget all this.Today my pastor asked everyone in the congregation if we have ever thanked the Lord for our bladders. We laughed, naturally; how odd to think up something so small as a bladder. Pastor Kevin reminded us once again, how often we don't know what we have until it's gone, or it simply no longer works. Thank- you Lord for giving me strong bones to carry me, to go on with my daily routine; Thank- You for my sight to see all that exists around me, to find beauty in what others might see as an eye-sore; Thank-You Lord for giving me the hearing I have left to lend an ear to someone who simply needs someone to listen; thank- you for my hands Lord and for this heart that lives in me so that I can be equipped to do the work You have asked of me, to make small differences while I am here.Lord I ask that I never lose sight of all that I am blessed with.
Lame? Maybe...
I am going to be transferring over some old posts from another blog I had written. No, they are not masterpieces by any lengths but they are worth something to me and I would like to have them all in one place - and I know I have silent readers who are going to be scratching their heads " Am I having deja vu of someone else's thoughts?"
Thinking you've been there and read that already? Well you're not crazy, entirely.
Love,
Calamity H. Jane
p.s. Is that even how you spell DAY-ZSA VOO?
Thinking you've been there and read that already? Well you're not crazy, entirely.
Love,
Calamity H. Jane
p.s. Is that even how you spell DAY-ZSA VOO?
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Another RANT!
Ok this time it's not about cell phones, though it's neverending!
This time, however it is about mothers who while they know the kid belongs to them, seem to have forgotten about the MINDING bit.
I use transit to scoot around the city on a daily basis and as a result am subjected to a gong-show on every trip. It never fails, transit is full of clowns the circus left behind.
Someone please explain to me why a mother with a screaming child cannot think of anything else to shut them up but to smother the kid by covering his/her mouth? Is this supposed to stop them from wailing? I don't know about you but if someone was holding me back from oxygen I too would put up one helluva fight!
And next to have mom remove the hand from the kid's mouth ( BREAAAATHE " thanks Mom") only to smack them because he/she bit her! Umm, give your head a shake lady - seriously! Someone oughtta smack you at this point! She may as well have slapped a piece of duct tape across the kid's gob - plenty of nutjobs on the bus, they must be carrying some.
And how about the lady waiting in the bus shelter with me this afternoon on my way home - she's letting her little toddler run around near heavy, speeding traffic. When she finally grabs hold of the kid and calls him a 'little shit', she must have squeezed his arm too tightly because he starts to wail; I figure she must have been injured on the job before because instead of using the hand-across-the-mouth trick she pops a piece of what looked Jolly Rancher candy into his mouth to shut him up. Seems to have worked wonders. But that's getting your kid on the right track early by plugging him full of sugar just to get him to behave, I'm sure he'll be a sweet boy later on in life.
Not long after the kid finished his candy he's up and running again and nearly bails into a man picking up used cigarette butts off the grimy concrete. Now you tell me, how many reasons would the ground be wet in the corner on a hot, dry sunny day? Imagine you are in a downtown core, homeless and drug addicts rule the territory and there aren't too many toilet facilities for their use - why not take your leak in a bus shelter?
Well this kid has got NO BLOODY SHOES ON!!!
Once I got over the fear of this kid stepping on glass shards, I started to feel ill thinking how I refuse to even SIT on the bench for fear of what might be lurking on there and here this kid is practically making out with the dirty bench rolling around on it and then rolling on the concrete.
Clearly this lady is not thinking about the used needles and condoms and poop from all sorts that have once been there, and maybe this was her first time at that particular bus shelter - but it DOESN'T MATTER! Get a CLUE, it's common sense, put some flippin shoes on your child!
I was appalled and I SO wanted to say something, but Big Mama was BIG indeed and she would have killed me, plus it was evident she wasn't in a friendly mood. I decide to leave it and just be near in case Junior decides to take a flying suicidal leap into oncoming traffic.
Another mom shows up with a stroller. She's a young mom and the little girl tucked away in the stroller is freaking out, and yet Mom continues to ignore her child - smart, way to be attentive and act like you actually give a damn( kids remember this stuff, I swear); but then I have to give her the benefit of the doubt, maybe she isn't ignoring her child, maybe she really can't hear the baby screaming, but people across the street are starting to look over and out of nowhere she yanks out the earphones she had jammed in her ears and hollers " SHUT UP!!!"
Perfect, bring your iPod and baby's not there anymore. I'll have to remember that one for the future.
I don't get it - May God help us and save us from this future generation.
This time, however it is about mothers who while they know the kid belongs to them, seem to have forgotten about the MINDING bit.
I use transit to scoot around the city on a daily basis and as a result am subjected to a gong-show on every trip. It never fails, transit is full of clowns the circus left behind.
Someone please explain to me why a mother with a screaming child cannot think of anything else to shut them up but to smother the kid by covering his/her mouth? Is this supposed to stop them from wailing? I don't know about you but if someone was holding me back from oxygen I too would put up one helluva fight!
And next to have mom remove the hand from the kid's mouth ( BREAAAATHE " thanks Mom") only to smack them because he/she bit her! Umm, give your head a shake lady - seriously! Someone oughtta smack you at this point! She may as well have slapped a piece of duct tape across the kid's gob - plenty of nutjobs on the bus, they must be carrying some.
And how about the lady waiting in the bus shelter with me this afternoon on my way home - she's letting her little toddler run around near heavy, speeding traffic. When she finally grabs hold of the kid and calls him a 'little shit', she must have squeezed his arm too tightly because he starts to wail; I figure she must have been injured on the job before because instead of using the hand-across-the-mouth trick she pops a piece of what looked Jolly Rancher candy into his mouth to shut him up. Seems to have worked wonders. But that's getting your kid on the right track early by plugging him full of sugar just to get him to behave, I'm sure he'll be a sweet boy later on in life.
Not long after the kid finished his candy he's up and running again and nearly bails into a man picking up used cigarette butts off the grimy concrete. Now you tell me, how many reasons would the ground be wet in the corner on a hot, dry sunny day? Imagine you are in a downtown core, homeless and drug addicts rule the territory and there aren't too many toilet facilities for their use - why not take your leak in a bus shelter?
Well this kid has got NO BLOODY SHOES ON!!!
Once I got over the fear of this kid stepping on glass shards, I started to feel ill thinking how I refuse to even SIT on the bench for fear of what might be lurking on there and here this kid is practically making out with the dirty bench rolling around on it and then rolling on the concrete.
Clearly this lady is not thinking about the used needles and condoms and poop from all sorts that have once been there, and maybe this was her first time at that particular bus shelter - but it DOESN'T MATTER! Get a CLUE, it's common sense, put some flippin shoes on your child!
I was appalled and I SO wanted to say something, but Big Mama was BIG indeed and she would have killed me, plus it was evident she wasn't in a friendly mood. I decide to leave it and just be near in case Junior decides to take a flying suicidal leap into oncoming traffic.
Another mom shows up with a stroller. She's a young mom and the little girl tucked away in the stroller is freaking out, and yet Mom continues to ignore her child - smart, way to be attentive and act like you actually give a damn( kids remember this stuff, I swear); but then I have to give her the benefit of the doubt, maybe she isn't ignoring her child, maybe she really can't hear the baby screaming, but people across the street are starting to look over and out of nowhere she yanks out the earphones she had jammed in her ears and hollers " SHUT UP!!!"
Perfect, bring your iPod and baby's not there anymore. I'll have to remember that one for the future.
I don't get it - May God help us and save us from this future generation.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
"Can you hear me now? How about now? Can you hear me NOW?
Hang up the phone.
That's right. Hang it up.
Stop hollering, tell your phone-buddy you will have to call them at a better time, press the 'OFF' button and put the damn phone AWAY!!
Oh I'm sorry, did I just upset you?
Well you threw me off the edge the moment I heard your effing phone blaring " My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps. ".
What is wrong with people who cannot seem to function without their cellphone glued to their hands and ears? If enough of us make a ruckus about it, will our medical pay for the procedures to have them surgically removed?
I cannot STRESS how I abso-frickin-lutely hate to have some yahoo hollering away into their phone when they are seated beside me, in front or behind me. I wish I could give them a swift kick to the ass and hurl that phone of theirs into oncoming traffic.
And if I hear that bloody Black Eyed Peas song coming out of someone's purse or briefcase, I am going to give them some junk in the trunk by shoving their phone up their ass!
Alright... thanks for listening.
And thanks for not answering that call.
That's right. Hang it up.
Stop hollering, tell your phone-buddy you will have to call them at a better time, press the 'OFF' button and put the damn phone AWAY!!
Oh I'm sorry, did I just upset you?
Well you threw me off the edge the moment I heard your effing phone blaring " My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps. ".
What is wrong with people who cannot seem to function without their cellphone glued to their hands and ears? If enough of us make a ruckus about it, will our medical pay for the procedures to have them surgically removed?
I cannot STRESS how I abso-frickin-lutely hate to have some yahoo hollering away into their phone when they are seated beside me, in front or behind me. I wish I could give them a swift kick to the ass and hurl that phone of theirs into oncoming traffic.
And if I hear that bloody Black Eyed Peas song coming out of someone's purse or briefcase, I am going to give them some junk in the trunk by shoving their phone up their ass!
Alright... thanks for listening.
And thanks for not answering that call.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Women : For Sale
I have heard it said that many women in the sex industry are there because they want to be; they do not work for anyone but themselves, they do not give a cut of their earnings to a madam or a pimp and they truly enjoy sex, so what better career choice is there?
Well I don't know that I am convinced. I say this because I have never met one woman who has worked in the sex trade who was well-adjusted, and did not experience some sort of physical, sexual or mental abuse at the hands of another while she was a child, who has not been under the influence of drugs and alcohol and did not need to fill the void of self-worth. Is there such a woman who is capable of caring for and loving herself, who is capable of going to university to become a doctor but has instead opted to work in the industry? If there is, I would really like to meet her and hear her story.
Today in Vancouver, prostitution is illegal but activists are busy at work trying to change that. There are some non-profit groups formed to help the workers get off the streets and into rehabilitation and there are support groups lobbying for the rights of sex-trade workers who are demanding safer working conditions and for their line of work to be made legal. And of course the ones arguing for the legalization of prostitution are fighting everyone else.
This is where I feel stuck at the crossroads.
I hate everything that prostitution stands for, and yet it is one of the oldest professions known to mankind, it has always existed and always will. And since I know that prostitution is here to stay as long as humans need to fulfill their sexual needs, why not then make it safer for the workers?
When I see a girl walking the street or working a corner, I cannot help but picture her as a child when she was first hurt, betrayed and violated. I hate that these women have come down such a long and hard road that has only led them to the streets selling their bodies to SURVIVE. For us folk who work nine to five jobs, survival is working paycheque to paycheque, getting by with just enough to pay the bills, feed the kids and have a place to rest our heads at night; for the ones who work the streets, surviving is picking the right 'john', hoping he won't beat and leave her for dead, hoping he will pay her the money owed for the dignity she lost years ago; survival is turning tricks for drugs, drugs that once made her feel good have taken over so much they are all that make her feel human.
I admit that I have a hatred towards men for using these women for their own gratification. I would not consider myself anti-man, but I have a feminist streak in me - how could I not with all that one can witness and read on a daily basis about a raping of yet another woman.
Rape.
I still cannot come to a place in my head where I can rationalize selling one's body as their CHOICE. Sure it may be a yes or no, but control comes from all ends, be it addiction or a pimp or even lack of self-worth, to a point where choosing to have sex or not is no longer an option for her.
I remember several years ago my family and some friends gathered together for a barbecue; my aunt and I had gone up to the store and upon our return all the men were on the front porch looking into a telescope focused on some nearby fields and cheering. I asked what it was they were looking at and was guided to the telescope and told where to look; it was there I saw two men being serviced by a prostitute.
I cannot adequately express what I was feeling, I just knew that I wanted to call the police or run down to those fields myself and beat the two men to a pulp. I was naive and am still naive to think that the police could do anything to stop it; after all these three people were consenting adults and would only be asked to take it somewhere else and I believe the stigma is real that if you sell yourself you are 'less than'.
I did a brief stint of volunteer time at a rape/womens crisis shelter, which oddly enough I had to quit because I did not feel safe alone at night when my shifts were scheduled; I remember the coordinator showing us multiple examples of newspaper clippings and news reports on the murders and missing person cases of average women. These women would be contributors to their communities, mothers, wives and pre-dominantly caucasian and would have a considerate amount of media coverage given to their story; now switch to the somewhat recent story of Robert Pickton, a man currently charged with the murders of 26 women, almost every one of them a worker in the sex trade. Prior to this ghastly discovery no mention was made to the disappearances of these ladies, they weren't given top priority for police to do widespread searching and investigating. Of course the families and loved ones of these 26 women have made it loud and clear how this needs to be changed.
I sent away for a book called "Brothel" by Alexa Albert in hopes of getting a better understanding of the lifestyles and choices of women who choose to be in this profession, and if paying taxes like every working citizen gives them a sense of professionalism. In Nevada prostitution is legal and regulated - the brothels in which these women work are carefully guarded, the visitors screened and protection is taken very seriously. Activists here in Vancouver are lobbying for prostitution to be legalized so that it can be regulated, and the women can work under safer conditions and they can be accounted for. It is this reason and for the missing women of the Downtown Eastside that I want to support legalizing prostitution; while I want safer conditions for the women, I wish prostitution could be done away with, but it will never be and some women will never see anything wrong with it and it is their opinions I want to understand. I received the book in the mail today - maybe it will at least help me get halfway there.
Well I don't know that I am convinced. I say this because I have never met one woman who has worked in the sex trade who was well-adjusted, and did not experience some sort of physical, sexual or mental abuse at the hands of another while she was a child, who has not been under the influence of drugs and alcohol and did not need to fill the void of self-worth. Is there such a woman who is capable of caring for and loving herself, who is capable of going to university to become a doctor but has instead opted to work in the industry? If there is, I would really like to meet her and hear her story.
Today in Vancouver, prostitution is illegal but activists are busy at work trying to change that. There are some non-profit groups formed to help the workers get off the streets and into rehabilitation and there are support groups lobbying for the rights of sex-trade workers who are demanding safer working conditions and for their line of work to be made legal. And of course the ones arguing for the legalization of prostitution are fighting everyone else.
This is where I feel stuck at the crossroads.
I hate everything that prostitution stands for, and yet it is one of the oldest professions known to mankind, it has always existed and always will. And since I know that prostitution is here to stay as long as humans need to fulfill their sexual needs, why not then make it safer for the workers?
When I see a girl walking the street or working a corner, I cannot help but picture her as a child when she was first hurt, betrayed and violated. I hate that these women have come down such a long and hard road that has only led them to the streets selling their bodies to SURVIVE. For us folk who work nine to five jobs, survival is working paycheque to paycheque, getting by with just enough to pay the bills, feed the kids and have a place to rest our heads at night; for the ones who work the streets, surviving is picking the right 'john', hoping he won't beat and leave her for dead, hoping he will pay her the money owed for the dignity she lost years ago; survival is turning tricks for drugs, drugs that once made her feel good have taken over so much they are all that make her feel human.
I admit that I have a hatred towards men for using these women for their own gratification. I would not consider myself anti-man, but I have a feminist streak in me - how could I not with all that one can witness and read on a daily basis about a raping of yet another woman.
Rape.
I still cannot come to a place in my head where I can rationalize selling one's body as their CHOICE. Sure it may be a yes or no, but control comes from all ends, be it addiction or a pimp or even lack of self-worth, to a point where choosing to have sex or not is no longer an option for her.
I remember several years ago my family and some friends gathered together for a barbecue; my aunt and I had gone up to the store and upon our return all the men were on the front porch looking into a telescope focused on some nearby fields and cheering. I asked what it was they were looking at and was guided to the telescope and told where to look; it was there I saw two men being serviced by a prostitute.
I cannot adequately express what I was feeling, I just knew that I wanted to call the police or run down to those fields myself and beat the two men to a pulp. I was naive and am still naive to think that the police could do anything to stop it; after all these three people were consenting adults and would only be asked to take it somewhere else and I believe the stigma is real that if you sell yourself you are 'less than'.
I did a brief stint of volunteer time at a rape/womens crisis shelter, which oddly enough I had to quit because I did not feel safe alone at night when my shifts were scheduled; I remember the coordinator showing us multiple examples of newspaper clippings and news reports on the murders and missing person cases of average women. These women would be contributors to their communities, mothers, wives and pre-dominantly caucasian and would have a considerate amount of media coverage given to their story; now switch to the somewhat recent story of Robert Pickton, a man currently charged with the murders of 26 women, almost every one of them a worker in the sex trade. Prior to this ghastly discovery no mention was made to the disappearances of these ladies, they weren't given top priority for police to do widespread searching and investigating. Of course the families and loved ones of these 26 women have made it loud and clear how this needs to be changed.
I sent away for a book called "Brothel" by Alexa Albert in hopes of getting a better understanding of the lifestyles and choices of women who choose to be in this profession, and if paying taxes like every working citizen gives them a sense of professionalism. In Nevada prostitution is legal and regulated - the brothels in which these women work are carefully guarded, the visitors screened and protection is taken very seriously. Activists here in Vancouver are lobbying for prostitution to be legalized so that it can be regulated, and the women can work under safer conditions and they can be accounted for. It is this reason and for the missing women of the Downtown Eastside that I want to support legalizing prostitution; while I want safer conditions for the women, I wish prostitution could be done away with, but it will never be and some women will never see anything wrong with it and it is their opinions I want to understand. I received the book in the mail today - maybe it will at least help me get halfway there.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
The Way You Keep the World at Bay for Me.
Growing up you cuddled and coddled me; always on the lookout you stopped me before I could bolt out onto the busy street, covered my ears before hurtful words could reach me and checked under my beds for monsters who bit the toes of little girls.
You were overprotective, selective of my friends my clothes and my teachers. Always in front of me, behind me, and beside me with my small hand held in yours you did your best to guide me down the straightest, safest path there could be if you could make it just so. You expected me to do the best I could and to work hard and never to ask for too much. You reprimanded me when I tried to take my own road, scolded me when the choices I made were harmful and consoled me when I lost the biggest person in my life.
Now can you show me how I can save you from yourself? Why was I never taught that sometimes the child becomes the parent and that the ones you know most can become strangers you never knew? Didn't you know we forgave you, and we didn't want you to hurt anymore, that you had been given a second chance to start again - to start fresh, start NEW. Mom accepted your apologies, we accepted yours, now you need to believe that you are worthy to forgive yourself.
We love you Dad, we want you back. Life is too short to be wasted, this one we all know too well.
You were overprotective, selective of my friends my clothes and my teachers. Always in front of me, behind me, and beside me with my small hand held in yours you did your best to guide me down the straightest, safest path there could be if you could make it just so. You expected me to do the best I could and to work hard and never to ask for too much. You reprimanded me when I tried to take my own road, scolded me when the choices I made were harmful and consoled me when I lost the biggest person in my life.
Now can you show me how I can save you from yourself? Why was I never taught that sometimes the child becomes the parent and that the ones you know most can become strangers you never knew? Didn't you know we forgave you, and we didn't want you to hurt anymore, that you had been given a second chance to start again - to start fresh, start NEW. Mom accepted your apologies, we accepted yours, now you need to believe that you are worthy to forgive yourself.
We love you Dad, we want you back. Life is too short to be wasted, this one we all know too well.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Women for Women
Woman on a Cross - anonymous
O God,
through the image of a woman
crucified on the cross
I understand at last.
For over half of my life
I have been ashamed
of the scars I bear.
These scars tell an ugly story,
a common story,
about a girl who is the victim
when a man acts out his fantasies.
In the warmth, peace and sunlight of your presence
I was able to uncurl the tightly clenched fists.
For the first time
I felt your suffering presence with me
in that event.
I have known you as a vulnerable baby,
as a brother, and as a father.
Now I know you as a woman.
You were there with me
as the violated girl
caught in helpless suffering.
The chains of shame and fear
no longer bind my heart and body.
A slow fire of compassion and forgiveness
is kindled.
My tears fall now
for man as well as woman.
You, God
can make our violated bodies
vessels of love and comfort
to such a desperate man.
I am honoured
to carry this womanly power
within my body and soul.
You were not ashamed of your wounds.
You showed them to Thomas
as marks of your ordeal and death.
I will no longer hide these wounds of mine.
I will bear them gracefully.
They tell a resurrection story.
anonymous
O God,
through the image of a woman
crucified on the cross
I understand at last.
For over half of my life
I have been ashamed
of the scars I bear.
These scars tell an ugly story,
a common story,
about a girl who is the victim
when a man acts out his fantasies.
In the warmth, peace and sunlight of your presence
I was able to uncurl the tightly clenched fists.
For the first time
I felt your suffering presence with me
in that event.
I have known you as a vulnerable baby,
as a brother, and as a father.
Now I know you as a woman.
You were there with me
as the violated girl
caught in helpless suffering.
The chains of shame and fear
no longer bind my heart and body.
A slow fire of compassion and forgiveness
is kindled.
My tears fall now
for man as well as woman.
You, God
can make our violated bodies
vessels of love and comfort
to such a desperate man.
I am honoured
to carry this womanly power
within my body and soul.
You were not ashamed of your wounds.
You showed them to Thomas
as marks of your ordeal and death.
I will no longer hide these wounds of mine.
I will bear them gracefully.
They tell a resurrection story.
anonymous
Sunday, April 30, 2006
I says, "Pardon?"
I am hard of hearing.
When you read that, what are your first thoughts?
* poor girl
* Oh, I never knew that...
* Does she wear hearing aids?
* Does she know sign language?
* Oh she must wish and pray for her hearing to be restored....
It is impossible for me to know what many people think - it certainly varies and I meet a great deal of people who pity me but also don't bat an eye and think I want to be able to hear completely. I have met many people in my lifetime who automatically will up the tone of their voice and speak SO LOUDLY just to accomodate - "thank you, but I can hear you just fine. I am an expert lipreader asa result."
I don't consider it a disability because I am able to do just about all things a person with normal hearing could; however I have an inability, an inability to hear my alarm clock sometimes when I am in a deep sleep ( which can be SO STRESSFUL !); I am unable to hear a faint whisper or a soft song being played on a quiet radio.... but I can live without those things. My inability to hear fully has not stopped me from living life; on the contrary it has opened up a whole other side of the world for me - an introduction to Deaf culture and sign language.
Because of my hearing inability I have so many more abilities that hearing people do not, which makes me now ask the question - who is the one with the disability?
I had a young man, a nice and caring but a bit misguided fellow pray over me the other day - he covered my ears with his hands and prayed that the Father would heal me and remove my doubts that the Lord could heal me. I was infuriated. I do not doubt God'spower to heal, I just believe that God has helped me overcome it and never once in my life have I ever felt sorry for myself.
I decided not to stop his prayer but I interrupted him and said what I felt the prayer should have been about - THANKS. I thanked God the Father for my hearing aids and in my own prayer I thanked Him for my inability to hear, for giving me the gift of sign language so I can have a ministry to help others who have zero hearing. I have learned a great amount about myself because of this gift that God has given me of being born with a hearing loss.
I ask all of you before you pray over a person, care enough about them to know their story, how they have overcome obstacles in their lives that their inabilites have caused them, and most importantly, ask them if they truly want to be healed, because what is an affliction to many is consider a prize to others.
When you read that, what are your first thoughts?
* poor girl
* Oh, I never knew that...
* Does she wear hearing aids?
* Does she know sign language?
* Oh she must wish and pray for her hearing to be restored....
It is impossible for me to know what many people think - it certainly varies and I meet a great deal of people who pity me but also don't bat an eye and think I want to be able to hear completely. I have met many people in my lifetime who automatically will up the tone of their voice and speak SO LOUDLY just to accomodate - "thank you, but I can hear you just fine. I am an expert lipreader asa result."
I don't consider it a disability because I am able to do just about all things a person with normal hearing could; however I have an inability, an inability to hear my alarm clock sometimes when I am in a deep sleep ( which can be SO STRESSFUL !); I am unable to hear a faint whisper or a soft song being played on a quiet radio.... but I can live without those things. My inability to hear fully has not stopped me from living life; on the contrary it has opened up a whole other side of the world for me - an introduction to Deaf culture and sign language.
Because of my hearing inability I have so many more abilities that hearing people do not, which makes me now ask the question - who is the one with the disability?
I had a young man, a nice and caring but a bit misguided fellow pray over me the other day - he covered my ears with his hands and prayed that the Father would heal me and remove my doubts that the Lord could heal me. I was infuriated. I do not doubt God'spower to heal, I just believe that God has helped me overcome it and never once in my life have I ever felt sorry for myself.
I decided not to stop his prayer but I interrupted him and said what I felt the prayer should have been about - THANKS. I thanked God the Father for my hearing aids and in my own prayer I thanked Him for my inability to hear, for giving me the gift of sign language so I can have a ministry to help others who have zero hearing. I have learned a great amount about myself because of this gift that God has given me of being born with a hearing loss.
I ask all of you before you pray over a person, care enough about them to know their story, how they have overcome obstacles in their lives that their inabilites have caused them, and most importantly, ask them if they truly want to be healed, because what is an affliction to many is consider a prize to others.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Entertaining Amos
It took him and his family 2 years and 5 months to make their trek by foot from Northeast Canada to British Columbia, and he is still walking today. We found him stumbling along Hastings street, his eyes focused neither ahead or below him, but when they met ours, he smiled.
The three of us, after serving coffee in a place for people to come in off the streets, decided to switch shifts and take a walk around the neighbourhood. We pass by billboards advertising "LOANS for Anything", " Public Washroom/Showers—CLEAN! SAFE! MONITORED!", and people shooting up in plain view. Some of the people we walk past are slumped over, squatting in a corner; others passed out while still standing. They make easy prey for those who are desperate to buy their next fix, if there is anything to take at all.
A throng of people huddled together in an alleyway, taking their time until the cops arrived - we didn't know what was happening, didn't want to stay to find out.
Across the road, a man was fighting with his girlfriend. She had accidentally knocked over their shopping cart full of all the possessions they had, spilling its contents onto the sidewalk.
A transvestite comes barrelling out of the doorway of a bar to our right; with an old man's collar clutched in her hands, she pushes him out and retorts "I am a fierce woman! You should be afraid!". A man waits for us to pass him by before he turns around to urinate on the cement barricade—thank you, Sir.
The neighbourhood swimming-hole—a small lot previously dug up in preparation of another hotel, now abandoned as though the realtor saw no hope and skipped to another part of town. Now it is home to old tires, clothes, swimming ducks, garbage, needles, crackpipes and probably on occasion, bodies of those who could no longer go on living.This is home for the people of the Downtown Eastside, Canada's poorest and most ignored neighbourhood. A pandemic has been declared because most of its citizens are sick with AIDS, and getting sicker by the day. The neighbouring communities don't want these people in their own backyard but want the problem dealt with, so the police have resorted to herding them all into one area to be contained.
Many of the folks who come in for coffee just want to get out of the mayhem. They are people who are honestly trying to climb out of the darkness, who are just looking for a break or for someone to give them the time of day. They don't want to be outside amongst the pandemonium, the death, the drugs and the danger. Here they can find a place to rest, where drugs are not tolerated, fighting is not an issue and when people smile, it is genuine.
I met a young man, so soft-spoken I misunderstood his name; he corrected me immediately, and rightly so. His name is his and not one person can take that from him. I asked where he had just come from expecting a typical answer like most of us would give " Just got off work, went to the bank and did some grocery shopping", but he had just come back from 'the showers' and just came in for some coffee before going to go catch some sleep. His nose runs the whole time and he rubs the sleep from his face as he struggles to stay awake to make conversation with me. I ask him his story, where he was from and why he was here; he came from Montreal 12 years ago to go camping, and circumstances got in the way and he got in trouble and hasn't been able to get out of it since.
" Shit, you know? Shit finds you and it won't let go. You can't get away from it. I try."
He had been sleeping in the hotel next door, tonight he might have to use a shelter, but for now he wants to just rest in the other room while it is available. I shake his hand with both of mine, and I tell him I was glad to have met him, and I wish him the best of luck and tell him never to let the shit get his spirit down. I can tell, he desperately wants to move on; and before he leaves I ask him how old he is.
"I'm only 32."
Stumbling and tripping over his own feet, shoved aside by the people that barrel past him, he points at one of the girls I am with, "Your shoe's untied". She looks down, it is clearly tied up well. He laughs and laughs and doesn't stop, and it's contagious, and we are all laughing.
" Made you look!"
People stop to see what kind of a joke a homeless man and three young girls could possibly share. His face beams and his smile seems to stretch forever. Everything about him is contagious. So endearing with his sparkly eyes and wispy voice with chirps on the ends of his words. We have a hard time understanding him; he's heavily intoxicated, deaf and doesn't have most of his teeth. We say to him "Good evening" and he extends his hand for us to shake it,
"My name is Amos."
He points to his ears to explain to us that he cannot hear so well, and his hand gestures form proper handshapes that once belonged to a person who used sign language but has long forgotten it. I point to both of my hearing aids and sign to him "Us-two, same". So am I.
He tells me he understands my language and he's overjoyed, as if for once, someone might actually really be able to understand what he is telling them.
We carry on in broken English conversation and flying hands about his family's migration across Canada—and one big wrong-turn that found them at the U.S. border. The way he tells his story is positive, "Oops, we walked a thousand miles the wrong way, must turn back." He laughs, again; he thought it was funny. We are in awe of him. He tells us that in the wilderness you use the river and the stars as your guide, but in the city you follow the lit signs. He points to the old vintage WoodWard's 'W' that still burns bright red in the Vancouver skyline. This is his guide at night when he cannot find his way.
The conversation changes to the moon and making trips there, perhaps by walking; we tell him it would take more than 2 years and 5 months for him to get there by foot.
He stops us and begins to cry; and though he has slurred through much of his story, he is never more clear than when he is serious. He begins to tell us of his wife, whom he misses so much. She died of liver cancer. Instinctively I grab hold of his hand and I cry with him—I want to console him. He holds on tightly to my hands and says "Please don't touch me ever again," and the girls tell me to let go of him, but I tell them "He won't let go of me." He pats my hands and looks at them and then his wedding ring catches his eye and he finally frees me. "This is so nice. Just to talk. That's all I want, is conversation. Is that so much to ask?" We invite him in for coffee. He is hesitant but he follows. We tell him there is no catch, it costs nothing, we want to give him coffee and hear his stories.
When we arrive at the building, he stops and tells us that he is staying at the hotel next door. Then we motion to him that we are only beside him and that he can come visit anytime he wishes. He stops. Looks at us in disbelief and then looks up at the sign above our Doorway. "Salvation Army Shelter". He knows this place, he knows what it is about. I start to think he will not come in, but I remind him that this is his choice, that we would LIKE for him to come inside. He obliges.
There are already some people lying asleep on the ground, coming in for cover from the dark and lonely night but the lights are all on and you cannot miss their presence. Amos stops and stares. He is taken by them. Immediately he starts to sob.
"So many.... so many. Just like me."
We are finally able to get him to come in to the room where the decor is classy and swank. The lighting is soft and dim, spotlights on donated artwork, jazz music and us, the baristas ready to serve. We take his order and persuade him to sit down. He likes a four x four coffee, much like the rest: four sugars, four creams. He tells us his stories, stops to sob from time to time and gazes off into his hands. I notice he keeps a small leather pouch on the end of a chain around his neck; I ask him what the contents are and he says he cannot tell me, it is his secret. He becomes silent, takes the pouch into his hand, holds it and cries still. We do not push it, after all we all have secrets that make us cry.
His stories make us cry, just the pain that is so evident in his face will make anyone shed tears. Though, he tells us that he does not cry, a real man NEVER cries - but he wants to, more than anything he wants to be able to cry because he hurts. Everything he has ever been dealt in his life hurts; the beatings from his foster parents when he was a child; the shortcomings he has faced in his lifetime, the prejudice against him for being Aboriginal and an alcoholic. Losing a loved one and becoming homeless. It all hurts.
We sit with him and enjoy his company. He spots a deck of cards on the table and picks them up, sorting through them, thumbing them and caressing their faces as if the King, Queen and Jack were once good friends of his. Amos starts to laugh, a wicked laugh that turns the heads of others around us; we ask what on earth could be found in a deck of cards that would make him laugh so hard?
"I beat the devil - I BEAT him!"
But, he hasn't beat the devil and Amos knows this.
I noticed his jacket has a small emblem on the left side of his chest. It reads "Disciple". I tell him, that indeed that is what he is, a disciple, with the heart he has and the tears he sheds for the plight of others. He smiles, probably not hearing what I was telling him. I wanted to tell him I was entertaining an angel.
It is closing time for the cafe - we shake his hand and we tell him he is welcome here any time. For some reason, his face shows doubt. I walk him back out to the street and he stops once again to cry for the people asleep on the shelter's floor. He tells me he is lucky, he knows how to take care of himself. I direct him to his hotel and I remind him again we are only next door and please come visit. Doubt has been replaced with possibilities, he might come back.
As he leaves I watch him make his way down Hastings, this small man with wrinkles etched into his face; he walks clear past his hotel into the crush of people, ghosts and shells of themselves. He turns around as if to check if I were real if he didn't just dream what happened to him this evening. I wave at him, reassuring him that our conversations were not a figment of his imagination, and he smiles, stumbles and waves back.
Into the night, many years later after his cross country journey, Amos is still walking.
God, bless Amos and give him stars to follow.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
White Girl from the West Makes Decent Curry Dinner!
Ok well nevermind that the biryani mixtured was pre-made and that the mint raita yogourt I used to dip my naan bread came in a jar - and well, the naan bread came in a package of four BUT!!! - the POINT is, is that instead of trekking to an indian cuisine up the street I decided to do the unthinkable, and make it myself!
Dun dun dunnnnnnn....
And the verdict??
Not too shabby!
You see I am a sucker for any east indian dish- not so much the sweet stuff- but everything else is awesome. I LOVE spices of all temps and the different tastes mixed all into one dish, carefully and slowly made. iIt is nothing short of an art really, the girls in India are raised learning how to prepare painstakingly hard meals. Unlike the Western Civilation way where we buy our spices premade and packaged, the women will grow, pick and grind their own, cooking it until it has reached perfection - the ability to cook a FANTASTIC meal is something to be revered.
So much to the dismay of my co-workers who beg me to stick to something unoffensive like veggie samosas and pakoras when I bring in my lunch of curry and tandoori and masala, I continue to eat this most wonderful food, stink up the office space with strong aromas of tumeric, cumin, curry and the like and repulse those with boring taste pallettes.
And I shall continue to crack open the jars of pastes and sauces and sprinkle in my own curry powders and add my own basmati rice, because I do not think I am worthy or skilled enough to learn this art - and quite honestly I am afraid too!
Dun dun dunnnnnnn....
And the verdict??
Not too shabby!
You see I am a sucker for any east indian dish- not so much the sweet stuff- but everything else is awesome. I LOVE spices of all temps and the different tastes mixed all into one dish, carefully and slowly made. iIt is nothing short of an art really, the girls in India are raised learning how to prepare painstakingly hard meals. Unlike the Western Civilation way where we buy our spices premade and packaged, the women will grow, pick and grind their own, cooking it until it has reached perfection - the ability to cook a FANTASTIC meal is something to be revered.
So much to the dismay of my co-workers who beg me to stick to something unoffensive like veggie samosas and pakoras when I bring in my lunch of curry and tandoori and masala, I continue to eat this most wonderful food, stink up the office space with strong aromas of tumeric, cumin, curry and the like and repulse those with boring taste pallettes.
And I shall continue to crack open the jars of pastes and sauces and sprinkle in my own curry powders and add my own basmati rice, because I do not think I am worthy or skilled enough to learn this art - and quite honestly I am afraid too!
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