lightness and weight

How I handled a racist comment

2007-11-04T10:29:00.000-05:00

I'm usually not one to make waves, but this particular comment was so shocking to me that I felt that I had to respond.

I was waiting at the bus platform at the subway station Friday night. I was already right at the edge of the yellow line and there was a guy behind me, practically crowding me right off the platform. So when the bus finally rolled in and stopped, half of my body was in the opening of the back door and the other half blocked by one of the doors. So in order to get on the bus, I had to squeeze by the guy, who had not moved one inch, even though he knew that I had already been standing there.

So as I got on the bus, he said, under his breath of course, but just loud enough that I could hear: "Don't bother to say excuse me, you Chink."

I was completely shocked. I sat down in an available aisle seat and felt paralyzed. I just couldn't believe it. Don't get me wrong, this isn't the first time I've been on the receiving end of a racist comment or slur, but I guess it had been so long since I've had to deal with one that all the usual emotions came back. Shock, disbelief, paralysis and then anger.

I realized then that I had become complacent; had falsely believed that I had forged my life in such a way as to protect me from racism. I have friends who value individuals as people irregardless of ethnicity and race. I live in the most multicultural city in the world, where for the most part, people are either immigrants or children of immigrants. And I may still be naive, but I take pride in being a citizen of a country to whom other countries look to as a model of tolerance.

But apparently, I had been living in the clouds. And this one guy's comment brought me crashing back down to earth.

So as the bus rolled along its usual route, my mind was whirring. I was trying to decide whether it was worth my while to confront him or not. I thought, was he worth my time and energy? He's obviously a jerk and what would my one confrontation really do? And would I be safe if I did decide to confront him? He was much bigger than me and could get angry and I could get hurt.

But then I thought about the many, many, many times that I didn't do something about incidents like this and I always walked away feeling frustrated, dissatisfied and angry at myself for not being brave enough to say something. Because how will anyone know if they've done something wrong or offensive, if someone doesn't let them know?

So I decided that I would confront him. In front of everyone on that bus.

Because even if my confrontation fell flat (as I'm not the most eloquent person in the world when I'm upset or angry - I usually end up in a puddle of tears or incoherently sputtering), at least the guy would know that I was willing to confront him and let him know that what he did was wrong. And I wanted it done in front of everyone - for reasons of safety, but also because I wanted complete strangers to know that he did something really crappy and that I wasn't taking it.

So, just before I was due to get off at my stop, I got up and walked toward the back of the bus. Luckily, the guy was sitting right across from the doors.

"Excuse me sir, I just wanted to let you know that I heard your comment."

Guy looks up and in a voice dripping with false bravado, "Uhhhhhh, I can't hear you." (puts his hand to his ear)

"I heard the comment you said to me when I got on this bus. And I want to let you know that your comment means absolutely nothing to me but it reveals alot about you."

(He's looking at me directly in the eye at this point, so I know he's hearing every single word.)

Guy, in the same voice but a little more subdued, "I can't hear you."

As the bus rolls up to my stop, "Next time you want to say something like that to me, you be brave enough to say it to my face."

And I pushed open the doors and jumped off. Triumphant.

A fine line between tolerance and acceptance

2007-03-22T22:57:00.000-04:00

Something happened tonight that brought back every childhood racist taunt and cackle that I endured growing up.

I live in a basement apartment whose kitchen is very close to the front door. My front door opens to a tiny foyer through which both myself and my landlord and his wife enter and exit the house. Unfortunately, this little area is not very well ventilated and the only time fresh air wafts in is when someone opens the door.

Tonight, I decided to make a traditional Korean dish. A roiling, boiling and bubbling stew that is spicy red in colour, as well as, in its taste. It's made with a chili paste that emits a pungent smell that to me signals nothing but comfort and memories of spending time with my mother in the kitchen of the tiny apartment I grew up in. But I can understand that the smell could be considered quite odoferous if one isn't familiar with it.

In fact, as a little girl, I was acutely conscious of the strange and unique smells that often wafted from under our apartment door. I heard the complaints and the sneers from our neighbours and even from schoolmates who were able to able to smell last night's dinner on my clothes. (Korean cuisine is very lively and flavourful, with the spicy steam from various dishes permeating our clothes, even despite numerous turns in the washing machine.) Being the extremely sensitive child I was, every comment felt like a knife to the heart. More destructively, however, was that I always internalized these comments. I always thought they were personal attacks, because it was so obvious to me that I didn't look like or act like everyone else. And therefore, I didn't deserve to occupy the same "space" as others. Whereas other children were free to express themselves, I couldn't for fear of reprisal and ridicule. But this fear went right to the bone, to the very heart of my being and identity. There wasn't a day that went by that I wasn't teased for one reason or another. Children can be very cruel indeed.

So tonight, my landlord and his wife had invited friends over and since the walls of the house are extremely thin, I heard every complaint, ridiculing and frankly, intolerant comment that they made. I felt like I was eight years old again. I felt like I was "the other" once again. Invisible, tiny, ready to disappear. I immediately moved the stew pot off the stove and flung open the windows. I boiled another pot of water and stuck a few orange peels and a pinch of cinnamon to act as a makeshift odourizer. It was an automatic response, I hadn't realized that I was doing all these things until I could smell the cinnamon and citrus in the air. These were things that my mom used to do after another neighbour had complained about the smells.

But as I thought about it, I started to get angry. Why shouldn't I be able to cook whatever I like without worry about scathing comments and ridicule? And yet, this is something that I've dealt with for most of my adult life. I continue to be careful to this day to "screen" friends, even when they express interest in trying Korean food. If I even feel a smidgen of doubt about whether or not they would be able to handle it, I do not extend the invitation. I don't want to have to deal with complaints, the being made to feel small, like "the other", to be the weird outsider again.

I'm lucky that I've been able to surround myself with friends who are adventurous, self-confident, open to trying new things, who refrain from judgment for the most part. But I'm always cognizant of the fine line between tolerance and acceptance. They are not one and the same. Tolerance is certainly NOT acceptance.

I wish that more people realized this. I think it would save alot of personal struggle (of course, assuming people are actually engaging in self-reflection or introspection!). Certainly, it probably would've saved me alot of pain in my own life. But that's not how our society works. Binaries and absolutes are so much easier to grasp and hold on to, instead of actually being honest with oneself.

It's naive to think that we don't all have our stereotypes, that at some point or another we've all been racist, or ageist, or ableist or prejudiced in some way. What scares me the most is the fear that most people feel when even these topics are broached. Silence is the most destructive and yet, perpetuating force when it comes to these issues.

As a person of colour, I don't expect acceptance and I don't even expect tolerance. What I do expect from other people, however, is the willingness to ask questions, to be brave enough to be informed, to take responsibility for their opinions, as long as they have been explored to a reasonable degree. What I would like is dialogue - because without it, nothing ever moves forward and we will be forever paralyzed. Stuck in our own fear.

A wobble, and then hobbles

2007-02-08T22:28:00.000-05:00

I have a boo boo. Actually, I sprained my ankle. This afternoon, while rushing from a student seminar at a hospital downtown to my friend's car, I got tripped up by a large jutting curb and landed on the outside of my right ankle. Immediately, I heard a bit of a "pop" and starting hopping around saying, "Ow, ow, ow, ow." My friend grabbed my arm to steady me and dragged me over to the Emergency Room, which conveniently enough, was a mere five metres away.

I spent all afternoon in Emerg. About six hours in total. If you want to know the state of our healthcare system, try going to an emergency room with a non-life-threatening condition. Basically, you better bring a book - a very, very long one.

Despite the fact that my ankle was slowly and consistently swelling larger and larger, I tried to make light of the situation. I've had a previous and similar ankle sprain on my other leg, so I was joking that I'll be more balanced since I've now got two wonky ankles. Maybe, I can even start long-distance running again! Har har. (I'm sure my massage therapist and chiropractor are both grimacing right now.)

But sitting in the waiting room with my friend made me realize what a bad patient I really am. Whenever I get an injury like this, I get mad at myself, which makes me cranky and somewhat uncooperative. Not outwardly so, however. If you observed me in the waiting room, I'd look like I was trying to make the best of things - laughing, joking, trying to keep my mind busy. But in reality, I'm the worst kind of patient - the kind that always minimizes their condition. When the nurses asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10, I lied and said a 3. In actuality, by the time three hours had gone by, I was ready to scream, "I'm at a 6! I'm at a 6!" But I just kept silent and hobbled around when I certainly shouldn't have.

On the upside, I got to meet a whole bunch of wonderful people. My fellow walking wounded. The non-life-threatening condition, waiting room crew. I met a lovely senior lady who was telling me about a wonderful dinner menu that she had prepared for tonight, but now because of being at the hospital all day, she wouldn't get to enjoy it. I met a gentlemen who is originally from Sault Ste. Marie, but working at the Bruce Power Plant - one of the places that my dad is very familiar with, having designed a bunch of the reactors there. I also met a lovely and gentle senior lady named Florence, who seemed to immediately latch on to me. My friend and I ended up giving her a ride home so that her elderly husband didn't have to come pick her up in the dark. And finally, I met a couple whose son had gone through a horrendous ordeal which involved him hooked up to a mechanical heart pump and ended (thankfully) with a heart transplant, and he was now deemed a "miracle" case. It was an amazing story, completely inspiring and a real testament to the strength and love that was so obviously emanating from his parents.

I finally got discharged from the hospital after being x-rayed and told to elevate and ice, ice and elevate. I hobbled out to the car with my friend and our new friend Florence, and I realized that I had been doing my "social work" work the whole time I was waiting to get treated. My friend and I had sort of "clicked on" our social worker mode and had inadvertantly been doing what social workers do in hospitals everyday.

It was a great feeling. I knew then that I definitely can do this.

Now, if I can only be a better patient and follow doctor's orders. We'll just have to see.

Lovin' the snow!

2007-01-16T23:07:00.000-05:00

I'm completely in the minority in this respect. I've fielded grumbles and comments from people who are not happy to see the snow. I, on the other hand, am completely enjoying this.

I'm a gal who loves snow. I'm not afraid to admit it. I love the look of it, the feel of it, the way that it makes the world beautiful. The snow covers all the shadows - have you noticed that? The whiteness of snow reflects the light back onto things, so there is rarely any shadow.

I love walking out of my front door in the morning when I haven't realized that it has snowed overnight. I'm always so surprised. To see such beauty in the morning is a wonderful way to start the day.

And I love the way that snow makes me feel at night. The layer of snow feels like a buffer, a blanket, cushioning sounds that would otherwise be obtrusive and disruptive. A luxury and godsend when living in a large urban centre. Instead, I notice other sounds: the crunch of my boots, the sound of slush under car tires, the sprinkle of snow as the wind blows it around. A reprieve from the usual hustle and bustle.

This year, part of my glee is due to the fact that the snow has taken so long to get here. And now that it is finally here, I'm relieved. With each day that went by in November and December without snow, it felt like the world was off kilter, at risk of spinning off its axis. The coming of snow - finally - feels like the world has righted itself. That the forces of nature have just been on vacation and are now back on the job.

Despite finally having snow, it's worrisome. Global warming is a real thing. It continues to amaze me that most people refuse to believe that. That somehow our actions as humans do not affect the environment. We are the most wasteful, sprawling and consumption-driven species on the planet. I mean, if you think about it, every species leaves a relatively small imprint on their environment in comparison to humans. Unlike all other animals, to put it bluntly, even our shit doesn't even enter the environment in a natural way. And in addition, we come along with all other kinds of crap (ie. technological waste, chemical waste and toxins, materials that take centuries to biodegrade or don't even break down) that we bury, taking up tons of space, shifting landmass and soil, all the while disrupting habitats for other organisms that are merely trying to share our space.

We need to start making a difference, before it's too late. I'm surely going to start right now. I'm going to try to do my part. Every little thing counts - from recycling and reusing, to turning down the thermostat a couple of degree, to using more energy efficient lightbulbs, turning lights off and unplugging any unused appliances. When I'm gainfully employed, I'll be looking into trying to go carbon-neutral and doing more to try to eliminate my contribution of greenhouse gas.

But for now, I'm just enjoying having snow around again.

The annual look-back

2006-12-29T23:45:00.000-05:00

The year is ending in a couple of days and it's a time of reflection. What have I accomplished this year? What progress have I made? Has anything changed for the better or for the worse? Have I swung from any chandeliers? Hiked through forests? Scared the heck out of myself? Spent more time in my jammies and slippers than actual clothes? Read great books? Threw awful books across the room? Remembered what going to a movie was like? Danced around my living room? Looked at beautiful things and beautiful people? Snuggled with loved ones? Stood my ground against social injustice? Woke up everyday with the knowledge that the day was a clean slate? Yes, yes, yes and yes. (Well, except maybe swinging from chandeliers. I'll have to save that for next year.)

So without further ado......my annual look-back on 2006:

A small thing I regret:
What's a year without some small regrets? Well, luckily this year, I've only got one.

I regret not leaving my former colleagues with a better perception of the person I really am, as opposed to the awful person I was during my tenure at my last job. And I wasn't an absolutely terrible person! I just could've been a better person - even to the people I hated with such evil contempt most days. (Actually, I hated one of them so much that I practically puked on the carpet in his office one morning....but that's another story. Ahem.)

Then again, they could've been better people too.

Small (but important!) things that I'm grateful for:
The creation of the Bananacake Brunch League! Without our monthly brunch meetings, I would hardly get to see my gals. For some reason, the volume of work undertaken by my thirty-something friends seems to be increasing exponentially, which means less time to meet up. So our monthly brunches are a happy medium. And as painful as the Saturday 10 AM meet-up time is for some of us, it's all worth it in the end. :)

The fact that the World Cup Alpine Skiing season corresponds with the latter half of my winter academic term and the first few months of my upcoming one. Hours and hours of much-needed (and sometimes not-needed!) procrastination came from surfing the internet to find online videos of races and scouring the CBC TV schedules for broadcasts. Watching ripped men hurtle themselves down mountain slopes at 100 km/h in very, very tight skin suits always puts a smile on my face. (And oh yah, they're great athletes too. Didn't I mention that before? Hee hee.)

The "Big Thing" that I'm grateful for:
Somehow, somewhere I got the courage this year to make a major change in my life and go back to grad school. It was the scariest thing I've done. I had no idea how I was going to pull things off, and to some extent, I still don't, but despite all that, here I am doing it. Sometimes I find it hard to believe and sometimes I second guess myself. But I don't regret my decision. And while I know that social work is a hard path - I look ahead to the work that I want to do and to the work that I may have to do - and it certainly is not pretty at times. Frankly, it scares me shitless. But it's a good fear. It's the initial fear of an upcoming challenge and how I'll stack up to it. But am I ever grateful for this challenge. This is the most alive I've felt in a long time. Alive enough to feel both fear and challenge at the same time.

A bunch of things that I'm looking for in the New Year (otherwise known as New Year's resolutions):
To get out of the city more. Hike more. Take up skiing. Find someone who can tell me the word that means "to be physically overcome by beauty", because that's how I feel most of the time when I'm walking amid trees or in a beautiful natural landscape. To travel to someplace I've never been before. To ask more questions. To stand up for what I believe in. To do more volunteer work. To write more. To change the small things that I can. To hang out with my niece and nephew more. To not need money or things so much. To live as humbly as I can. To do everything to the best of my ability. To give myself some slack. To take care of my body. To cook more. To age gracefully. To just keep going and don't let things get me down.

All things that are completely achievable! (At least this is what I'm going to tell myself. Just let me have my illusions, okay?) :)

May everyone have a Happy and joyous New Year!

Do your part...go to www.kiva.org

2006-12-20T22:26:00.000-05:00

So as a result of going back to school, I've developed quite a social conscience. I guess it has always been there, but now school gives me an outlet to actually put all the ideas in my head into action.

Unfortunately for me (but fortunately for others!), there are many smart people out there who have the same ideas and beat me to them by actually executing them. Really, I bear no grudges, but damn if I could just get some ideas actually going! I might be able to actually say one day that I started something....

Anyway, I have to plug a new website that I think is really making a difference and answers all the skepticism there is out there about charitable monies being spent wisely or actually reaching the people that need it. (I know you folks are out there.....and it's a legitimate concern.)

But if you are an individual that is wary of giving to a charitable organization for those very reasons, then check out www.kiva.org. This website allows individuals to provide microloans directly to individual entrepreneurs in developing countries. If you remember, this year's Nobel Peace prize winner was Muhammed Yumus, who pioneered the microloan system as a way of empowering the poor and allowing individuals to build small businesses to get themselves out of poverty.

At kiva.org, you can give as little as $25 directly to an entrepreneur and much like a loan, there is a timeframe given in which you will be repaid. The beauty of this site is that your money isn't charity in the traditional sense. You will receive something, but more than just the satisfaction of giving, you will actually make your initial investment back!

So put aside skepticism and doubt, at least for one moment. And in that one moment, check out kiva.org. This is your chance to circumvent the middleman. Since there are no administration fees, your money goes directly to the entrepreneur - ALL of it.

If you've got a few dollars to spare this holiday season, seriously consider this. This could be your chance to make a real and direct difference in someone's life.

I am slowly going crazy...

2006-11-29T09:28:00.000-05:00

Hello, from your neighbourhood crazy person. Yes, I feel like I'm going crazy.

How, you ask?

Well, if I knew then I probably wouldn't be crazy. Nah, I know exactly why I'm crazy. It's this freaking, darn thing called school. Grad school in particular. I have exactly 10 days left to hand in 4 final essays. How crazy is that?!? That works about to about a little over 2.5 days per essay.

Grrrr.

I have not come out of my basement hovel except for class and trips to the library. As a classmate of mine, who is just as stressed out as me, has said many times before this term: "This is freakin' nuts!"

I would have to agree.

But in the meantime, I have to content myself with the daydream of the sleep vacation I'm going to have when this is all over. I'll have to book myself into a hotel and sleep ALL DAY. And order room service. That sounds heavenly. Really. I'm a simple gal.....simple things make me so happy. *sigh*

Absence

2006-10-27T23:11:00.000-04:00

This blog has been sadly neglected. It has lain dormant for far too long. I have only myself to blame. The place for this blog among my priorities has slipped further and further down the list. What can I say? Life changes. It wraps itself around one thing and loosens up around others. This blog has lacked the rubbery elastic band of priority.

A reason? Well, I've gone back to school. I'm fully entrenched in student life, negotiating graduate school to the best of my ability. My 30-ish year old body is creaking along while 20-year-olds seem to be skipping by. I see nothing past the stack of paper and readings that cover my desk. I live, breathe and sleep my classes.

It's sad that now my friends, who used to complain they could never get a hold of me, now know exactly where to find me. They know what I'm doing...."Reading again!" they complain when trying to entice me out for dinner, a movie, a walk.

It's been hard. I won't lie. I feel like my friends' lives are passing me by. I'm stuck in neutral for the next year and a half, while others are getting married, having babies, changing jobs, making money. All I've got right now are my books and a shrinking bank account. Sometimes, it doesn't feel like a fair tradeoff.

But, for the first time in a long time, I don't wake up in bitterness and anger. I wake up with an eagerness to start the day, to meet the challenge of higher learning, to better myself as a person. There is such freedom in having these feelings. I no longer feel shackled by the chains that used to bind me.

I feel really, truly lucky. I am grateful that I have had this opportunity to make this change. And I'm trying my best not to squander this opportunity. I'm trying to make the most of every day. And despite the fatigue, the hectic schedule, the isolation of study, the anxiety around academic evaluation, and the lack of income, I don't regret one moment.

Not a single bit.

A found poem

2006-08-23T22:33:00.000-04:00

I'm in the midst of organizing and cleaning up my apartment. This has been long overdue. I've had a pile of junk and unpacked boxes sitting in the corner of my living room for almost a year. It's sad really.

But among all the detritus strewn around my living room, sometimes I make a discovery better than gold. A found poem floating within the pages of an old notebook of mine.

It goes something like this:

Quiet

I never realized before,
but my mother taught me
not to disturb
the forces of nature.

The quiet shuffle
of her slippers,
her buffering of door
slams with delicate hand

touches and turns

Her existence cocooned
itself in quiet
and non-disturbance.

Numbness (a poem)

2006-07-31T23:22:00.000-04:00

A crazy time in the universe. Things stirred up, changed beyond recognition.

Forever altered.

Fissures and cracks creep along fault lines everywhere. While drops of crazy glue join contradictions, holding the weight of people along its glassy threads.

Shifts in mass, changes in balance, two people bounding on a teeter-totter - strands of hair shooting straight up in the air.

Like a halo. Or a crown.

Strangely numb, I reach for it. The eye of the storm, the knuckle of the brass lion's mouth.

Still. But open.

Ten clumsy fingers

2006-07-20T18:27:00.000-04:00

Today, I spent an hour at the keyboard of a shiny, black grand piano.

It's been a very long time since I've played. The feel of the hard bench under my hip bones reminded me of days spent punching at the keys in anger because of being forced to practice. The tapping of my too-long nails on the white ivory brought back echoes of my piano teacher tsk-tsking in my ear, chastising me for not cutting them short.

My fingers were stiff as I started playing. They wouldn't stretch the way they used to. They didn't move as fast along the scales I tried to play. The pads of my fingers slipped off the smooth surface of the keys, sliding right off the edges without making a sound.

It was terribly frustrating.

I grew up with pianos and piano music. I started lessons when I was about seven years old. I stopped when I was close to finishing high school. So what does that work out to? About ten or eleven years. That's a long time.

But like riding a bike, one never forgets how to play a piano.

It was conforting to know, that despite not touching a piano since university, I hadn't forgotten how to play. The feeling of my fingers moving - albeit very slowly and tentatively - and hearing the music reverberating from the body of the piano, seemed to be awakening the long-abandoned neural grooves in my mind that had been covered up for years. Like an electric current running along a copper cable for the first time.

The more I played the freer I felt. Playing piano is such an active thing. I was rocking on the bench, my elbows rising and falling onto to the keys, my foot pumping away on the pedal. Surprising, since I was playing mostly classical pieces.

Playing a classical piece on the piano is the closest I ever come to melding with a piece of music. The classics to me are the purest form of emotion and playing a piece means that that emotion is directly coming from me. But that's the point, I'm the humble conduit. The music has to come through me, in order for it to become itself.

Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean that what comes out ends up sounding good or is mistake-free! But that didn't matter to me today. For a brief hour, everything sounded good - especially when it's coming from a beautiful grand piano.

The defeat and the agony

2006-07-10T22:40:00.000-04:00

Oh, my heart is bleu. Les Bleus lost. And Zidane! What happened to the best player of this age? Oh, it's too much. I must go now.... I am too distraught.
Quel dommage!

Allez les Bleus! The beauty of sport..

2006-07-05T23:48:00.000-04:00

Ahhh, World Cup. What can I say? This town is soccer/football mad. It's been great to watch people spilling out in the streets after each victory and having a fantastic time. It's times like these that T.O. is at its very best. It's what I love about this city.

Today, France beat Portugal to reach the finals to face Italy. It's going to be a great match. Two unlikely teams - both not favorites at the start of the tournament - going against each other in the "olympics" of soccer.

In the midst of all this World Cup frenzy, I've been thinking why this year I've been caught up with watching sports. I've always enjoyed watching sports off and on, but this year I just couldn't get enough.

During the Winter Olympics I was glued to the tv and the internet everyday looking for the latest results and medal winners. My coworkers always knew when Canada won a medal because I'd be whooping it up in my cubicle. It didn't matter what sport it was in - I was watching everything. And I mean everything.

I've even found myself a sport this year that I really enjoy and love - tennis. And I never was an athletic person to begin with! But this has already inspired me to start planning on picking up skiing as my winter sport.

So what is it about sport that captures everyone's attention? Even those who self-profess that they are not interested in participating or watching sports. (I have many friends who have said this to me time and time again. A friend of mine refuses to even entertain the thought of participating in a sport because it was once used as a pathetic pick-up line by a guy she was being set up with. "Uh, so what's your sport?" She's an arty person - graphic design and creative stuff - and so, the relationship was basically doomed.)

I've been thinking about this for a while, because it has become so out of character for me to be obsessed with sport. (Another one of my friends ("J") would say she knows exactly why I'm so interested in sport all of a sudden. J: I'm going to plead the fifth here and keep my mouth shut. Although, I'll have you know, I'm not ashamed of being interested in a good-looking, maverick, outspoken athlete who is a kickass alpine skier.) ;-)

I hadn't come to any concrete conclusions until I read something by Mark Kingwell, philosopher and professor extraordinaire at the University of Toronto. Mr. Kingwell contributed an essay entitled "Reading Toronto: architecture and utopia" to a book of collected essays called "uTOpia: Towards a New Toronto" published by our very own Coach House Press in the city.

Ok, so before you start yawning and falling asleep, I promise there is a method to my madness here.

Mr. Kingwell quoted the philosopher Bernard Suits who argued that "games express the highest interests of humankind. The sort of goal-oriented activity that is free from use.....A game is organized play, governed by rules or norms, but never reducible to anything other than the sum of its enactments. The rules are not the game."

And this is my favorite part: "The pleasure of the game is constraint meeting possibility, tradition under the sign of novelty, knowing that, though many games have come before, this particular one has not. The game unfolds in the playing, in time, purely itself."

I don't think that I could have said it any better than that.

The beauty of sport as: constraint meeting possibility, tradition under novelty, and the purest expression of humankind.

The end of the world as we know it....

2006-07-03T21:09:00.000-04:00

It has occurred to me that it feels like the world has passed by the point of no return. Somewhere before the start of the Iraq War and to the story I just read in the New York Times of a 21-year-old american and ex-GI who has been accused of raping and murdering an Iraqi girl, as well as her entire family, the world has officially turned itself upside down.

When did this happen? At what point did we leave all our basic humanity behind? And what are we teaching our children, the next generation?

Perhaps I should say that it is the Western world that has passed the point of redemption. For, as much as other parts of the world are often vilified in our media, I believe that the people who experience the devastation and tragedy through this fabricated war and the destruction and disease in Africa - perpetuated through the sheer unwillingness to come to a continent's aid -have much to teach us about humanity.

About compassion and respect for the plight of others, family, justice, perseverance, and love and acceptance for your fellow neighbour.

These are the important things in life to pursue and to cherish. Not the house, the car, the lavish wedding, the lucrative investment portfolio, the luxurious vacation, or the latest fashion trend. These mean nothing at the end of it all.

I know I probably sound naive and incredibly idealistic. These are all very lofty goals. No one would dare deny that.

But I say that we live in a world that is in desperate need of a broader idealism, of something to strive for beyond the solipsism that consumes our day to day existence here in Canada and the US.

When I read stories about incidents like the young American GI, I can't finish the article. I close my eyes and put my head down with an exhale. Not just because of the brutality of the crime, but because my heart literally aches for the fact that the circumstances of the world - the pawn-like but sum total of this boy's experience - allowed him to think that what he was doing was not wrong; that perhaps it was even, in a perverted way, condoned.

And this is not the only incident, I'm sure. It' s just the only one that has come to light - that has come to finally tease the fickle attention of the Western media.

I refuse to believe that we, as human beings, cannot be better than this. That is the wonderful thing about being human. We have the ability of conscious redemption. We can always be better than we are, if only we make the choice to do so.

Mutany!

2006-06-25T21:32:00.000-04:00

Big ideas are scary. Big ideas make people run the other way. Whether they fear their sheer size itself or the prospect of actually having to do the work that usually accompanies big ideas is up for grabs. But one thing is for certain, big ideas - unique and original ideas that go beyond the status quo - are feared and avoided.

I'm a writer. It's my job to have big ideas. What does everybody think novels are? Big (and often long) ideas. And I guess editors' jobs are to whittle writers' big ideas into smaller ones. (As I've already mentioned in this blog before, I have no problem with good editors.)

So, all my life I've been a big idea person. A dreamer. As a young girl, I used to sit by the window at night and wrote down whatever my imagination conjured up. I used to wonder, as I stared at people in the windows of the building across the road, what their lives were like. I used to lie in the grass in the back of my apartment building and look up into the stars and imagine what it would be like to live on one of them. (I guess that's why The Little Prince cartoons always used to fascinate me - I mean, he got to live on his own little star!)

But big ideas are not something that people understand or embrace readily. Because big ideas - even the ones that make sense, the ones that are obviously are the right ones - means that things have to change. And as we all know, most people think change is bad. Very bad.

Canadians, I think, are most guilty of this. Which is not to say that we don't have big ideas! But big ideas (like our celebrities) are mostly ignored and shunned, until they become successes elsewhere. We claim ownership of success only afterwards. It's a Canadian thing. :)

But you know what I say to this? I say enough is enough. I am rising up against the fear of big ideas. I'm going to revel in the wonderful optimism and brightness that new ideas often bring. I'm going to resist the urge to squash other big and new ideas down. I'm going to bring to light and champion new and big ideas. I may only be one person, but surely, I'm not the only one in this world who is not afraid of change and not afraid to believe that this world can change for the better. I believe that people's ideas and ideals will be the main driving force.

So this is a call to action! For everyone to think and dream big. Rise up and mutany! Don't be afraid to do the things that need to be done to instigate change. Big dreams. Big ideas. Big actions. This world surely needs it.

More than this

2006-06-20T22:45:00.000-04:00

I could feel at the time
There was no way of knowing
Fallen leaves in the night
Who can say where they're blowing
As free as the wind
And hopefully learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning

More than this - there is nothing
More than this - tell me one thing
More than this - there is nothing

It was fun for a while
There was no way of knowing
Like dream in the night
Who can say where we're going
No care in the world
Maybe I'm learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning....

Bryan Ferry was right. He was so right. When things happen to you in life - stellar moments of time - there really is nothing more than this. These moments bring everything together, all the answers to questions that have been swirling in your soul come to the surface and loop themselves up in a tidy little bow. It's electric.

I had this moment while I was away. It happened in the improbable and microcosmic environment of a hotel elevator.

But this isn't the beginning of the story. Let me backpedal to two years ago....

I was at yet another conference that I was attending on behalf of work. It was lunchtime - after a tedious morning of droning presentations and preachy seminars - and I was grumpy at the thought of the rubber chicken lunch that was going to be served. Also, luncheons at these seminars always employed some "big ticket" speaker to keep you engaged - presumably so you won't run out and find a decent meal.

The "big ticket" speaker that day was Stephen Lewis. Who I had heard of vaguely at the time, but had never heard speak. For those of you who are not yet in the know about who this man is, he is currently the United Nations Special Envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa. He is a former politician in Ontario (as leader of the New Democrat Party in the early eighties), Canada's former Ambassador to the UN, married to Michele Landsberg (long time Toronto Star columnist and feminist) and father to Avi Lewis (who is married to Naomi Wolf of "No Logo" fame). So this is a man not without a certain pedigree who was going to talk to a bunch of fundraisers and not-for-profit employees over our lunch.

Stephen Lewis has been travelling around the world almost non-stop for the past five years. Dividing his time between Africa, the United Nations Headquarters in New York, and numerous speaking engagements.

The luncheon two years ago was one of his legendary speeches. Mr. Lewis is an extraordinarily erudite and articulate speaker - using words that I didn't think were even in circulation anymore. But he told us of his experiences in Africa - the devastation that HIV/AIDS has wrecked upon its people. In particular, the effect of the disease on women and children.

With such heartfelt passion, he told us that we were in the midst of a pandemic, the likes of which has never been seen. With tears in his eyes, he told us that the continent of Africa is under siege and from an enemy that thrives from within. He told us about families that were headed by children because their parents have died. His voice shook as he told us about grandmothers who watched their own children die and then have to become parents again to their grandchildren. He told us about the inherent gender inequality that leaves women unable to say no to unprotected sex in the continent. He told us of girls as young as 8 or 9 being raped due to a terribly misplaced belief by men that sex with an innocent will cure them of the disease.

Mr. Lewis told us that HIV/AIDS has obliterated an entire generation of people. And he asked us, if the pandemic should one day (mercifully) be stopped, how does a continent rebuild itself on the backs of children? Children who have known no stable parental or familial role model, without having the opportunity for education because they were the head of their own households and too busy with merely trying to survive.

I cried. I cried so much that I couldn't see through my tears. I could only hear Mr. Lewis' voice. I cried so much that other people at the table became truly concerned for me, throwing their napkins my way and pouring water into my glass. I was shaking - I was crying so much.

After his speech, I promised myself that day that I would get to Africa somehow and do whatever I could.

But despite my best intentions, for two years, I let other things get in the way of this promise. Until my recent week away.

The elevator at the Hotel Fairmont Vancouver. 10:30pm. A Monday night.

I turn around after pushing the button for my floor and who comes through the doors? Stephen Lewis. And then the doors shut behind him and the elevator starts to lift.

I felt like the universe had sent me this HUGE reminder memo. "Remember?", it was saying to me. "Remember the promise you made to yourself the last time you saw this man?"

My ears were buzzing. I couldn't let this moment pass me by. There have been so many moments in my life that I want back, but I didn't want this to be one of them. So, I turned to him and stuck out my hand and told him what an honour it was to meet him. I was practically gushing. (And I'm not a gusher.)

He took my hand and he was so self-deprecating. He kept shaking his head, "No, no." And shaking his other hand at me in this dismissive way. He was so embarrassed. I think I might have made him blush. A woman who happened to be in the elevator with us, looked bewildered. I don't think she knew who he was.

He asked me if I was here for the conference. And I said, "Yes!" So he said, "So, you'll be there for the session tomorrow morning?" Which was when he was scheduled to speak. "Of course." I said. And then we reached my floor and I wished him a good night and got off the elevator.

It was a conversation cut short.

But when I got to my room, I was ecstatic, exhilarated! Because I knew I had the answer to the months of torturous soul-searching that I had been doing. I had forgotten, only to have the universe remind me. But also, I think, to assure me that the path that I had chosen was the right one. I had already decided to go back to school by then, but I was still having some pretty paralyzing doubts.

This may seem like such a small thing. I mean, who gets all this from a simple 30-second meeting with a person? But it was one of those indescribable moments. It was my epiphany. And one can only recognize an epiphany when it is experienced.

Bryan Ferry knew what he was singing about. It was more than this. It was more than I could have ever imagined. I can see now that my life has always been about more than this. More than the small existence I've carved out in my apartment, in this city, in this country, in this blog.

It's so much more. Much more.

Jetlagged but exhilarated

2006-06-12T22:34:00.000-04:00

Just got back from a week's vacation and although I'm jetlagged, I'm exhilarated.

I had an epiphany while I was away. A focussing of my purpose. A true lightbulb moment.

In the coming weeks, I'll write more about my experiences away. But for now, I'll just say that I think my time last week was serendipitous. I've always believed that people enter one's life for specific purposes and reasons. And my time away really solidified that belief for me. If this wasn't the universe talking to me and actually pointing me in the right direction, I don't know what was.

I promise to write more about it, but I can't stifle the yawns that keep coming out of my mouth.
Bed is calling me and for the first time in a long while, very sweet and restful dreams.

Just this side of mental illness

2006-06-02T22:38:00.000-04:00

Burnt out.

That's what I am. I never thought I would ever get to this point. Didn't think it could ever happen to me. But I'm empty, tapped out, bone dry.

I tried to explain it to my colleague today. What does it feel like to be burnt out? For me, it feels like the two lobes of my brain are pulling apart from each other. At times - the very, very low points I've experienced - I could feel them straining, desiring with every cell to cut that tie from the other. Like conjoined twins who don't get along.

I feel like I'm just on this side of mental illness. I'm on that precipice that divides the "sane" from the "insane". (I have to preface that statement by saying, I don't know what it is like to have mental illness. I can only imagine. But if it feels like anything of what I've been feeling the past few months, I don't want it.)

It's been a dark force that has followed me around. I've had no reprieve despite my efforts to relax, escape, distract, medicate, intoxicate.

For the first time in my life, I've felt the fear that comes with thinking that I may crack. I feel like I've discovered one of the limits of my brain. That is a scary prospect - especially for someone like me, who lives in her head alot. But up to this point, I've hidden it well.

Don't worry, I'm not going crazy. I still have the strength to pull myself from the edge. That much I know for sure. I'm a survivor; the kind of gal who won't go gently into that good night.

I'm headed out of town for a week, for a much needed vacation. Without the pressure of work, schedule, responsibilities. Without my precious laptop computer. I'm looking forward to a week of non-stimulation, of mind-numbingly bad tv and uninterrupted sleeps.

Quite simply, I'm hoping that this next week will keep my brain together. I'm hoping.

A tumultuous birthday

2006-05-28T22:50:00.000-04:00

Happy birthday to me! Yes, it's my birthday today. And it's been a tumultuous one.

As a pretty shy gal at the best of times, I tend not to celebrate my birthdays. Usually, drunken celebrations happen either before or after, but never on the actual day. I don't know why I do this - my actual birthday just has never been a comfortable day for me.

But to give myself perspective - to remind myself that the world is bigger than me - I'll list what happened in the world today. My birthday in 2006.

The aftermath of an earthquake in Indonesia which has left more than four thousand dead and about 200,000 homeless
the Carolina Hurricanes won game 5 of a playoff series against the Buffalo Sabres, leading 3-2 (the Edmonton Oilers, in their first appearance in the Stanley Cup playoffs in ...uh...a really long time, await this series' winner)
Pope Benedict XVI visits Auschwitz - his first visit as Pontiff - a meaningful moment for a man who was unwillingly drafted into the Hitler Youth and the German Army
Brangelina had their baby - Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt - finally releasing the public from the media's endless (and annoying) speculation

Today has been a balance between the catastrophic and the miraculous. The ridiculous and the significant. A pendulum swinging between the euphoric and the redemptive. These things always seem more real and close to me on my birthday. These events remind me that some things happen in this life that are out of my control but have the enormous power to either snuff me out or make me feel awestruck and wondrous about this world.

This is just one day. One day. Somehow, blowing out candles on a birthday cake seems trivial.

In remembrance...

2006-05-18T21:34:00.000-04:00

Canada lost our first female officer in combat yesterday. Captain Nichola Goddard is the 17th casualty we have suffered in Afghanistan. Her remains will begin their journey back to Canada on the 19th of May.

I'm torn about this. On the one hand, Captain Goddard was a trailblazer. A woman soldier on the front lines, engaging in heavy combat, a part of a military force that can actually say they are hunting down the Taliban (unlike another counterpart neighbour). Nichola was breaking new ground for women and equality. There still are numerous inequalities that plague women around the world - which I hope will one day no longer be the case. Nichola was a sort of example for my ideal world of total equality for everyone. I have to admire her for that.

On the other hand, I do not support acts of war. Surely, in this modern day and age we, as human beings, as evolved creatures, can find other solutions. Other solutions that do not require weapons, destruction and loss of life.

We are smart enough. We only lack the commitment. What is it that we are afraid of? To stand up and say that `enough is enough'? How many more senseless but premeditated deaths have to occur before we wake up?

I'm not saying that there is not a place in this world for the punishment of crimes. But how we dispense justice on a global scale is a matter of choice. Justice is still justice even if it is begotten through non-violent means.

In the end, I think to stand up against destructive solutions, like war, that pit country against country is not an act of defiance. It is an act of the truest form of humanity.

Confessions of a not-for-profit worker

2006-05-18T20:51:00.000-04:00

Working for a not-for-profit has its advantages. Doing meaningful work! Working towards a worthy cause! Helping people less fortunate! Finding cures for awful diseases!

The lesser known advantage (or disadvantage) - if you work in a relatively successful not-for-profit that brings in tens-of-millions of dollars in revenue - is that you get to see how the other half lives.

Yep, in my job the "perk" is that I come into contact with very successful, and very rich people. Do they know my name? No way! But do I know theirs and do I have any qualms about soliciting them for money? Usually, not a problem.

As a writer for a large hospital-based not-for-profit organization, I write to wealthy individuals, corporations and foundations for money. Money for a good cause. Money that will help regular folks like you and me. But in my long career of writing to these people, I've had the opportunity to observe these creatures of affluence. I mean, how else am I to know who I'm writing to in order to persuade them to part with their chequebooks?

Rich people are funny. Rich people are warped. Some rich people are extremely generous. But almost all live in their own world. And for some, they can also be annoying as hell.

Take for example, a certain committee of well-heeled (and I mean, this season's Prada) women who traipse into our office the same time every year. They are a very committed and enthusiastic bunch charged with organizing and planning a fashion show fundraiser. They float in on a cloud of Chanel No. 5 for the younger women who are doing "retro" this year and J.Lo for the older women trying to get "with it". Their shoes glitter and their tops sparkle, leaving a trail of beads on our grungy carpet. Louis Vuitton bags galore. That morning's coiffed hair not moving an inch. Tanned skin, just this side of sun-wrinkled, from Florida for the nouveau riche and the Riviera for the old monied. Cell phones and blackberries blink and vibrate - calls from their children at private school, their nannies, their sorority gal pals.

All the while, these ladies are completely oblvious to the ordinary folk, like me, who surround them. We do the grunge work, they get all the glory. All that gets left behind are a bunch of empty plastic trays from "The Zone" or "South Beach Diet" caterers who deliver their lunches with punctuality, but which invariably end up sporadically dumped into our cubicle garbage bins.

It's almost cliche. Like caricatured and botoxed cartoons that invade our premises for a short period and then disappear, into the black stretch limos that roll away. These ladies, like their facelifts, are too much - too much.

But being a not-for-profit, we cannot do without these people. We rely on them too heavily for our livelihood. We follow the events of their lives as if we were a tabloid newspaper. We keep notes on who is dating whom, who is divorcing whom, where and when they vacation, whose mom or dad just died and where the estate is going to, who has sold their business for millions of dollars, who has seen their stock shares go down the tubes?

We know them almost better than they know themselves.

It's a delicate balance. How far do we have to prostrate ourselves for a few hundred thousand? A couple million? It's always a juggling act.

Despite knowing the impact I'm making, the good that the money will do, I'm not so sure that I'm cut out for this business anymore. I'm not so sure my knees (or my own pride) can take it.

Mother's Day...

2006-05-14T22:13:00.000-04:00

Mother's Day is always a difficult day for me, because about nine years ago this September, my mother passed away.

Mother's Day always creeps up on me because I try not to consciously think about it. From year to year, I have certain days where I try my best not to remember. Mother's Day, my mother's birthday, my mother's death day, the date of her funeral. My mind does a pretty good job of forgetting, but my heart and body always - always - remember.

This sounds harsh. It sounds ungrateful. It sounds selfish. But it's the only way that I can cope sometimes.

I lost the most important person in my life nine years ago. And it's been such a struggle ever since. Such a painful struggle.

Some people find themselves, after a time, forgetting how the people they have lost look like. Or they forget their memories of them. But I haven't. I can still remember keenly what my mother looked like - how smooth her cheek was, the gap between her front teeth, the softness of her earlobes, the warmth of the crook of her arm, the roughness of the heels of her feet.

I remember her laugh as clear as day. Almost an uncontrollable cackle, really. I remember her running her work-roughened hand along the side of my face and calling me her "beautiful girl". I remember kissing her on the cheek and telling her I loved her the night before she suffered the fatal aneurysm that eventually took her life.

These things are burned into my being. I can't and won't ever get them out. I realize that. But sometimes I have to tuck them away in order to face each day. I have to tuck them away to survive.

So few people know how brittle I feel inside at the best of times. My mother was so much a part of me that when she was gone I didn't know who I was. I felt so empty, the pieces of me had scattered themselves in the wind and I didn't even have the strength to scramble to get them back.

When your only strength is taken away from you, where do you find the courage to go on?

It took me five years to merely try to answer that question. And almost another five years to keep trying to find the answers.

But for today, I planted flowers at her grave. Pretty purple flowers, not delicate, but ones that grow close to the ground, sturdy and hardy, and able to withstand the whims of weather. Just like my mother, and hopefully, a little like me.

My new love? Tennis!

2006-05-11T12:58:00.000-04:00

I do not consider myself an athletic person. Growing up, I was sport-averse, to say the least. I was a geek to the core. Pudgy, straight hair, glasses as big as my face. The idea of participating in sports such as baseball, basketball or volleyball, made me freak out when I was a teenager. I was all awkward limbs and a ball of anxiety.

But I grew up and got a job that made me sit on my butt for hours and hours each day and I noticed things were expanding. This was not a nice feeling.

So I tried Billy Blanks Tai-Bo. Seriously. I think all that did for me was make me hurt myself. Ow. If you've tried it, then you know what I mean.

Then I started running. Which was pretty okay for a while. I actually ran in a couple of 10K races and felt pretty good. But then I injured my hip and knee. My chiropractor and massage therapist were practically a choir everytime I visited them. Their chorus was basically this: "Stop running. Please."

(Often, they both had my limbs or my body twisted in awkward positions when they barked this order at me, so I really couldn't object as I was usually gritting my teeth in pain. )

Okay, fine.

What to do next? My friend suggested spinning. Where else can you lose almost 600 calories in a 45 minute class? I was gung-ho. I lasted through the first sweaty and steamy class. And then I lasted through the next one. And the next. And then after getting home from one class, I completely collapsed. I mean, collapsed. On the floor, face smushed into the carpet.

Needless to say, I'm spinning no more.

And so I went back to the gym. It's working for the most part, but at times I feel like a hamster on a treadmill or on the stationary bike. And lifting weights is making me yawn. It also draws too much attention to the fact that my arms are like spaghetti. (I mean, grimacing and groaning while trying to lift 10 lbs is so not impressive.)

About a few weeks ago, a coworker was talking about playing tennis. And I was intrigued. Tennis is outdoors, it can be pretty social and I get to wear a cute tennis skirt! All things that I can get behind. So I signed up for some uber-beginner lessons.

I arrived at the outdoor courts ready to make a complete fool of myself. I remembered the few times I tried to "play" tennis with some friends when I was younger. Basically those "matches" consisted of pop flies over the fences and spending most of our time whacking the bushes around looking for the balls. I don't think I hit a ball within the confines of the court lines once.

But after an hour and half of instruction by Angelo, my very jolly and funny tennis pro, I was hooked. Groundstrokes, volleys, backhands, serves - I now know how to do all these things! Not very well, mind you, but at least I was able to hit the balls over the net. That is a major accomplishment, let me tell you.

Stephen Colbert is a courageous American

2006-05-04T23:59:00.000-04:00

Normally, I wouldn't weigh in on U.S. politics or George W. Bush, for various reasons.

The first being that I do not profess to be any kind of political expert and therefore any opinion that I may have is based entirely upon filtered U.S. media reports and conjecture. Secondly, since I'm a Canadian, I do have a bit of a vested interest in what goes on with our nearest neighbour, but frankly we've got our own little "Dubya-wannabe" to deal with right now and I would rather focus my energies on that for the time being.

But I feel I have to at least mention this: By now, everyone and their cousin's sister has heard about comedian Stephen Colbert's speech at the White House Correspondents' Dinner last Saturday night. This man is truly a courageous American. A true Patriot in the best sense. And a genius at the delivery of ironic comedy.

Watch his speech at: http://www.salon.com/ent/video_dog/politics/2006/04/30/colbert_press/index.html
(You may have to watch a brief ad to gain access to the site, but trust me, it's worth it.)

I won't say anything more about this as the Blogosphere (not to mention the mainstream media and press) has already been buzzing about it for days now.

The only thing I can add is that I wish there were more US journalists willing to stand up for what Stephen Colbert stood up for that night.

Hazel rocks!

2006-05-02T23:01:00.000-04:00

This is Hazel. Hazel is the long-time and well-loved Mayor of the City of Mississauga. Hazel is 85 years old - and she's in trouble with the law.

You see, when Hazel was driving her car one night, she ran off the road and knocked over a pole sign. The front of her car was completely smashed. Luckily, Hazel was able to walk away from the crash, with nary a scratch.

The question is now: why was 85 year old Hazel still driving a car? Well, if you're a Mississaugean, you know one thing: no one messes with Hazel - especially when she's hell bent on doing something herself.

Hazel is the one-woman dynamo who has run the City of Mississauga for as long as I can remember. She has run it so well that Mississauga is the only city in Canada that doesn't have a deficit. How? The rumour is that Hazel is so old school that she only deals in cash.

Hazel and the City have been so synonymous with each other that it's hard to think that things might have to change. But I have to remind myself - the woman is 85 years old. How much longer is she going to be able to do this job?

When I heard about her accident, it seemed like an omen. Like a tide was turning.

Even Hazel herself seems to see the signs. After submitting to an investigation and paying her $110 fine, she even admitted that maybe it was time for her to get a full-time driver. I could hardly believe that this was the feisty Hazel of old.

The old Hazel, the small white-haired dragon lady who stood her Mississaugean ground against the weasely and monkey-like Toronto Mayor Mel Lastman during his attempt at "city amalgamation" (and in what, to me, looked like a bizarre match between midget prizefighters), would never have acquiesced so quickly. She would have probably said, "To hell with it!" and continued to drive her own damn car.

But this is a new Hazel I'm seeing. A weary Hazel. A woman who has finally been confronted by her age.

Good things never last forever. And Hazel is a good woman indeed. A tough old bird. But definitely and ultimately, not a stupid one.

MySpace creepout

2006-04-30T11:31:00.000-04:00

So it's barely been a month since I signed up to MySpace. And now I'm contemplating taking my profile down.

MySpace, the online community that has taken on a life of its own, allows teenagers, 20-somethings and (ahem) 30-somethings to engage in self-expression by creating personal profile pages and then linking up with friends' profile pages and then friends-of-friends' profiles. The site writes, "See who knows who or how you are connected. Find out if you really are six people away from Kevin Bacon."

Some members boast thousands of "friends" who have linked up to their profile pages. (Whether they talk to these thousands of friends on a regular basis, I have no idea. If they do, I would imagine they would be pretty tired though.)

And it seems EVERYONE has a MySpace page. In addition to your average Joe and Jane, celebrities, runway models, professional and amateur sports athletes, and famous rock bands all have profiles on the site. Type in any name in the site's search engine and you're likely to find their page. Or at least, what seems like their page.

The allure of MySpace is two-fold. First, it's an exercise in free voyeurism. MySpace is free to join, and once you do, you have access to over 74 million profiles from all over the world. MySpace does not restrict access to anyone's profile - except those who are aged 14 and under.

Secondly, MySpace creates the illusion that everyone is your friend and that they are only a click away. The world becomes smaller through MySpace, more accessible.

I have to admit, these are the best aspects of the site. And I find myself strangely addicted to surfing through profiles of people whom I have never met. Yet the possibility is there. Yes, with a click of a button, I can be friends with the artist in New York City or the cowboy in Texas. With a turn of the mouse, I can send email or leave comments to a Paris runway model, my pro sports idol, or my favorite movie star.

Yet, despite all this potential hob-nobbing with the stars, I'm still thinking of pulling my profile.

What MySpace doesn't tell you is that there are alot of creepy people in its little world, masked by the "friendly" atmosphere of the site.

Since I've put up my profile, I've never, ever gotten so many offensive and odd emails in my life.

I've been solicited by a young Iranian fellow who "liked my eyes" and I'm sure had visions of a mail-order Asian bride, an older gentleman who wrote to me in French asking for a rendezvous, and another guy who I'll call, Mr. Pimp, who assured me that I could make $300 a day, without leaving my day job, in a "position" he had to offer me.

But the worst email I received was from a profile , who I'll call FatPears to keep those late-night web surfers away, which basically asked me to be their "friend" and post a picture of my naked butt on their profile. (Which by the way, is laughable because anyone who knows me, acknowledges that I possess what I call "FAB" or "flat Asian butt".) What shocked me most though was that this site had over 90,000 "friends", most of whom were female and had no problem pasting pictures of their scantily-clad but rather robust nether regions on the site.

If someone had taken a picture of me at that moment, there would only be one word to describe the expression on my face: dumbfounded.

The only somewhat normal email I received was from a 38-year-old guy in Georgia who practically demanded that I write back to him so that he could get to know me better. A quick look at his profile made me question whether he was the real deal. I mean, what 38 year old writes in small caps? (Even the older French guy wrote in proper sentences.) And his picture reeked of "gorgeous model ripped off from some online stock photo". I deduced that this guy was not for real and pressed the delete button on his email.

But this illustrates the other danger of MySpace. The very freedom that allows self-expression in MySpace is the very thing that also allows people to put up false profiles of themselves. And this is what has allowed predators of young teenagers onto the site. (A highly publicized incident not too long ago, involved sexual predators who were using the site to approach and solicit young teenagers.)

Other friends of mine who also have profiles on the site have yet to even receive one inappropriate or downright offensive email from other members. This makes me wonder. Why am I receiving these emails? What is it about my profile or my picture that invites such inappropriate solicitiations?

I guess creepy and unscrupulous people do it, just because they can.

But as to why they have chosen me as the recipient, I'm truly at a loss.

Why can't we be more like the Gilmore Girls?

2006-04-25T20:30:00.000-04:00

This morning, as I turned from locking my front door, my neighbour said hello to me.

"Welcome to the street!" she chirped, as she puffed her cigarette. Her son sat bundled in the backseat of her idling car, blankly staring at me through the window.

"Thank you," I said in the most friendly tone I could muster for the morning. But I didn't stop my patterned trajectory for the bus stop and just kept walking.

I could have taken a few moments to chat with her - but I didn't. I admit I'm not a morning person - ok, most of the time I'm downright grumpy at that hour. But I'm not usually so impolite. Why didn't I just take the time?

Mister Rogers never seemed to have this problem. He was perfectly in harmony with his "neighbourhood". It didn't matter that he was human and could magically transport himself - via a model electric train - into the "Neighbourhood of Make-Believe" where everyone was a friend of everyone else. And oh so helpful too! King Friday ruled with a benevolent and gentle hand and Mister Rogers always seemed to know just the right things to say to calm Daniel Tiger's fretting meows or take the time to have a chuckle with "X" the Owl.

Living in the city has made me forget the basic niceties of human kindness. One would think that in such a city as cosmopolitan, urban and multicultural as Toronto, there would be at least some measure of politeness toward other people - the decency and feelings of acceptance that facilitate the day-to-day process of many ethnicities living in relative harmony. (I say "relative" because Toronto is not without its problems.)

Canada is supposed to be the great experiment for the future of the world. A place where the greatest number of cultures live in harmony than in any other country. Unfortunately, more and more, with recent and blatantly racist comments from local politicians and tensions between racial groups rising, it seems we are no longer the ideal.

And to add insult to injury, in a strange irony, American TV is beginning to trump us in that role.

Enter The WB's Gilmore Girls. Last week's episode was one of the funniest yet. Lane, Rory's Korean friend, was finally getting married to her sweetheart and fellow bandmate Zach, who is not Korean. I was impressed at the writers' willingness to accurately represent certain aspects of Korean culture, while not stooping to obvious sight gags or low-brow cultural jokes. They were even able to make the event of making traditional kimchi seem funny (which traditionally, and speaking from direct experience, is NOT very fun). And at one point, Lane's mother Mrs. Kim and Lane's grandmother, who flew in especially for the wedding, were shown talking (well, arguing actually) in Korean - and with NO subtitles!

What struck me most about this episode of Gilmore Girls was how natural it all was. Of course the whole town would attend both the Buddhist and 7th Day Adventist ceremonies for Lane and Zach. A scene where the whole town seems to be running madly from the Lane household and Buddhist ceremony to the town church for the Adventist wedding because there were "only 58 seats and 63 Koreans" was hilarious and at the same time, priceless.

While the writers made obvious exaggerations for comedic effect, I thought it was a landmark moment in American TV. Simply for the fact of being able to show the ideal that we in Toronto can no longer lay claim to.

Ants in my....house! And cloudy, rainy, cold days in T.O. suck

2006-04-23T17:31:00.000-04:00

This whole weekend has been nothing but cloudy and rainy and damn cold. I guess that's what living in eastern Canada is like - especially in April. People around here are still hedging their bets about that one last snowfall that always seems to bury us in April.

I remember one year in particular, when I was in high school, we had a blizzard on April 30th, with snow as high as my waist. Or the storm a few years ago, when the mayor called in reinforcements in the form of the Canadian military. That was pretty funny. Those army guys ended up standing around lots as there really wasn't THAT much snow on the ground.

But as the month is almost over, I'm pretty sure that we've avoided the last showing of the white stuff this year. (knock on wood)

Days like these always make me feel a little trapped in my apartment. I could go out and do something, but it's just so much easier to stay inside, warm in my jammies and curled up with my two cats. (One of whom who is blinking at me right now. She always has this withering, God, on the computer again? look when I'm writing my blog.)

The biggest issue I have right now is trying to figure out how to get rid of a small colony of ants that have sprung up in my laundry room. Since I've got two cats, I can't put anything toxic down on the ground, for fear that they may eat it or lick it. So, for now I've been using cinnamon. Yes, cinnamon. So far it's working to keep the ants out of my bathroom, which shares a wall with my laundry room, but I still haven't gotten to the root of the problem (ie. where the ants are coming from in the first place.)

Anyway, if anyone has any suggestions, I would really appreciate it. Ants are interesting creatures, but yucky to have in one's apartment. And I'm starting to feel bad about being an ant-murderer more than 5 times a day. This can't be good for my Karma.%

City mouse, country house

2006-04-22T16:07:00.000-04:00

This is my dream. A house in the country. Well, perhaps not this nice. But definitely a cozy cabin or cottage, built far, far away from the city, and in a forest or on a lake. Built with natural materials, environmentally green and totally self-sufficient - relying on natural energy sources for its heat, running water and electricity.

After all, I do not want to be a blight on the earth.

It seems fitting that today is April 22nd (Earth Day), and it has gotten me thinking more and more about how I live my life and how my small actions have great impact on the environment. And it's gotten me thinking about the city I live in and how we could be doing so much better. We could be living and working, producing and playing in a much more environmentally-conscious way.

But cities are often monstrous entities. They breathe and expand - their chests are full of skyscrapers and smokestacks. They digest and expel - their highway intestines bloated with single-passenger cars and ten-tonne trucks. And they consume, consume, consume - their mouths polluted with landfill, industrial sludge and deviant fish.

The city grows beyond us, encroaching upon things that we do not see.

I'm slowly realizing that while the city grows beyond our ability to control its impact - but always in the name of "progress" according to our politicians - it begins to affect me, and not in a positive way.

The pace in the city I live is ever faster - like we are always, desperately, trying to keep up. I don't pretend to compare my city to that of New York or London (where I went dizzy, overcome with the pace of life in those cities), but it still feels too fast.

And everything seems to take more effort that I can muster. Cities are full of labyrinths - layers upon layers that need to be peeled back to get to what one is truly after. Sometimes, it feels like I have to climb Machu Picchu just to get a bag of groceries.

Hence, my dream. To leave behind my life in the city for a much, much simpler one. To be free to write in the quiet of my own space, to not have to keep up with the pace, and to know that I am living my life in such a way that will impact the environment the least.

Be gone, ellipsis!

2006-04-20T11:27:00.000-04:00

I've noticed that since I've started this blog, I've developed a particular fondness for the ellipsis (...).

It appears in every entry title on this page. In my over-zealousness and eagerness to blog, I've already overused my little friend. If someone can love a grammatical mark, then the ellipsis is definitely my one and only.

It embraces possibilities, don't you think? It leaves everything open to suggestion, to comment, to opportunity. And yet, despite it's positive nature, it can convey so many other emotions: melancholy, despair, inquiry, puzzlement.

It's a great little device. But I think for now, I'll give it a wee bit of a vacation. A well deserved rest.

Until my next entry... (Darn! I just can't help myself.)

Back to school....

2006-04-18T22:50:00.000-04:00

It's been a long road back to school.

About a week ago, I finally received my acceptance letter for grad school. It was a defining moment, because you see, close to ten years ago, I vowed never to go back to school again.

Let me explain.

My childhood was defined by achievement. Or more accurately, the pressure to succeed. Especially in academics. My father was a brainiac of the first order. An engineer who designed things. Who ended his career with designing a new breed of nuclear reactor - one purported at the time to be more efficient, smaller, safer. He could see designs and solutions in his head, twist them around, make the forces of physics obey his computations. His mind was his exercise, his form of supreme exertion.

But the mental gymnastics never stopped there with him. One year my mother persuaded him to take ballroom dance lessons with her. The rhumba, cha cha, waltz, paso doble. Somehow, I just couldn't see my dad swinging my mother around a room, in time to music. It just didn't fit with his stern and super-serious image.

But I should have known that my dad would find a way to break ballroom dancing down into concepts that he could understand. One day I saw him leaning over a large piece of paper, his finger intently following lines that seemed to go in circles. Coming closer, I peeked over his shoulder.

My father had created a perfectly circular diagram that charted the progression of the steps to all the different dances so that he could remember them.

Somehow, he had figured out the "Darwinian evolution" of ballroom dances. He noticed that the waltz, the most basic of all dances, morphed into a primitive version of the cha cha, and then the cha cha to the rhumba and then finally the homo sapiens of it all was the paso doble - the hardest, most complicated, dance he had to master.

My father had a mind like that. And a daughter whom he could see at an early age, had some ability that mirrored his.

But for whatever brilliance my dad possessed in his mind, it didn't translate into being a good father. My father could be harsh and cruel. He had expectations for me that were almost impossible to reach. But worst of all, everyday he made me feel like I would never be good enough. The A+ was never enough. He always wanted more.

So my childhood and youth was consumed with trying to please him. Trying to do better, to study harder, to achieve higher distinctions. But at what cost? I lost myself. I became so little and diminutive, so decimated by his constant criticism, destroyed by his heaving disappointment.

In university, I had decided to take two degrees at once. One in biology and the other in philosophy. It was another futile stab at trying to please him. In doing so, I always had a full load and never did I have a summer in which I wasn't taking a course or two. So by the time I hit third year, I had an emotional and physical meltdown. It was the wake-up call that I needed.

I still graduated with both my degrees and didn't do too badly in terms of grades. But I remember with crystal clear clarity, saying to myself that I would never, ever go back to school. That I was going to live my life on my terms and it definitely meant that I wouldn't have to go back to that kind of pressure, that kind of self-torture and sadness.

And yet almost ten years later I find myself at the cusp of re-entering the hallowed halls of higher education. But this time, I know the difference. This time, my father is no longer that specter looking over my shoulder tsk-tsking and frowning. This time, I'm smiling brighter than ever, safe in the knowledge that I no longer have to answer to anyone's expectations but my own.

Proximity....and love?

2006-04-17T22:33:00.000-04:00

I've had this question/idea kicking around in my head for a couple of years now. Observing romantic relationships of friends and being in various relationships myself, I'm convinced that the factor of proximity plays a role in relationships.

Perhaps this is not a new idea. I guess it really isn't when you think about it. But in this modern age of communication and globalization, where cities are becoming more cosmopolitan, travelling the world is as easy as buying a ticket, keeping in touch with people thousands of miles away is at the click of a button and the popularity of internet dating is exploding across the world, why is the simple factor of proximity still so important?

Yes, there is the fact that relationships are built on a foundation of shared experiences. People gravitate towards each other based on their shared hobbies, interests and the like. And being in close proximity to one another (ie. from the same city or town) lubricates this process immensely. Having grown up in the same environment develops a similar outlook, a cohesive perspective with someone who also has experienced the same environment (more or less).

I guess my thoughts about this all started when I was a few years out of university and my alumni magazine published an article based on an alumni survey they had just completed. Beyond the usual stats and figures, there was one finding that shocked alot of people, including myself. A whopping 72% of grads from my university married other fellow grads. I don't know if my alma mater is unique in this respect, as I haven't researched other institutions, but it was enough to make me start to wonder.

And then, a few years later, when I was living with a roommate/friend who started internet dating, she happened upon a profile she liked. They both expressed interest and started to email each other. In the process, they found out they had practically grown up together and knew each other fairly well in high school. This was a shock to both of them. A bit of serendipity perhaps? Yet amidst the hundreds of profiles that they had both perused online through the dating site, they both ended up picking the one profile that turned out to have the greatest "proximity" to each other. How strange is that?

I guess the above is the best example that I can give of what I mean by the role of proximity in relationships. Despite all the choices that we have, through the innovations of the internet and the effects of an ever smaller world because of enhancements in technology, we still choose those who are closest to us - who are in closest proximity to us. Somehow proximity finds a way to play a much bigger role than we think. Maybe a much more "cosmic" force than we realize.

But part of me chafes against how influential the role of proximity can be. And I know it is not unheard of for people to meet other people from different countries and have successful relationships - lasting and loving relationships - with people who are not technically in close proximity to them. I guess it just isn't the norm.

Perhaps I just want the freedom to embrace the possibility that proximity is not necessarily my destiny - when it comes to my romantic relationships. I would like for my little "proximity" box to be made bigger, to encompass more than my small world. I don't think, in this modern day and age, that that is too much to ask, or expect.

Nabokov has ruined me...

2006-04-16T13:16:00.000-04:00

Vladimir Nabokov has ruined me. He has ravished what little fragile confidence I had in my own writing. Reading the first paragraph of his Lolita, I realized that I had just read pure genius. And then I slowly waited for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

I have never professed to be a good writer. I only profess to be a working writer. Yes, I'm one of the very few in this world who schlep their writing skill to those who can't. In exchange for money, I write the most boring drivel, filled with words like leverage, groundbreaking, and innovative. I've lost count of how many times I've gone to the thesaurus looking for any interesting synonyms for these terms. Of course, the interesting words always get squashed out by the red-pen wielding, editing idiots in middle management, who turn everything back to leverage, groundbreaking and innovative.

I've learned that creativity is bad in my business.

So when I read a novel like Lolita, I am simply at a loss for words. No thesaurus can help me now. I can even see myself from the outside: standing like a statue, book in my hand, mouth wide open, and my other hand clutching my stomach in sheer awe. I am paralyzed with a mixture of delight and envy.

Yet, despite all of this, I start this blog. Working out a writer's frustration? Calling attention to my pathetic attempt to gain sympathy? Or just a person who's a glutton for punishment? Put a tick by all three.

There is one thought though that consoles me, but a little. There will never be another Vladimir Nabokov - artist and genius who possessed a soul meant to write prose. I can feel better that my own scribbles won't ever (and can't ever) be compared with his.

Anxiety over titles....

2006-04-16T00:43:00.000-04:00

I'm a virgin blogger. I admit it. And to make matters worse, coming up with titles or names - to anything - make me fret. So was the act of titling this blog. My very first.

I started with numerous and unsuitable iterations of "falling into the flames of mediocrity" and "nobody is going to read your crap" flashing through my mind, which only heightened my sense of anxiety about what to name this thing. My first rational thought, after the severe hand-wringing, was "keep it simple". So I thought maybe I could name my blog "a girl in the world". Yeah! Simple and true. I had gone one step better even. But then I thought, what if I'm 80 years old and still writing this thing? I would definitely not be a "girl" then. A wrinkly old hag yes, but definitely not a young "girl".

Then I pored through my journal, picking out words that I had used to write my torrid, "i'm feeling sorry for myself", miserable entries with. Words like: expectation, character, foibles, tidbits, edge, lovely, terrible, world-ending, crying my eyes out, embarrassment and oh yeah, a particularly mortifying chronicle about me walking into a concrete pole in broad daylight. (Seriously folks, this stuff doesn't just happen in the movies).

Needless to say, that jaunt down memory-lane did nothing but depress me. Who says reading your journal is a "growing" experience?

Finally, I settled on my bookshelf. Yes, the greatest authors in the world would help me pick out a title for this darn thing! And my eye settled on one of my favorite books, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being". As I flipped through the first few pages.....success! I tip my hat to Mr. Kundera for this one.