Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Pink Shirt Day

When I was in Grade Six, my teacher had these two boxes in the classroom – a Warm Fuzzy Box and a Grunch Box. You can probably guess what the Warm Fuzzy box was about – if someone did something nice, someone would write an “anonymous” note and put it in the Warm Fuzzy box so that person would get kudos. The Grunch Box was the opposite – if someone did something hurtful, an “anonymous” note was left in the box and the class would discuss this as a whole. (I put "anonymous" in quotes because of course the teacher knew who put in the notes from our handwriting.)

Today being Pink Shirt Day, which is supposed to be a symbol for all of us to stand up to bullying, it reminded me of these boxes. We all tell kids that they can talk to someone if they feel they are being bullied, cyber, in person, or otherwise. But it’s not always that easy to go talk to someone.

See, this whole Pink Shirt Day is one of those causes that is near and dear to me, for many reasons. I’m a parent of a school-aged child. I’m a parent of a child with autism. I’m a parent of a mixed-race child. And I grew up as an overweight, glasses-wearing, bowl-cut sporting mixed race girl who developed early and was in the top of my class.

Today I’ve seen all types of claims of “Oh I was bullied as a child, so wear a pink shirt.”on my various social media timelines. I saw someone say this who bullied me in high school. And when I say bullied, I don’t mean in the actual way that bullying meant back when I was in high school. This person didn’t shove me into a locker. But they did make fun of how I looked, and the way I danced, and the way my mother dressed me. Today that’s bullying. When I was a kid, that was just part of going to high school. But then again, if this person bullied me, and has now claimed to have been bullied, I guess that chain of perpetuation theory was actually as true back then as it is now. Only somehow I always ended up at the ultimate receiving end of it.

The thing that I’m most worried about, though, as a parent, is making sure that I don’t raise a bully. 

I wrote about having the child who has the temper in the class. The one who throws chairs, swears, melts down, has to be isolated. Now it’s not as bad as it was when he was younger because he is learning coping mechanisms, and he has a wonderful support system at school and at home. No, I don’t let him get away with that. Neither does the school. However, there is just something in him that, when his temper is set off, he sees red and destruction.

But that, my friends, is not bullying. His anger is never targeted at one person. He’s like a windmill. If you happen to be in the way when he’s angry, and you are his age or older (he is in enough control to know you don’t hurt people younger than you), you will be in the path of the rage. But it’s rage. He does not find someone’s weakness, someone’s other ability, someone’s difference, and scream hateful messages at them for those reasons. He is just angry and yells. Until he is able to regroup.  Meltdowns these days last about 10 minutes. If you think about your own temper, it probably lasts about that long as well. But his anger, his seething…none of it is ever caused because he doesn’t like the way someone looks, or he has found someone weaker than him. For this, I am thankful. Because that behaviour pattern is difficult to unlearn. He has never been taught that people who are not like him are inferior or superior. He only knows that everyone is the same. (He knows girls are different but that's for another day...)

So back to the Grunch Box. On Grunch Box day one week, the teacher found only one note inside. It was looking to be a good week. There had been a bunch of warm fuzzies. She opened the note and read, “There are kids in the playground who call me Fatso and Nigger at recess.”

Being the only dark-skinned kid in the class, all eyes were on me.

It had been happening for weeks. It was at lunch when I was off trying to play by myself because my friends had either gone home or were off playing somewhere else. (I liked to do stuff by myself even way back then.) This was something I didn’t tell my parents until the teacher called my mother. It was something that I was too scared to tell anyone because I didn’t think they would understand. Because there was nobody else like me in the whole school.

That afternoon recess, some boys in my class who weren't close friends of mine (in fact, I didn't even know they knew who I was) surrounded the little Aryan-looking kids who had been calling me those names. They were large guys, intimidating. They made the kids stop using a way that would probably get them suspended today. And though I wouldn't encourage that method of problem-solving for my son and/or kids his age these days, those kids never called me names again. And nobody messed with me in elementary school for the rest of my time there. 


That’s why I wear a pink shirt today. That’s why I make my son wear a pink shirt. And that’s why I encourage you to find your own Grunch Box. You’ll be surprised who comes to help you out. 

Thursday, February 19, 2015

I don't want to write right now. Sorry.

I don’t feel like writing anything.

This isn’t writer’s block. It isn’t laziness. It isn’t even exhaustion. I just don’t feel like writing.

Ever get that? When you just don’t feel like doing the one thing that gives you the most satisfaction in life? If you said no, you’re lying. Or you’re young. Or you haven’t really found that one thing yet.

And it’s not that I don’t feel like doing anything thing, either. I feel like watching these candles flicker. I feel like eating six gigantic bags of Cheetos. I feel like watching the remaining two seasons of Breaking Bad I have yet to watch on Netflix, and then possibly starting another series  - Game of Thrones - that everyone tells me I’d better watch or my existence on this planet will be meaningless.

Not that it already isn’t. I mean, if I did feel meaningful, I’d write, right?

That’s the problem. I don’t feel like being meaningful. Or symbolic. Or narrative. Or even talking about what’s going on in my head or putting it out there or anything.

I’ve felt this way before. Where all I wanted to do was nothing. Not work. Not write. Not listen to music. Nothing. Just watch television and let it go in the eyes and out the ears. 

It was ten years ago. Right now. This moment was when it started.

No response to treatment. Waiting it out. Spending all day in a room playing cards and trying to eat and carry on like everything was normal. Just another day. Like it was just a broken leg or something.

Then they send you home because, well, you’re just sitting around, and really, to sit around all day and wait for something requires an incredible amount of strength. Try it. It does. And for that, you need rest.

But you can’t sleep. And you can’t do anything productive, constructive, creative, or, well, anything at all, really. Just watch television. Reading requires brain power. Gaming requires temperament that you don’t really want to have at that moment. So it’s couch, flake, TV.

You kinda fall asleep but you don’t really. And it was at that moment that, in some weird aligning of the  universe, the channel I had it on started to show The Crow.

You can call it a coincidence. You can call it clever programming. You can call it scheduled by the powers that be in the longform license. But for a channel to show The Crow on a cold, February night at 1AM is a little more than serendipity or a well-timed goth cliche. 

For you see, The Crow was the first movie I saw by myself just before I met my husband, which was about ten years prior to that February. There’s a voiceover at the beginning of The Crow that goes like this: 

People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right.

Right after I watched that voiceover, the phone rang. They called us back to the hospital. So we could say goodbye.

So no, I don’t feel much like writing tonight. Because in about two hours from now, it will be exactly ten years since I answered the phone. In these past ten years, I haven't thought as much about that night and that phone call as I have this past week. But it's that time. It's past the break even point. The letting go is done and gone. But tonight, this night, and this day tomorrow, my heart will be a little belaboured. So it's just not a good time for me to write. 

Friday, February 13, 2015

The Silver Linings of Friday the 13th

I had originally started this as a Facebook status post, but then realised, it was way too long. So hello again, blog. 

In the every cloud has a silver lining file for Friday 13 February 2015:

1. My car, after starting on the first try this morning after being out in -30C weather overnight, did not start again on the second try. After walking to Canadian Tire in the cold (a 2km walk) to buy a portable charger, I brought it home only to find the charger was defective. Luckily my neighbour was coming home from his night shift and had jumper cables, and got my car started so I could drive back to Canadian Tire and exchange the $50 portable charger for $20 booster cables;

2. Because I now had a boost, I was able to drive over an hour to get to the cemetery to visit my late husband's grave and spend a bit of this weekend with him, which was the objective of the day. I left the car running, and didn't spend as long as I would have liked but long enough to not linger;

3. I had booked the car in for an oil change with the dealership because they had a wicked coupon offer. At the dealership, the car battery lost its charge (probably from the amount of times they need to turn a car over during an oil change), and boosted the car. Luckily my real mechanic is only a 3 min drive away from the dealership. I pull in the car, he says he can change the battery for me with only a $20 surcharge above the battery cost.

4. I have a 2007 Saturn Vue V6 with a Honda engine. Because of this, everything is not where nor what it should be when people look at my GM-built car. Because it's a Honda engine inside of a GM vehicle, the battery is a custom size, and he didn't have any in stock. He is making his dude rush a battery to him tomorrow, still charging me the same price, and coming in on the weekend (he doesn't normally work Saturdays, and it's a long weekend) to set me up.

5. My son's favourite teacher at daycare is leaving. Today was his last day. My son woke up crying this morning because he was so sad. Then I made him walk in the cold to daycare. I was expecting full meltdowns all day but instead, he was as good as gold, and the last thing he said to his teacher was "The daycare will never be the same without you."

6. After we get home, the garage door decides to malfunction. We unplugged the opener and have manually closed the door.

So, what are these silver linings, because really, this sounds like a miserable day. And yes, it was. Everything that could go wrong, did. I have no cash left until I get paid again. I didn’t eat breakfast until we took my son to dinner at McDonald’s.

Here are the silver linings:
  •  My car stalled out at home and at the dealership. Had I just driven off this morning when it first started, it probably would have stalled at the cemetery, which, if you don’t know, is in the middle of nowhere in Vaughan and 90 minutes from anyone I know with booster cables;
  • I got $30 back from Canadian Tire; 
  • It was sunny and cold; not blistery, wintry, and treacherous;
  • My mechanic could have totally hosed me for a new battery; instead, he checked with 5 suppliers, and even tried to fit a generic battery inside the car so I could be up and moving. He could have also rushed the order and it would have cost me an extra $100 plus taxes (because I’m using debit); instead, he has the guy delivering on a Saturday, which is a normal business day for the supplier and thus no extra charges. And even if the battery doesn’t come in tomorrow, it’s the weekend, and Valentine's Day, and as a single person, I’m not going anywhere I don’t have to go;
  • My son had every right to be angry and upset with the world. Instead, he chose to leave his teacher and himself with good memories. And at the end of the day spoke his heart, which he does on occasion, and always during a grand and/or special one;
  • My garage door works better off the stupid opener than it ever did using that thing. Sure, the wind is going to blow it open now, but hey, didn’t we all live with that in the 70s before they made these stupid electric openers? Plus, electricity savings. Just like when I stopped using my dishwasher;
  • I got to do the one thing I had to do today, no matter what factors there were that seemed to want to prevent me from going, and that one thing took place without grand incident; and
  • I am able to sit in my house on a day like today and vent about all of this knowing that my son is well-fed, warm, and safe.
-       So yeah, there are fucked up days where the world is neither Yin nor Yang. The choices are: let the mess bury you and bring you down, trample you and take your life away; or while the mess continues to fall, keep digging up towards the light, even with bloody, scraped fingers losing their nails and specks of metal flying into your eyes. Because if you look for the light, you will see it. And no situation, good, bad, happy, sad, despondent or euphoric, is ever permanent.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Remembering Valentine's Day


We treat memories like treasures. We hold onto them so we can share them, but the really special ones or the really painful ones we share with very few. As if keeping them a secret make them worth more overall than the ones we readily share.

I am as guilty of that as anyone, and probably even more so. I may blather on about things, but there are very few precious memories that I share with the world. Part of it has to do with me being a very public private person. I can talk about anything and everything that has happened to me, up to a point. There are things that I keep in my recesses (as I suppose we all do) for various personal reasons. 

Things I have shared with few people, if any at all.

Today it hit me that these memories are going to be lost. Memories that I haven’t shared with anyone. But given that my grandmother had Alzheimer’s, and both my father and my mother have suffered strokes, every year I grow older is a year I grow closer to possibly losing these little treasures I hold so dear.

So indulge me for a bit if I write them down here, and share them with you. Humour me if I go off track. But I want to be able to go back one day, when I’m in The Home and believing that John Taylor from Duran Duran is my husband and his dad is David Bowie and we all have dinner together twice a week, three times on Sunday, and read about this young lady whose heart seems heavy yet familiar.

Februarys are tough months for me. They weren’t always. I used to be a big proponent of Valentine’s Day. I bought little cards for my friends, then co-workers, and baked goods and ate cinnamon hearts until my tongue felt like it was falling off. I went all mushball when I was partnered up and adored being catered to on February 14th. When I was married, my husband, the chef, would always make sure I had some of his special chicken liver pate on that day (because it was  my favourite thing on earth that he made, chocolate commitment cake be damned), even if he was called into work. I never wanted him  to buy flowers on that day, never wanted chocolates that he didn’t make on that day, and we never went to dinner on that day. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, they say. A lot of knowledge made us more creative about how we approached each other on Valentine’s Day.

Except on Valentine’s Day 2005.

It was a Sunday. I hung out with my husband inside for most of the day, because that’s what you do when the person you love is in the hospital on February 14. I had to work the next day, and I had to go home and look after our dog. Paul had worked hard to get better, and was going to be released from the hospital that week so he could continue his recovery at home. We were trying to figure out all of the supports and equipment he would need at our apartment to be able to cope and manage. I remember being at home and trying to figure out what kind of food I should be buying for the week, as well as trying to sort out what I should be having for dinner, when I got a delivery at my door.

It was a bouquet of flowers.

I wondered who in their right mind would spend that kind of cash on February 14, and I started to get upset. I thought they were from my mother, until I opened the card. Inside had my husband’s handwriting, shaky because of the strength it took him to hold a pen and write, with his pet name for me, and a simple “Love, …” salutation.

I knew his mother had helped to arrange for the flowers. I knew that she had probably thought of putting the entire package together for me. But I also knew the effort it took him to write that message in the card. And my heart sank.

It was the last gift he ever gave me while he was here. Six days later he would leave us.

So if you were wondering why I don’t like Valentine’s Day, why I deflect this day with cynical humour, faux pining away about not having a date or flowers or candy, now you know. After reading this, you can probably guess why I never want any gifts on this day ever again, regardless of my relationship status. (My ex, who, like most of my family, also suffers from a brain disorder, tended to forget that he shouldn’t bring me flowers on February 14. On those occasions where he did buy flowers, it was when he handed them to me, he would realise what he had done.)

This Valentine’s Day starts a countdown of sorts. This year will be ten years since Paul passed away. It’s also a demarcation point. Once this year is over, I will have gone past the break-even point; this year evenly splits the years that he was in my life versus the time after he left my life.

Moving on doesn’t mean throwing away the pain of memory or experience. Some things never leave.
But it’s what you do to get through those times that helps you for when the next time the pain comes around. Holding onto these memories, keeping my silence about Valentine’s Day to the majority of the world, and still trying to be polite, all of that just made me tighten the grip around my grief. And that is not what he nor anyone else would have wanted. Most importantly, it’s not what I want to do. Anymore.

Thursday, February 5, 2015

“How can a cooking date with a chef go wrong?”



Tonight I was watching Masterchef Junior with my son, because it’s his favourite show, and there was a part where Gordon Ramsay was trying to match his daughter Matilda up with one of the contestants. She turned to him and said, “I’m not going to marry a chef!” His response to his daughter, “What’s wrong with marrying a chef?” Her reply, “You’re a nutter.”

A few days ago on Twitter, during a mini conversation with some friends, one of whom used to manage a restaurant (coincidentally she’s also Scottish like Gordon Ramsay), I told her that, not only was I in awe of the fact that she had handled a professional kitchen, but I had been married to a chef and would tell her about the cooking date we had that almost ended us before we began. During that conversation, someone asked, “How can a cooking date with a chef go wrong?”

If you’ve known me for longer than a decade, you probably know this story already. It’s an easy one for me to recount in person. It’s easy to show my expressions on my face and inflect my voice. I think that’s a key part of the story that I’ve never been able to write down. I’m going to try once again to do it here.

In 1994, I met this young chef who was getting ready to go to the Stratford Chefs School (long before it would be a staple of Food Network Canada). I was a vegetarian at the time, fending for myself, so I knew how to do more than boil water. In fact, I enjoyed cooking, which was something he appreciated.

He had been asked to cater a five-course dinner for friends of friends of the family, and it was going to be a fairly large crowd, so he asked if I would help him. He wouldn’t pay me, because I wasn’t a professional, but he thought it would be fun, because we’d be working together, cooking together, and he wouldn’t be completely on his own during the lulls in service. I thought it would be fun too – I would be learning new things, getting to know someone that I really liked, and afterwards, meeting his parents because the gig was close to his house so I would be crashing in the guest room.

We met at the house, and I went in through the back. He gave me chef whites to put on, along with a hat. Apparently, I looked cute. Let me just say I’m glad nobody took photos of that evening, and I’m even more thankful that this happened long before Instagram.

Like Matilda Ramsay said so accurately and succinctly above, chefs are nutters. In all meanings of that word. They are creative, they are smart, they think on a dime. However, they are in one of those creative areas where their work is never permanent, and judged instantaneously. Painters, writers, musicians – we take a while to create something, we get a chance to hone it, and if it doesn’t work, we get to scrap it and start again, and take our time until we get it right.

Not so with a chef who has to serve dinner. They may have time to practice, but every service is like a final exam. It tends to make them a little (read a LOT) friggin uptight. And my chef was a Virgo, the most uptight of all the uptight signs, with a precise need for perfection that is enough to make any other sign, including Virgo’s fellow earth signs of Capricorn and Taurus (me) throw up our hands in despair and crack our skulls against brick walls.

The first thing you need to know about a chef, especially a young chef, is that they think everyone is a mind reader. Sure, they give you a basic sketch of how something is supposed to look on a plate. And then they expect you to execute it. Well that’s fine if it’s a competition. That makes for great television. But in the real world, especially if you’re not a professional, it’s a fucking nightmare.

Before that night, I had no idea how important plating was to the overall aesthetic of a dish. And when I say plating, I don’t mean just making the food look appetizing. I mean the scientific precision of where each item is placed in relation to the others, to the motif on the plates, to the place settings, to the other plates on the table. And of course I was getting them all wrong. Because my idea of 90 degrees was not the same as his.

So how can a cooking date with a chef go wrong? When it’s a professional dinner, when the chef assumes you know professional terms because you can handle a knife better than most other people he’s met, and when the chef expects you to be able to read his tiny handwriting and understand his sketches and read his mind to know that the poultry leg is to be precisely 85 degrees to the veg on top of the puree.

Never mind I was a vegetarian and I was handling wild game that had been shot by the owner within a couple weeks of the dinner itself. The game still had buckshot in it, and part of my duties was cleaning the buckshot out of the raw carcasses.

By the third course, I was in tears. I mean, I worked through the hurt, the hot eyes, the bitten tongue, the crying, because no matter what I do, in a professional forum, I remain businesslike, in spite of the fact that I was being berated, yelled and screamed at, and expected to have a knowledge base that I don’t even think I have today, some twenty years long after that date took place.

At the end of the meal, just after dessert was served, the hosts came in and raved about how wonderful everything had been, and thought we did a great job working together. I could see the pride on my date’s face. I was happy for him, and put on an industry smile for the host and hostess. (Just an aside, I had taken acting lessons by this point, though I never thought I would use them.)

But the minute we walked out of the house into the warm, Indian summer night, I lost it. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m not someone who generally keeps things inside, unless it’s necessary, such as among strangers whom I may possibly meet again, or in a professional setting, or when there may be legal consequences involved.

None of those things were in play during that walk home. So, in a very twenty-four-year-old way, I told my date exactly what I thought of his kitchen manner and his people management skills. I was hysterical because, well, I really liked this guy, and I didn’t want him to be as much of an asshole as the guy from my previous relationship. I told him that if he wanted to ever manage people in a kitchen, he shouldn’t treat people as if they could read his mind. And that making someone feel inadequate and humiliated for their lack of knowledge wasn’t exactly an ideal date.

He stopped on the sidewalk. He was completely taken aback. He had no idea he had been like that. He was truly remorseful. He said that hadn’t been his intention. He honestly thought it would be fun, and admitted that it had been a mistake to assume that I had the level of culinary knowledge that he expected and demanded from a sous chef. And he apologized, and said he would never treat anyone like that inside a professional kitchen again.

There was something quite sincere about his words. He had softened right down from how he had been back in the kitchen. We arrived at his house, and I said to myself that I would give him another chance.

Turns out the guest room was in the basement of his parents’ place. He led me downstairs, showed me where everything was, and we hung out until he had to head back upstairs. I settled in under the covers, and he headed towards the door.

“Oh one more thing,” he said, standing in the doorway, “There are lots of centipedes in the basement, so watch out for that. Good night!” He turned off the light, closed the door, and headed upstairs.

Yes, that’s the man I ended up marrying. I still purse my lips and shake my head when I think about that moment. I even just looked around the room to make sure there were no centipedes (in the middle of February) headed towards my laptop.

I learned a lot from him, in all senses, over the ten years in total we were together. Things I carry with me right now, whether it’s when I pick up a knife to chop an onion, throw a couple juniper berries in a stock, or think about doing a fancy plating with a chicken leg and celery root puree with steamed veg on my black octagonal plates.

I lost him ten years ago this February 20th, and over this past decade, I’ve learned even more about food and cooking from him than he had time to show me while he was here. Finding recipes, finding his school notes, hearing little voices in my ear when I try something new. Understanding his need for perfection, and learning to decide if the dish I’m making would warrant such precision or could benefit from a little lackadaisicalness. I’m losing that omnipresent fear of the kitchen because, in a way, I’m doing it for him now.

So was it a horrible date? It was one of the worst dates I’ve ever been on. But I would do it again, replicating every second? In a heartbeat.

You’re always in my heart, Bobo. I just hope I’m doing you proud in the kitchen, even on those days when I still cry.


Paul J. Mesbur September 16, 1970 – February 20, 2005.