Kooties

I missed Donny. We never did say goodbye. When I went into Grade 2 in Mrs. Wolfe's class, Donny ended up with another teacher. He ceased to exist the year I moved and I don't remember him thereafter. But now I missed him in my new school. The boys were mean and the girls were influenced by the majority. I stuck out like a sore thumb--and the more I tried to fit in, the more ridicule and backlash I brought unto myself.

I remember recess time the most. That was when the bullying was at its worst. Back in the early 80s and 90s, 'bullying' did not exist. No one acknowledged it to be a problem or a social issue. But I was aware of it and no one tried to remedy it. Not the teachers, the parents or the children I went to school with. I was incessantly teased because I was an easy target. My clothes were not designer, let alone even matching. I implored my mother to go out and at least buy me one acceptable outfit but she always smiled in return and insisted my friends had to accept me as I was. When I pleaded with my father, he was not impressed with my 'material attitude.'

"Why are you always trying to be like the other children? Be yourself and people will accept you," he insisted."You are smarter and more intelligent than all the children put together in your class!"

I sat on the front porch with my father listening to now what became a routine lecture after I would come home teased and dejected. "The best thing is to ignore them. If you let them get to you, they have won. If you ignore, they will get tired of teasing you," he said while moving out of his lawn chair to pick up some garbage off the front lawn. "You are too emotional and trying hard to be accepted. Take your time. We just moved here. Just IGNORE them." He shook his head and walked inside the house. I remained outside, alone, hugging my legs and burying my chin in my knees. He just didn't understand. He grew up in a place where everyone was the majority in Pakistan. They all wore the same clothes, ate the same food, spoke the same language and had the same skin colour.

Here I was, the only brown girl in the school, with funny clothes, static hair, and an ever-growing moustache. I lay awake that night thinking about what my father advised me to do. IGNORE them. Use my intelligence. Don't try so hard.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

When the school bell rang at 10:15 the next morning, my heart was thumping loud in my ears. I needed to set my plan in motion. The small, freckled boy jumped from his seat, grabbed his coat from the hook and beckoned to his friends. He never liked sitting next to me, especially when I covered my answers with my arm every time there was a test. I knew it was a bone of contention for him but if he was going to tease me, there was no way in hell I was going to let him cheat and get a better of me!

They were waiting outside the portable when I came out. A group of boys: some from my class and others in Grade 3. I looked for my only friend Tara who waved me over to where they were playing double dutch. We started to play but one of the boys grabbed the rope and interrupted our game. He came over and shoved my shoulder.

"You're it! You now have the KOOTIES!" he screamed and everyone ran in different directions, away from me. I stood alone and looked around. Tara stood with three other girls and shrugged her shoulders. I never forgot this gesture--the shrugging of her shoulders. I took it personally and felt she was shrugging me off to fend for myself since she did not possess the power to help or support me. Part of it was that we were outnumbered. The other part was solely selfishness. Even though she remained my friend for many years, well into Grade six, I never felt so alone until that day. And a result, my reaction was rash. That was one of my problems. Instead of weighing my options, ruled entirely by emotions, reasoning always came in second. I had an audience and I was going to take advantage of it.

"You don't have to push me to give me the KOOTIES! It seems I had the KOOTIES when I moved here--which is really unfair! I have said and done nothing to you to deserve this!" I yelled, pointing to my freckled enemy."If that is how you feel, then I will infect all of you with these stupid, invisible KOOTIES!" I turned to the entire crowd who had grown still while I went off in my tirade on the playground. "That's right! How can I have them if you cannot see them? Does he even know what he is talking about?! You listen to him as if he rules the playground! I don't know why you are friends with someone who is SO MEAN! Today I may have the KOOTIES, but tomorrow it will be one of you and then you will understand how I feel!"

I stopped to see everyone's reactions. Tara looked down at her feet, the rest of the girls looked sheepishly at each other and the boys did not know where to look. The freckled boy gave me a menacing look. I had just challenged the ringleader and embaressed him in front of his pack. He did not like this. We had a staring standoff and I did not move. He then took one step back and yelled, "She has the KOOTIES! RUN!"

Fight fire with fire. The blood rose in me and I took my hands out of my pocket and surged forward.

"I WILL GET ALL OF YOU WITH MY KOOTIES!!" I screamed pumping my fist in the air. I ran and caught up with each and every boy and hugged them until they could not breathe. I saw fear in their eyes as I announced that my KOOTIES had been transferred to them. In the back of my mind, I heard my father's voice telling me to ignore them, use my words not my actions, but I soon realized that my speech to the entire recess population had the opposite effect on them all. They would not listen to intelligence or reason. Flight or fight. And each time, I chose fight.

Until my teacher came out of the portable to see what all the fuss was about. He blew his whistle as I was on top of the freckled boy, hugging him so tight that he relented and cried out for help. Mr. Waller came over just in time as I jumped off, smoothed out my clothes and smiled at my teacher who eyed me suspiciously.

"What is going on here dear?" He was always very polite with me and I reckoned it was because I was the new girl.

"Well Mr. Waller, it seems everyday I have the KOOTIES and I will always have them unless I give them to someone else. I tried to explain to the class that if I have this disease you would be able to see it but no one can show me that I have them. They don't understand what I am telling them so I thought I would give it to all the boys. Clearly, everyone looks the same as before," I stated, pointing to all the boys who were panting, grabbing their knees and catching their breath.

Mr. Waller stroked his chin. He was sizing me up. I stood up straight and waited for his judgement. I knew I would be vindicated. There was no arguing with my logic.

"We do not run and physically assault others during recess." he concluded. "But I do see where you are coming from. However, all of you deserve some punishment for this behaviour," he said looking at me and the boys in my class. The freckled boy began to protest but Mr. Waller put up his hand. "No futher discussion. The entire class has detention after school." The bell rang and the class headed back to the portable, exchanging exasperated looks but I lagged behind to walk next to Mr. Waller.

"Kooties do not exist. I don't have them but they think I have them. Its not fair! I remarked.

Mr. Waller put his hand on my shoulder and gave me the dumbest advice I have ever heard a teacher give their pupil. "Kooties exist if you believe they exist. You are the only one who doesn't believe it. Maybe you should, so that you are like the rest of the class." And with that, he walked off.

I stood still on the field, trying to comprehend what he had just said. The realization was deafening.

They say, by age seven, your personality has formed. You are who you are and you are an unique individual.

I sighed deeply. It was then I knew, alone on that field, as if a lightening bolt had struck me, no matter what, I would never try to fit in.

And I would prove to them all, that kooties were what we made of it.

What do you mean I am not white?

In the spring of 1978, my father accepted a job in another city thus requiring us to leave the city I knew and grew up in at the tender age of 7. When he announced this to the family, I was mortified. How could this be happening? To leave all my friends, the neighborhood and even Mrs. Sirunis?!

My Grade 2 teacher, Mrs. Wolfe, had become one of my closest allies. She just got me. She nurtured me and nursed my wounds when I proclaimed defeat in any battle that overwhelmed me. When I told her that I was moving, she made the entire class sign a goodbye card. Everyone wrote well wishes and even pasted some pictures of me in action at school or with my friends. Life would never be the same :(

My memory alludes me when comes to our family leaving and moving. I try to recall the events leading to ending up in the new city but I cannot grasp them. I do however, remember saying goodbye to my best friend Melissa, and her parents Godfrey and Rose.

I walked up to their house with my father to say goodbye. At age seven, it is hard to express one's sincerest emotions without getting embaressed by them. I remember shying standing BEHIND my father as he shook Godfrey's hand while Rose wiped hers with a dishtowel. She beckoned me to hug her, which I did but I could not do the same with Melissa. After weeks of hugging everyone under the sun and displaying my emotions to the world, I could not bring myself to even hug my best friend. I mimicked my father and shook Melissa's hand. She too looked embaressed and smiled back a toothless grin. She had just lost her front teeth. We had some small talk and then my father told us it was time to go. I walked down her driveway and paused to look back at her and smile. That was the last time I saw Melissa.

Melissa was replaced by Becky within a day. When we arrived to the new home, I was struck by how different the neighborhood was. First of all, we were the only 'brown' people on our street. Yes, it was a mainly Caucasian city. And I was about to switch from the majority to the minority...

Becky was playing in her front yard the next day after we arrived. She was playing catch with her older sister. Each time the ball went over the bushes into our side yard, my brother, sister and I would retrieve it, liked starved puppies and shoot it back over. It became a game that we all played for well over an hour. Becky finally came over and we became fast friends over the next ten years.

Becky never commented about my skin colour but she did ask about my background. She listened to my soliloquy of how my parents immigrated to Canada (this story was told a million times by my father who made it clear that I benefitted greatly due this one important decision he made over eight years ago). She shrugged her shoulders and asked what sport equipment we had. I pulled out a deflated soccer ball from our garage. That was the extent of my interrogation from her. Not one ounce of judgment or analysis. We were friends and that was all there was to it.

But when I started school mid year in Grade 2, I was quickly reminded about being the new girl. And a lot seemed to relate to what colour I was.

"What do you mean I am not white?" I retorted to the small, freckled boy who sat next to me on the first day of school.

"Well I am not sure why Mr. Waller put you next to me. You should sit somewhere else because the rest of us are white!" I looked at him confused as I slowly put my new notebook in the desk. He tried hard to sit away from me, in an angle, preventing his elbow from touching mine.

I was confused and perturbed as I walked home alone. My father had only showed me once how to get to school and clearly I was lost. I walked in a complete circle until one girl who lived on the same street noticed my confused state as I stood on the corner staring at the street sign.

"You are the new girl in Grade 2 right?" she asked. She was pretty and innocent looking, with long blond hair, rosy cheeks and a white starched dress. The antithesis of me. I looked down at my lime green pants, brown dress shirt with green leaves, and my hair in a matted mess, tucked behind my floppy ears.

"I am lost. I need to get home for lunch," I panted, already emotionally and physically tired from the morning I endured. She took my hand and walked through a short cut until I saw the trees that looked familiar near my home. We were on a main street that led directly into a forest at the top of the street where my house was one of the corner houses on an intersection. Before she left me, I turned to her to ask the million dollar question.

"Tara, am I not allowed to live here because I am not white?"

She looked at me oddly, tilting her head to one side.

"I did not notice your colour," she said and skipped to her home seven houses down.

Somehow, I was not convinced.

You have more than you know

I did not have much growing up. According to me, I did not have fancy clothes, amazing toys or a well-decorated home. After hanging out with my friends in the entire neighbourhood, I concluded that I was the most unfortunate child that ever existed. Ok, so I was a tad bit melodramatic, but at age six, one's perception of the world is biased and only based on tunnel vision.

I NEVER heard my mother complain. Ever. Even when she was suffering from chest pains that led to her death from a massive heart attack at age 46, she would never outright tell anyone about what was bothering her. And when I was young and complained to her about everything I did not have, she would only smile and reply,

"You have more than you know"

This answer perplexed and frustrated me. I would ask her to explain what she meant, but that is all she ever said to me when I was in a middle of a fit or arguing about what my father did not provide for me. Her way of discipline was subtle and passive. My father, on the other hand, was brash, blunt and to the point. No emotion, no sympathy, no empathy or support. It was his way or the highway.

And that was the crux of it. I blamed him for my lack of material goods because growing up, he had control over all the money. And what he gave to my mother was the issue--it was never enough.

I remember going to the store one day with my mother, who towed my sister with one hand and pushed my brother in the stroller. The main plaza was a twenty minute walk from our house. It was a cold, fall day because I remember my mother having to stop to adjust our hats and scarves. When we reached the store, I ran wild through the aisles, looking for the latest craze, which had been aired on every commerical on TV. It was a talking doll. Who knew dolls could talk? All you had to do was pull the cord and she would say various sentences. I dreamt about her nightly and knew that I must have her.

I picked up the box and ran to my mother. She was collecting diapers, formula and baby food for my brother.

"Mama! I found her! Can you buy her for me?" I was panting, out of breath from running all over the store.

"Sorry darling. I only have enough money to buy food and diapers for the baby."

She pulled out her wallet and started counting her cash. I stood quietly, and held the box to my chest. I need this doll. Every girl at school has the same doll. I had grown tired of Marie, who at this point was completely bald and had a gaping hole at the side of her body that exposed an old sock that belonged to my father.

"MAMA! Get more money from Papa then. Does he really need diapers?" I insisted pointing at my brother who was sucking his thumb and smiling at me.

My mother tried to grab the box from me but I ran off. She sighed heavily and got into line. I stood from afar and watched her count her change, pay the cashier and tie the bags to the stroller. She turned to look for me.

"Put the doll back and let's go home. I cannot afford to buy your doll. I am sorry."

I shook my head and stomped my foot. Deep down, I knew she was not the right person to have this public battle with. But I could not leave the store without the doll. I looked at my brother with contempt. He was three years old and should have been potty trained. My mother turned the stroller towards the doors and started to leave. I frantically walked over to the cashier.

"My father will come back and pay for her. I promise!" The cashier looked at me dumbfounded but was interrupted by mother who had intervened.

"Put the doll down. You cannot take it without paying. Talk to your Papa when he gets home," as she grabbed the box, gave it to the cashier and pulled me by my hood.

Needless to say, I refused to hold my sister's hand and moaned all the way home. My mother told me later that at one point, I lay on the sidewalk and asked her to run over me with my brother's stroller to end my misery. Yes, I was the ultimate drama queen--but she told me to take it up with the master of the house...my father. And that I did.

Right after he placed the last morsel of food in his mouth (since I was instructed never to speak or interrupt my father during dinner) I interrogated him with a barrage of questions.

"How much money do you make?"
"After you pay the bills, can the money leftover pay for my doll?"
"Can I not eat for one week in order for you to pay for my doll?
"Can you let Mama pay for all the bills and things we need?"
"Can I get a job and pay for my doll myself?
"Can I return all the bottles and use that money for my doll?"

My mother looked over at me emphatically and cleared the table in silence. My father sat back in his chair and picked his teeth with a toothpick--his 'after-dinner routine'. I scrunched my nose and awaited is reply. I tried to sit up straight and even placed my hands in my lap to impress him. What could go wrong? I gave him many answers on how to pay for my doll. It was a sure win for me.

"Why do you need this doll?" he implored.

"Because everyone at school has her."

"If everyone jumped off a bridge to their death, would you do the same?" I always hated this response and back then, never understood where he was going with this statement. JAB.

"Yes I would if there was a talking doll at the bottom of the bridge." My father roared with laughter and then abruptly left the table. I followed him into the family room.

"Daddy, I need this doll! She talks. You just pull the cord and she talks. Isn't that amazing?"

"I don't need to pull a cord and you talk non-stop. That is what I call amazing," he said picking up his newspaper to hide behind. JAB. I could feel the tears forming. I hated it when he would flip the argument into some kind of a comedy routine.

"I know you have the money but you won't spend it on me because you buy what YOU like. That is not fair! When I have my own children, I will buy them whatever they want because...well....because..." My father lowered the paper slowly and waited for me to finish my sentence. The drama queen was rising inside of me.

"Because why?" he said raising his eyebrow, still smiling.

"Because I will love them more!" I shouted. My father stopped smiling and called for my mother. She came around the corner, wiping her hands with a dish towel.

"Did you hear what she said? She doesn't think I love her because I do not buy her things. Tell her that money does not buy love! Tell her!" he exclaimed.

"She is right here. And you are already talking to her. You tell her," my mother said softly and left the room. I looked back at my father who was agitated. I know today that my father meant well, but back then he had trouble conveying his message, without getting his feathers ruffled.

My father ran his hands through his hair and regarded me with suspicion. His glare was always intimidating to me but I kept my feet firmly planted and glared back.

"Daddy, I promise, I will never ask for another thing as long as you buy me this doll," I pleaded. I knew I was lying but I had to make a case.

"I hear this ALL the time. Tomorrow it will be a new toy that comes on TV. You do not need this doll. Be a leader, not a follower!" JAB. He waved me off and picked up his newspaper. To make things worse, when he folded his section over, the advertisement for the doll was facing me! JAB.

"Daddy! Look, she is in the newspaper! This is the doll I want!" I grabbed the paper and pointed to her picture.

Lesson #1: NEVER grab a newspaper out of your father's hands!

My father stood up and towered over me. He snatched the paper from out of my hands.

"GO TO YOUR ROOM! You will never understand until you have your own children!" he yelled.

My mother came running into the family room and took me by the shoulders. I showed him my fist on the way out. Fight fire with fire. Yes, I did not know any better.

My mother took me to my room and closed the door.

"When will you learn?" she asked. I changed into my pajamas and angrily got under the covers while she watched. I could see she was trying to calm me down. Funny enough, it was never through words. It was through her actions. She would smile and wait. Her patience was unbelievable. She put up with my father and her strong-willed daughter and became the referee in our fights. It was her calmness that kept me sane.

She stroked my hair and waited for my huffing and puffing to stop. "You will get everything you want... but in time. Be patient. Appreciate what you have today,' she said soothingly. She put her hand on my chest. "Do you hear that? Its your heart beating. Air goes in and comes out. You are breathing. That is what is keeping you alive now. Some children have died because they have problems with their heart. Some children are very sick and they live in the hospital. They cannot run and play like you do everyday. God gave you a healthy body. You make Him sad when you don't thank him for it."

I lay in stunned silence. I never thought about it in that way. I searched her kind face for more answers.

"Maybe if I am sick, I will get all the presents I want in the hospital. Then Papa would buy me the doll!" I exclaimed with renewed energy. My mother shook her head in disappointment.

"That is a horrible thing to say! You want to be sick? How can you enjoy your toys if you are lying  in a hospital while your parents are upset with worry? Shame on you!"

She was right. And I hated to admit it. But she made sense and somehow the doll was no longer important.

Lesson #2: Hindsight is 20/20

Lesson #3: Be a leader, not a follower

Three lessons I learned from my father.

But my mother's phrase has been the only one I catch myself saying to my own three drama queens today....

Mainstream Marie

My best friend from Kindergarten was Melissa. Her parents were German and I remember them fondly--Godfrey and Rose. I credit Godfrey for helping learn how to ride a bike. Rose was like a second mother to me and I spent many afternoons at Melissa's house playing in her pink room with her dolls.

"What colour is your room?" Melissa asked me one day. She had never been to my house. I was too embaressed to show her where my room was situated in comparison to the rest of the family. Melissa was an only child and she slept next to her parents room.

"White. Just plain white," I replied and avoided eye contact. I did not have any posters, wallpaper or design on my walls. It was devoid of colour and therefore devoid of any emotion. I always felt happy in Melissa's pink and sunny room compared to my dreary grey and white dungeon.

We would play with her dollhouse everyday. She had a doll collection from all over the world that lined the shelves on her walls and an immense Barbie collection. Pretty much the only toy I had was my bike (which was more of a transportation vehicle than a toy) and a doll that mother had sewn for me. I did everything with that doll. I had named her Marie. My mother stuffed it with shreds of old clothes, with two buttons for eyes and red thread for its tight-lipped smile. The yellow yarn was slowly falling out--Marie was almost bald. She also had a Pakistani look, fitted with red and gold outfit. And she was the only toy I had--and I was extremely embaressed to admit that to Melissa.

"Can I see your room?"

"I am sorry. You cannot," I said sadly.

"But why not?" she insisted. I knew I was going to have to ramp up my imagination to get out of this predicament. What will she think of it when she sees the barren walls, the 'old people linens' and the adult furniture that used to be my parents bedroom suite? Melissa had a Donny and Marie bedset, a carousel lamp, and a large, wooden pony in the corner and all sorts of neat stuff.

"My room...its...well its haunted!" I exclaimed. Melissa's eyes grew wide and she leaned forward.

"And you sleep in there??" She had dropped her Barbie and the furniture flew out of the dollhouse and scared both of us.

"Yes, I do. But I have tamed the ghost. You see, he actually lives in my dining room but sometimes he comes downstairs into my room to be with me." I remember my nightly trips upstairs to my parent's bedroom, yelling at the chandelier on the way.

Melissa was intrigued. But my story did not get the desired effect I expected.

"Now I really want to come and see your room. Maybe the ghost and I can be friends!" My jaw dropped. What the hell was she talking about?

"You want to be friends with the ghost? Well I am not sure if he would like that....I mean he is used to seeing only me. You might scare him, you know." I was trying quickly to dissuade her from coming over.

"Are you scared? I mean its your bedroom. How do you sleep at night if he comes into your room? You must be friends. So he is a friendly ghost!" She jumped up excited and ran to her closet. I sat motionless trying to understand what had just happened.

"What are you doing?"

"I am looking for the right dress to wear when I go and see your bedroom! I will be over in two hours, after my lunch!"

I smacked my forehead. Good God. She was serious about coming over....and I was in trouble. My worry was less about the ghost living in my house; but more about the state of my room.

"I have to go," I abruptly stood up to take my leave. I wobbled out of her house and ran home. Something needed to be done and fast. But there was not enough time. I flew in the front door and ran past my father who was reading the newspaper, towards my mother at the stove.

"Mama, you need to paint, wallpaper and design my room so it looks like a girl lives there!" I yelled. I flew upstairs to my parents room and looked for anything to dress it up. I looked around and realized their room was just as desolate as mine. I ran to the bathroom and looked around wildly. I grabbed the purple hairy mat near the tub and turned around. My father stood at the doo,r shaking his head.

"What on Earth is going on?" he demanded. My brain was still in motion as I eyed the green doyley on the kleenex box.

"Papa! We need to decorate my room fast. Melissa wants to come over and see it. Hurry, there is no time. Please go to the store and by me some dolls, stuffed animals and a Donny and Marie bedspread!"

I could see the vein in his head twitch. He blocked me as I tried to brush past him at the bathroom door. "I am not buying any of this useless things. You want to show her something? Show her all the exercise books your Uncle brings home to you. Impress her with your mind!"

I curled my lip under my nose (a habit I still do today when I am not impressed).

"My mind?!? When I go to her house, we don't talk about HER mind! Ugh, she is going to be SO BORED, Papa! My room is so boring! There is nothing to play with!" At this point I was hyperventilating. She will never be my friend again after she sees my room, I thought. I ran wildly through the house, trying to find things of colour. I even pulled out one of my mother's sequined saris and placed it over my bed. The shaggy purple bath mat was placed carefully in front of the door and the doyley was unceremoniously strung over my lamp as an impromptu cover. My mother came down to investigate.

"Oh Mama! I have no toys!"

"Show her the doll I made you. Show her Marie," she smiled. She knew I walked all over the house with that thing under my arm.

"NO! I can't. Its SO ugly," I responded, bewildered. My mother stopped smiling and fell silent. She did not speak another word and went back upstairs.

I stepped back to examine my room. Red sari, purple mat and a green doyley. It looked like a scene out of the Wizard of Oz. Not the most romantic, girly girl looking room. I picked up the globe and try to shove it into the closet but it lurked out as if it was spying on me. I turned around and saw Marie smiling at me from my bed. I hid her under one pillow. In my opinion at the time, that was the real ghost in my room. A homemade, bald doll. And ironically it was her that kept me sane at night, all by myself, two floors down from the rest of the family.

The doorbell rang. It was Melissa. And she looked beautiful. She wore a peach, ruffled dress with a white cardigan, frilly peach socks and white shoes. I still remember the outfit today because it was juxtaposed with the Pakistani outfit my mother made me wear to honour her arrival! Mine was shocking pink with gold fringes and bottoms which were too big, forcing me to hike them to my chest under the tunic!

When my mother heard that Melissa was 'invited' she insisted for all of us to wear traditional clothes. She was so excited that she hand-made samosas and quickly cooked biryani. I feared for my life. The house stunk to high heaven of oil and spice. Melissa would never eat OUR food. She was German! She loved sausages and sauerkraut! But my mother put Melissa at the table and fed her like a mother would feed her favorite child--with love and patience.

Melissa gobbled down three samosas but the biryani was too spicy and she politely declined when my mother insisted she try more. My heart was beating in my head with trepidation --maybe I could make her forget about my room.

We watched a bit of TV when she could no longer wait. "Where is your room?" She got up off the sofa and began to search. I stopped her. She was standing just outside my door.

"It's not what you expect," I sighed.

"Did the ghost mess it up?"

"There is no ghost. I lied. I just don't think you will like it." I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I looked down and then slowly pushed open the door. Melissa walked in and smiled. She touched the sari on the bed,sat down and looked around in amazement. I continued to look at my feet. This was it. I would not be able to go out in public after this. She was the first and only friend to see my room.

Melissa saw something and walked towards my closet. Damn, that stupid globe! My Uncle had bought it from the University of Toronto bookstore where he was studying. She pulled it out and placed it in the middle of the room. "Oh I love this! Its the world. Here, lets find Germany and Pakistan!" I relented and walked over to watch. She spun it around and found both countries.

"This is so cool!" She then walked over towards my bed and stopped. She bent her head to look more closely. Damn, ....Marie!! I ran over to stop her but she had already seen it. My doll's foot was protruding out beneath the pillow. Melissa pulled her out, in all her glory. I was flabbergasted and embaressed. She examined it closely and turned it over. She was completely fascinated.

"Did someone make this?"

"Um, yeah," I sighed. "My mother made her. Her name is Marie and she is the only doll I have," I said in a quiet voice. I could not even look at Marie. She looked old and warn in Melissa's hand.

"She is beautiful. I cannot believe your Mom made this for you. My mom has never made me anything in my entire life. You are so lucky! Marie should be on top of your bed, not hiding under a pillow!" And with that, Melissa nestled her between two pillows and looked at her admiringly. I was shocked.

"You have a great room! And downstairs away from your parents, all to yourself. Lucky duck you are!" I followed her out of my room, still not comprehending her words.

"I have to go now! Thanks for having me over and showing me your cool room!" Melissa bounded up the stairs towards my mother in the kitchen.

"Thank you for the lovely snacks. And I LOVE Marie. Can you make me one too?" My mother patted her head and promised to make her a doll. I stood with my mouth open. After Melissa had gone, I sat at the kitchen table, watching my mom cook in silence.

"Are you going to make Melissa a doll?"

"Yes, she asked me to," my mom said not looking at me.

"Could I ask you one thing, Mama? Please don't make her as pretty as Marie, ok?"

Love is Loud

Growing up, I rarely saw my parents show affection. My mother, as any mother would, displayed affection with her own children (a hug here, a kiss there) but I never saw it with my father. When they would watch TV together, she would sit on one end of the sofa and my father on the other. When we walked outside, they would never hold hands. They rarely hugged. And forget about EVER seeing them kiss. That was most certainly taboo.I knew they slept in the same bed, as I was told early on that husband and wives do that sort of thing, but other than that, I was not sure if they really loved each other.

Since I was exposed to TV at a young age and it became a babysitting tool, I saw many shows and movies where the people on the screen 'displayed' their love. As a result, I was confused about the state of affairs in my own house. This influenced me insofar that it made me yearn for the physical and emotional love that was missing from my own life.

My father would rarely commend me on a job well done. Instead, I was criticized when everything went wrong. My mother would support me emotionally but it was hard to give each child one on one attention, especially since my siblings were only eleven months apart. She was expected to rear the children while my father was the token breadwinner. And when he came home at night, he was too tired and my time with him was minimal.

As a result, I had to touch. I had to hug. I had to kiss. I became the opposite of what my parents represented. While they taught me that all of these things were forbidden, I rebelled against this ideology. And it started from an early age. My father blamed my mother who in turn blamed the TV and society for turning me into an uncontrollable force. I think my mother sensed my need to be loved in this way, but she herself was brought up and trained to suppress these emotions.

So I hugged everyone. I hugged my teachers, I hugged our family friends, I hugged my dolls and even my crybaby sister. I started initiating hugs with my father who was taken aback with my new behaviour. His discomfort stemmed from the fact that I was hugging everyone, even strangers, without discretion.

"Why do you need to hug everyone. Its not nice," I remember him telling me. This was after my routine medical check up. When we left his office, I hugged and thanked the doctor who chuckled as a result of my exuberance.

"But Mama said we should love everyone," I insisted. My father rubbed his temples. No, I didn't know how exhausting I was back then.

"Doesn't mean you have to show it to everyone. You can love in silence."

"But how will they know if I don't show it?"

"Just smile. Smile and walk away!" I would get these two sentence lectures and then my father would give up and walk away. I skipped over to the mirror and smiled at my reflection. How does just smiling work? Since he had reprimanded me, I figured my hugging was unacceptable and I needed to rethink my strategy.

One day. my dad's younger brother came to visit. When he walked into our house, my father greeted him with a hug and he proceeded to nod to my mother. He then picked up and kissed my brother and sister. When it was my turn, I stood behind my father's chair and smiled a wide and toothless smile. Perplexed, he tried to come over and hug me, but I hid behind the chair, popped my head out and continued to smile.

"Is this how you greet your Uncle?" my father questioned. I kicked the back of his chair. My dad was a big problem for me growing up. An oxymoron. A walking contradiction. No matter what I did, I got in trouble. But I be damned to go against what he told me and I continued to smile a very crooked, crazed smile at my Uncle. He sat near my father and stretched out his arms.

"Come my dear. Hug your Uncle!" I shook my head and continued to smile, showing a few of the teeth that took forever growing in. This time, my father turned around, grabbed me from the scruff of my neck and pushed me forward towards my Uncle. I turned so not to face him and ended up receiving a 'back' hug from him. My good-natured Uncle laughed and told me to run along.

I left, confused and angry. I went outside and sat on the porch to think. My neighbour Frank was riding bike and hit the curb on his way up the driveway. He instantly fell off his bike and grabbed his knee. I barrelled down my front steps towards him but stopped abruptly. My first instinct was to reach down and hug him. Just smile and walk away, I heard my father say. He looked at me, expecting a hug--since I hugged him everyday that week for no apparent reason. But I stood still and just smiled. "What is so funny! I just hurt my knee!" he exclaimed.

"I am not allowed to hug you. I hope my smile helps," I said, feeling like an idiot. This was ridiculous. I succumbed. I reached down, pulled him up and hugged him fiercely.

"Are you ok??"

He pushed me away. "Its ok. I am ok now." But I grabbed him again and held him, hoping his pain would go away.

"Young lady! What did I just tell you about hugging!" my father yelled from the front door.

Exasperated, I turned around and yelled back:"I CAN'T LOVE IN SILENCE!!!"

Commanding the language

I do not remember when my brother was born. I don't remember him coming home from the hospital, nor playing with him or that he even existed in my early years. But there was one memory of him that I can never erase. I am not one to find humour in tragic events but since this happened over 35 years ago, I can joke about it today.

One thing that I did know was that when my brother was born, he became the baby of the family and very close to my mother. She considered him to be a gift from God. After having two daughters, she was waiting for his birth. He was the apple of her eye. And he ultimately replaced my senior status in the family. Oddly enough, I was never jealous of him. He was and still is the sweet boy that occupied a special place in my mother's heart. However, my command of the language did not help elevate this true status according to my parents.

The one memory I have of my brother plays back to me like a movie in slow motion. I came through the door from the house to the garage and was planning to take my bike for a spin. But I heard a piercing scream and saw my baby brother holding his head, jumping up and down with blood tricking from his forehead. I ran over and yelled at him to tell me what happened. He looked towards the cement stairs that led up to the front door of our split level home. I felt sick.

My parents ran out and I remember the look of horror on my mother's face. She ran back in and grabbed a towel. My father picked him up and brought him into the family room where he lay limp in his arms. I consoled my sister who was crying and tried to control my emotions. My mother sat next to him and applied pressure to his head. My father was barking orders to my mother who then ran all over the house to find gauze and the phone book.

The next thing I remember, we were driving in the car to the medical center. Tears streamed down my cheek as I silently cried and prayed for my brother to be alive. He moaned in my mother's arms as my father frantically drove. At the time, I had never been so scared in my life. What was to become of him? When we arrived at the medical center, we were ushered to the waiting room while my father carried my brother in with my mother. I sat alone with my sister and lied by reassuring her everything would be ok. My sister and I hugged each other for support.

A woman noticed that we were left alone and she came over to sit closer to us.

"What happened?" she asked.

I brushed away my tears. "My brother...he...he....."

The woman paused and looked confused. She asked again. "What happened to your brother?"

I tried to string words together. "He fell....down....stairs....head...blood...dying" I blurted and then turned away.

She smiled kindly and told us he would be ok. Just as she got up to move away, we heard my brother screaming. It sent chills up my spine and my sister and I sat still. My mother came out fifteen minutes later.

"They were stitching him up. He was crying about the needle," she said as she wrung her hands. In retrospect, I wondered why the doctors did not use an anesthetic. I tried to be strong in front of her. I got up and hugged her and said that I was looking after my little sister. She only nodded sadly and went back in.

The woman came over again. "Is he ok?"

"He is still cracked. They are sewing him," I explained.

My parents both came out with my brother who entire head was bandaged up. He didn't feel well but was able to talk. I asked him what had happened. He explained that he was trying to reach the mail in the mailbox but he tripped on the top step and fell down the entire flight of cement stairs. On the ride home, I insisted he sit with us in the back seat but my parents were now overprotective of him and he remained in my mother's arms the whole ride home.

My brother made a full recovery and although I do not remember, my father told me later, when I was old enough to understand, that after the incident, he had to constantly correct my diction when I referred to my brother, in front of family, teachers and my parent's friends, as my "crackhead brother."

What did I say?!? I was completely demoted after that.

Tell the truth but keep it quiet!

Mrs. Sirunas. Doesn't this name just give you the chills? Does it not make your teeth chatter make you want to escape the reality you live in? Ok, maybe you don't get affected but I didn't know she was a force to be reckoned with back then. And no matter how hard I tried to escape her web, the more tangled I became. So the story goes like this...

Mrs. Sirunas was my Grade 2 teacher. Plump with short, dark brown hair, she wore spectacles at the tip of nose and greeted all of us everyday without a smile. Me being the chatterbox that I am,  received daily warnings and dirty looks from her. The ONLY time that I recall impressing Mrs. Sirunas was during reading time. I was above grade level and probably the only child in the class borrowing books from Grade 4 for extra curricular reading.

On one afternoon, Mrs. Sirunis asked another boy and I to stay after school. I nodded slowly but dread was quickly filling up inside of me. Why did she want us to stay? What did I do? What would she do to me? It bothered me for the rest of the day, so much so, that I could not concentrate and made many mistakes during math. She would walk by and rap my knuckles with her ruler for what she deemed as deviant behaviour. Secretly, I was crapping my pants trying to figure out what was going to happen. And I was going to make sure I would not be around to find out.

When the afterschool bell had rung, I slipped out of class undetected and ran home. My usual after school routine was to loiter in the park adjacent to the school and then skip home fifteen minutes later. Instead, I walked in thefront door within five minutes of the bell ringing, much to my mother's surprise. She quietly placed my snack in front of me and watched as I nervously gulped down my ice cream and ran into my room. I sat on my bed and rocked.

"Why are you rocking," she asked walking in to fold the laundry she placed on my bed. I ignored her and continued to rock to soothe my anxiety. She eyed me suspiciously but did not demand an answer.

An hour later, she was back in my room. "Mrs. Sirunas called," she announced. I stopped rocking at once. My heart was beating fast and my palms began to sweat.

"She asked me why you left when you were specifically told to stay after school. I told her I had no idea that you left and I would make sure you stay tomorrow."

"Did she tell you why she wants me to stay," I asked with my eyes wide.

"No. And you better stay after school tomorrow so we both find out why." With that said, she left the room--alone to my disillusionment and imaginative thoughts. I was convinced I was going to get the strap.

Back in the day, the belt was administered to anyone who misbehaved. I heard of many students being called to the principal's office where he would proceed to admonish the student for anything he deemed unappropriate (swearing, skipping school, talking back to the teacher, coming in late, etc). I lay in bed all night trying to figure out what I had done. I didn't sleep because I had to separate all the bad things I had done at home from all the wrongdoings I think I did at school. It was a long night. Needless to say, I was exhausted the next day and an emotional wreck. For me, it was doomsday.

My friend Shanta and I walked to school that morning. I dragged my feet. I was not looking forward to seeing my teacher. And trust me, Mrs. Sirunas was not happy when I walked into class. She acknowledged me with a stern nod and pointed me to my seat. When I asked the boy, who was sequestered to stay afterschool the day before, why she asked both of us to stay, he only smiled and said, "You are in big trouble!" This made my teeth chatter and my knees knock.

Throughout the day, I felt her eyes bore into my back when I was working at each station. I made several mistakes that day and she did not live it down. I was so nervous that I dropped the abacus on the floor twice when doing my calculations--all of which I got wrong. As a result, she made me stay in at recess to clean the chalkboards. I watched out the window as my classmates ran up and down the field, laughing and dancing, while I slapped chalk out of the erasers and made my hair and the classroom furniture white. Yes, I was reprimanded for that too and had to clean up the mess during storytime.

By the time the bell rang, I did not know if I was coming or going. I sat on the bench outside the classroom and wished I were dead. Yes, quite a sadistic thought. Yet a good escape. If I was found dead, my parents would blame Mrs Sirunas, she would be jailed for my murder and then no one would let her speak about why I was held afterschool. She would go crazy in jail and when she spoke the truth, no one would believe her. People would still be mourning for me. My imagination was rudely interrupted by the devil incarnate herself. Mrs. Sirunis stood outside the classroom door observing me while my evil thoughts ran wild.

"Come in," she motioned with her hand pointing back in the classroom. I got up uneasily and kept my head down. My shoelaces were untied but I was more concerned about where the principal was going to strap me. She made me stand in front of her desk. I waited while she cleared her papers and moved items to the corners of the desk. Great, I thought. They are going to strap me here, on her desk. She called my name. I dared not to look up. When she called me again, I looked up slowly to see her squinting her eyes at me.

"Do you know why I called you here today?"

"No."

"Why did you go home yesterday when I asked you to stay?"

"I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

I hesitated before answering. I heard my mother's voice in the back of my mind. Always tell the truth. Then I heard my father's voice....Keep quiet, you talk too much!

"Because....I am afraid of you." I cringed and looked down. Nothing. I closed my eyes, waiting in anticipation. Would it be a ruler or a strap? Nothing. When I looked up again, Mrs. Sirunas was not smiling, as usual. However, she was holding up a certificate with my name on it. I looked at it blankly, too scared to read.

"I wanted you to stay afterschool so I could show you this. You have won the best reading award in all of Grade 2. And I wanted to present it to you first before tomorrow's assembly in front of the whole school." She asked me to read the certificate back to her. I shyly read it out loud and then looked at her again. Still no smile.

"Promise me the next time I ask something of you, that you will listen instead of flying out of the school?" I nodded. She excused me and then I was free to leave. I walked slowly to the door, so not to 'fly' out of the room when she stopped me with another comment.

"Thanks for telling the truth. But I am really not that scary once you get to know me," Mrs. Sirunas said. And then she attempted a smile. I remember it more like a smirk.

I smiled back widely, encourage by her candour and responded, "Its ok, but I DON'T want to get to know you"

Mrs. Sirunas' mouth fell open and her eyes narrowed at me. What did I say? WHAT DID I SAY?

I was honoured at the assembly the next day but got detention for one week cleaning chalkboards afterschool. And I learned to combine my parents advice the hard way--Tell the truth but keep it quiet....

Will the real Donny please stand up?

It was a convoluted and complicated time when I had my first real crush. Picture it: Grade 1, six years old and not aware of the dynamics that played in the classroom or in the real world. For me, he was the only one that fulfilled all of my dreams.

The Donny and Marie show was a hit 70s show that featured the youngest of the Osmond brothers, Donny, Marie and the rest of their cheesy clan. But hey, they were not cheesy to me back then. Every Sunday night, I would tune in to see their muscial show that featured their songs, skits and other muscial guests. I was fixated only on Donny. For a while, I despied Marie, thinking she his significant other, only to realize many months later that the toothy, big haired girl was his sister. It did not matter where I was. Every Sunday, Donny and I spent the night together.

"We are leaving in fifteen minutes. Now only if I can find the directions," my father announced, checking all his pockets and motioning my mother to go through his coat. She had my crying sister in her arms, a purse in the other and all the while her sari was perfectly pleated. I came downstairs, still in my pajamas, much to my father's horror.

"Why are you not ready?" he demanded. I plopped myself onto the sofa and switched on the TV.

"Donny and Marie is coming on at 7. Can we leave after?" I gathered up my pink Barbie blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. I could feel from the eerie silence that my father was flabbergasted at the audacity of such a request.

"We have a wedding to attend where there will be 200 people and you sit here in your pajamas ready to watch TV?!" I could see the vein in his temple throbbing. I looked at my mother for help but my insolent sister continued to wail at the top of her lungs demanding God knows what from my poor mother.

"I will miss my show. Is there a TV at the wedding. Can I watch Donny there?" I asked innocently.

My father looked at my mother in disbelief and I saw him walk over to me with his finger wagging close to my head. Ok, I was going to get it now.

"What is with you and this show?" he exclaimed. "You are to go upstairs young lady, change into the clothes your mother ironed and get ready this instant!"

"But Daddy, I cannot miss Donny. He is going to be...my....he is my....well..." I hesitated. I was going for the kill to stall my father. "I am in love with Donny and we are going to get married!"

My father didn't miss a beat. He turned to my mother and wagged his finger at her. "I blame you Jamila! You let her watch this show every week and now she has these unIslamic fantasies. Get her ready now." He walked downstairs and out the front door to heat the car up. My mother sighed in exasperation and came over to me. She was rocking my sister who was inconsolable from her fit.

"Could you please just miss this show tonight? Maybe next week will be a rerun," she begged. I was shaking my head violently. This could not be happening. I needed to see Donny. One stern look from my mother did me in. When my father was mad, it was one thing but when my mother was not happy with me, I relented. I swung off the couch, got ready and sulked all the way to the wedding.

One Uncle approached our table at the wedding and saw me sulking. I had not touched the food on my plate. My mother was too busy trying to calm my wailing sister and my father, as usual, was making his social rounds and laughing from across the hall. "Arey, arey, my little chapati! Why are you looking so sad this evening?"

I gave him a dirty look and folded my arms. That did not dissuade him from coming over and sitting next to me. "Come on, it must not be so bad," he smiled politely, trying to get me to talk.

"I am going to marry Donny Osmond! But Daddy won't let me see him tonite!" I yelled over the blaring Indian music. Uncle laughed and laughed and slapped me on the back. "Oh my child, you will marry who your father will pick for you. And Donny is not Muslim. You could never marry him!"

The world as I knew it ended right there and then. A world without Donny. I could not imagine it and I was devastated. When my father returned to our table, I was livid! Anger and sadness enveloped me and I ran over to him and pinched his arm.

"I WILL MARRY DONNY. And you cannot stop me," I shouted. My father was talking to Uncle and they both stopped to react to my proclaimation. For one second they observed me and then resumed their conversation. My jaw dropped in surprise. No reaction. Not a word. I turned to my mother but she was consumed with feeding my sister who was refusing the bottle. I hung my head down and sat back in my chair. But do not despair for me...the story goes on....

In my Grade 1 class, there was a boy named Donny. He was blond with freckles and always wore a sweater vest to school. Quiet, unassuming and seemingly shy. I never took any notice of him except for the fact that he shared my ultimate love's name. For the most part, I did not notice any boy in our class. But he sure noticed me. And without realizing it, he became my first real crush.

Donny would do very nice things for me. If it wasn't my day to be in the puppet play group, Donny would switch spots with me. During recess, Donny would always pass me the ball if we were playing soccer or basketball. When I forgot lunch one day, Donny shared his snacks with me. Donny was always there for me but I did not notice. Until the day he approached me.

In the hallway, I was distracted one day after recess and was slowly making my way back to class when he cornered me. We were by the water fountain. He told me to wait while he gulped down the water while I watched curiously.

"I just wanted to say that I am ....uh....well...you know....I like you," he said nervously, adjusting his sweater vest by pulling and stretching it down. I was mortified. I looked at him blankly as he sheepishly smiled back at me.

"I am already in love with Donny," I blurted. Donny became confused.

"You mean you love me," he smiled even wider. I was irritated with his stupidity but then I realized he thought I was talking about him.

"NO! Donny Osmond. My dad said I cannot marry him but I am going to grow up, leave this place, find him and tell him I watched every one of his shows, except last Sunday when I was made to go to some crazy wedding, and then he will fall in love with me and we will get married!" Donny's eyes welled up and he brushed past me to return to class. I stood there for a good five minutes and wondered what had happened. A few weeks later, all of the nice things Donny did for me ceased to happen. And I came home everyday, confused and sad.

And my Sunday ritual continued. I remember going up to the TV screen and kissing Donny on the mouth. My mother caught me doing this a few times and warned me if my father ever saw this, I would be grounded for a month. But I didn't care; in my little mind, I believed Donny was kissing me back. In retrospect, it was one of the oddest times in my life but a clear misunderstanding of reality and illusion. And it took Donny Osmond himself to make me realize it.

At school, Donny had reverted back to his old ways. He would share his toys with me, smile at me assertively when we passed in the hallway and help me with my math. But I gave him the cold-shoulder. I did not know how to react to his kindness. And slowly I began to realize that I liked him too. And this behaviour followed me all the way to high school. If I had a crush on a guy, I would never show it. In fact, I would make him believe that I was the last person on Earth who could like him. Guarded, then and now. Ironically though, I could express my emotions to an illusion; a one dimensional relationship that had no merit or real rewards--until Donny Osmond disrupted that fantasy.

The next Sunday, Donny Osmond introduced his girlfriend to the whole world. On national TV. My mother was sitting next to me knitting as I watched on in horror. I could not approach the screen for my nightly smooch. I was glued to my chair and ...BROKEN. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Donny would never be mine. I got up and switched off the show halfway through. My mother put her knitting down but remained silent. I looked at her forlornly and dragged my feet back to bed. That was the last time I watched the Donny and Marie show.

Donny sat at the picnic table, eating his lunch alone while I watched from the portable steps. I longed to go and sit with him but I could not bring myself to do so. When he would look my way, I would turn away, pretending not to see him. It was the hardest thing for me to do--to admit to myself that I had been in love with the wrong Donny. My heart sank as I watched another girl sit down next to him and they began talking. I sat by myself on the steps and thought about Donny Osmond. I remembered his girlfriend hugging him on the show, reciprocating his feelings. However, I didn't have the slightest clue how to do this in real life. There was no more TV screen to kiss. In real life, it would kiss back.

And without a moment's notice, there Donny was, by my side, looking down at me with his hand reaching out to mine. "Come have lunch with me," he smiled kindly while I stumbled with my words, trying hard to formulate an answer that encompassed how I felt for him. Instead, I smiled back, took his hand and we ate together at the picnic bench, side by side, alone, sharing our thoughts--in complete and utter silence.

That night, as we ate dinner, I was smiling to myself. My father noted that I stopped my Sunday night ritual and saw that my mood had finally changed. "So, you are over Donny now?"

I smiled secretly and replied,"Oh no Daddy. I am still going to marry him."

Variety Store Virgin

Though fiercely independant and impetous, I was chicken to try new things. Like my father, I did not take risks; afraid of the outcome, the unknown, the consequences. The free-spirited me conflicted with the subsconscious chains that bound me. A lot of the uncertainty stemmed from how my father brought me up. My mother was indifferent. She too was bound by the same restrictions and her response was nonchalance. But for me, I had to fight and struggle between these two worlds. I was a living and breathing oxymoron.

One day my friend Shanta came over with her wagon full of empty bottles. She announced that she was going to the store to return and get money back for her father. Smitten with the idea of getting money so easily, I told her to wait while I checked for bottles in my house. My mother collected them from under the sink and remembered that there were some in the garage. I threw them into a bag and headed out the door, excited by my new adventure. My father was outside cutting the lawn and upon seeing us, he turned off the mower.

"And where do you think you are going with all those bottles?" he asked.

I looked at Shanta, unable to explain the plan.

"We are going to return these bottles and bring back the money," she said while I hid behind her.

My father stood still for one entire minute and then scratched his head.

"Do you know how many bottles you are taking and how much money you need to collect?" he asked loudly. I knew this question was meant for me. I stepped around Shanta to present myself.

"Stop slouching," he demanded.

I stood up straight. "I have ten bottles...and I ....will get the money and bring it to you," I stuttered.

Damn. My original intent was to pocket the money and buy candy at the variety store.

"Carry on," and he waved us away and turned the mower back on. I exhaled deeply and lifted my bag of bottles onto the wagon. One neighborhood boy, Frank, ran up and joined us on our way to the variety shop which was about a ten minute walk away. On our journey, I became increasingly nervous. As Shanta and Frank chattered away, I was now apprehensive about what was about to go down.

How much was each bottle return? What would be the total? What was I supposed to say? Who did I need to ask? What counter took the bottles back? The whole idea of the bottle return became a huge business deal that could go all wrong. And I was too scared to think if I messed up what the consequences would be.

As we entered the shop, I watched Shanta in action. She picked up the bottles from the wagon and placed them on the counter top. A large, burly man with a goatee, extremely long sideburns and several tattoos on his arms nodded to her, opened the cash register and handed over the cash. It utterly confused me that no words were exchanged--only subtle body language. She pocketed the money and then they both looked at me.

I cautiously approached the counter. Everything seemed large to me. At age six, everything would be. The counter, the man, the shelves around me that threatened to box me in at any given moment. My knees were shaking from sheer nervousness. I heard a clock ticking somewhere. Everyone was silent while I stood looking up at the scary man with the tattoos. At once, he became agitated and leaned towards me.

"Well, what is it? Speak up!" he grumbled. His words knocked the wind out of me. I can do this, I thought, despite the sense of dread that monopolized my inner core.

Instead, when I opened my mouth to speak, I started to cry. I was so overcome with fear that I lost my confidence. I wasn't supposed to speak. Things should have gone the same way with me as they did with Shanta. But now it was as if he knew that I was new to this experience and it became a test of my wits.

Shame on him. Shame on Shanta. Shame on my father. Shame, shame, shame. All three had become instant scapegoats by my fear.

Frank grabbed my bag of bottles and placed them on the counter.

"How many bottles are in here?" the burly man barked. I stood immobilized, still crying like a baby. Again I coaxed myself to speak. Only inauduble squeaks seemed to escape my mouth. I knew I had brought ten but I was completely unable to communicate it. When I did not reply, he shook his head and started counting loudly.

"ONE...TWO...THREE...FOUR....." I was utterly ashamed of myself. What had gotten into me? Shanta looked at me curiously and then reached out to hold my hand. Frank shook his head and rolled his eyes.

The cash register opened and the man handed the cash over to Frank who instantly put it in his pocket. My mouth fell open. Another dilemna. I was without bottles AND the money.

"Is this your first time returning bottles?" asked the man. He was staring down at me. Waiting. Expecting an intelligent answer. There was an explanation. However, I had no idea what to say.

When I started to speak, I began to cry again, pointing at Frank. No one could understand my nonsensical language. I pulled Shanta and we all left the store.

I cried all the way home. Shanta tried to calm me down but I was inconsolable. Frank was so embaressed that he began to whistle loudly--I was sure it was to drown out my incessant crying.

We arrived to Shanta's home. Her father was walking down the driveway from the porch to meet us. He had heard me crying from the corner. Shanta handed him the cash and the wagon.

He turned to me with amazement. "This is the first time I have seen you so upset! What happened?"

Shanta explained the whole story to him and he laughed. His belly was very big and I remember seeing it shake while he laughed. "You are one of the most fearless girls in the neighbourhood and returning some bottles got you upset? How much money did you get back?"

Frank was loitering at the end of their driveway. kicking stones with his foot. I suddenly remembered that he had pocketed MY money. I instantly stopped crying and charged at him. He was taken by surprise when I launched onto his back and threw him on the grass. He was older than me by a year and foot taller. Shanta's father came barrelling down behind us and pulled me off of him.

"He has my money," I growled. There was grass in his mouth and dirt all over my clothes. Frank, always known to be a quiet and respectful boy, shrugged his shoulders,  gave the money to Shanta's father, turned and then shot me a dirty look.

"I was going to give it back to you but since you cried like a baby in the store I held onto it to keep it safe!" He stood there, waiting for an apology.

I felt even worse. To top it off, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father heading over from across the street.

"Did you jump on this boy?" he yelled even before reaching us. Shanta's father explained to my father what happened while I lowered my head and stared at my shoes. Shanta had been called inside for lunch and left me alone. After hearing the story, my father stood for five minutes to think.

In retrospect, when I reminisce about how my father approached the decision-making process, it made me wonder why he took so long. I notice a tendency of normal people to formulate a decision WHILE hearing a story. But no, my father made it more dramatic then it actually was. He would pause for what seemed to be an eternity, inconveniencing the other party by making them wait while he sorted out all the outcomes.

"Please give the money to the boy. Clearly he was the one who did the transaction." Shanta's father began to argue but my father stopped him with his hand. Frank looked at me sheepishly but I turned the other way while my father collected the money and handed it to him. We all parted ways -- I, particularily with a heavy heart.

Later that night, after finding out that the money had been given to Frank, my mother came to my room, down on the third floor of the house. She sat on my bed but I turned my back to her.

"I know you were scared to go. I know you didn't know what to do. It is ok. We all learn from our mistakes. If you don't do it, how will you ever learn? It is ok to be scared. I came all the way from Pakistan to Canada and needed the learn how to do everything--and I was very scared. Learning can be hard. But it gets easier once we do it again." She wiped my brow and then snatched her hand away. I had a raging fever. I heard her leave and loud words were spoken upstairs. She returned with a cold cloth and medicine. She crawled into the bed and slept with me that night.

When I woke up the next morning, my mother was gone. In her place, on my pillow, was a crisp dollar bill. I smiled. Ten cents for every bottle.

When my fever broke later that day, I called Shanta.

We arrived at the same variety store and I chose my candy. One for me, one for Shanta and a chocolate for Frank. I put everything on the counter and stared the large, burly man down.

"Thirty cents please," he smiled with one eyebrow raised. I decided he was not that scary after all and confidently handed him my dollar bill.

And while we three sat on my porch and ate the candy, my mother smiled at us through the front window.

The meat-eating bride

1973 -- I don't remember the trip to Pakistan that year. Since arriving to Canada, this was the first time home for my mother after being married. I was only three years old and there were dated pictures of me with my relatives; each shot retelling a story related to me by different people. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, older cousins, you name it. They all concluded that I was extremely mischevious. And they all loved me for it. I was, after all, the first granddaughter and niece in the family. A famous Canadian in my own right.

Although he complained incessantly to everyone, my father could not convince his own family about the clumsy, toothless, jibberish--speaking devil he had spawned. I was smothered with love, monopolized and regarded as an angel sent from Canada. My sister was two months old -- sickly, constantly crying and as a result, everyone was too afraid to hold her.

That left me to my own wiles.

The stories are many, however, I will share two events that are considered legendary within my family circle.

Being without most of my teeth may have impaired my speech but nonetheless had no affect on my eating habits. I loved to eat back then and the way to my heart was through my stomach. Pakistan was full of culinary delights. Organic meals made at home were in no comparison to the outside meals found in restaurants. Biryani, kormas, channa and many other treats were at beck and call at home. My family made sure that I ate homecooked meals to prevent inevitable illness from insanitary conditions in the marketplace.

My father's sisters would take turns cooking the meals and asked me daily what I wanted to eat. I was always consulted first. Even their own brother could not sway them to cook his favorite dish. Most of the time, my demands revolved around meat. Every dish had to include either beef or chicken. Yes, at the tender age of three, I was a full blown carnivore, much to the dismay of my father. My mother was just thankful that I ate and it was one less child she had to worry about.

One particular evening, my aunts called us to dinner and we sat together at a large table to accomodate eight family members. My grandparents, two aunts, one uncle, my parents and I. I sat next to my youngest uncle, on a pile of pillows so that I could reach the top of the table. Everyone began taking turns, pouring the rice and meat into their plates while I waited for my mother who ended up filling my plate with more rice than meat. Very quietly, while my uncle looked away absorbed in his story-telling, I reached over and grabbed all the meat in his plate and transferred it to my own.

My aunt was first to witness my debauchery. Astonished, she remained silent at first but suddenly burst into a fit of giggles as I quickly tried to devour the meat, trying not to get caught with the handsome portion on my plate. My uncle stopped talking and turned to my aunt while she shook her head in amazement. With one hand, I stuffed my mouth and filled it with delicious meat curry, juices flowing down the edges of my face, dribbling down my chin, while my other hand protected the remaining meat on my plate. When my uncle looked back at his own plate, he realized that all his meat was gone!

It was then he realized my trickery. He joined my aunt's laughter and then everyone caught onto my deception. My mother grabbed a napkin and insisted I spit out the large quantity of meat that was stored in my cheeks, fearing that I would choke. I turned and smiled at him, swallowing half the meat and muttering through my half-filled mouth.

"Yummmmmmmy," I announced while pointing to my stomach. One word summed it up: Disbelief.

My insatiable appetite was not the only intriguing thing that kept the masses entertained during our trip.

As the demure Pakistani bride

I was entranced with the notion of being a bride. Upon attending a relative's wedding, a day later I insisted that a bride's outfit be made for me as well. Both my aunts got to work and ordered the local tailor to make a replica of the bride's outfit from their cousin's wedding--only in my size.

When the outfit was delivered to the house, my aunt stole me away and dressed me in the gharrara. It came complete with its own veil. Once prepared, I immediately took on the character of a bride. I lowered my head and pretended to act demure. She was flabbergasted. I would not look up and insisted on sitting on the bed, head down, arms folded in front of me. She called the rest of family to witness the scene. My father was so amazed, he thought he would test me.

"Who is your husband if you are the bride?" he asked.

Without skipping a beat, I named his youngest brother to come sit next to me, all while maintaining  my innocence. My bemused Uncle sat next to me and tried to peek under the veil. I pulled on the end and covered my face.

Everyone laughed and my uncle ran to grab his camera. One word summed it up: Actress.

At the meek age of three, my audience was eating out of my hand...while I was eating all their meat ;)

Tears from Heaven

The rain always brings me down. But at the same time, it allows me to reflect and write. Today's rain made me remember an event long ago and I had to capture the moment now. Like most of my memories, as the years go by, they are being washed down the stream of life; a distant thought that will travel like water, through the fingers of time and be lost forever.

When I was young, I used to sit in the bay window of our home to watch the 'tears come down from heaven.' My mother would try to soothe me by turning the bad weather into an idea that was less terrifying to me.

"Why is God crying? Does he get sad too?" I asked. My mother smiled thoughtfully, trying to come up with an answer to my philosophical question.

"God is not crying, the clouds are. He is squeezing the water out of them so they are dry the next day for the sun." I didn't buy it.

The thunder always scared and titillated me at the same time. There was something about inclement weather that excited me insofar that my emotions became intertwined and the end result was a euphoric feeling that I could not put my finger on. Until today, thunderstorms awaken some raw being inside of me. I always watched from the inside looking out, but that day, I wanted to be a part of Nature--to be outside and experiencing the rain.

I ran downstairs and opened the door that led to the garage. My shiny bike was beckoning me. I turned around and went back to grab my rainboots and jacket. My parents were no where in sight. Freedom.

I tugged at the handle of the garage door and let it swing open. The rain was coming down hard. I felt the mist and dewy smell absorb into my senses. Hugging myself with pure joy, I jumped on my bike and hesitated, sitting between the garage and the opening of the sky. And then I heard it. The deep rumbling of a male voice, just steps behind me. At first, I mistook it as thunder. My father's voice was undeniable.

"Where do you think you are going?" he demanded. I turned ever so slightly to see him standing with his arms folded. Caught.

My foot was ready, on the pedal. It only needed one push. I felt my hands tighten on the handlebars. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I pondered my options. What could he really do if I drove out into the rain? I judged the distance from where he stood to my current position. I smiled.

"I am going into the tears of heaven!" I exclaimed and pushed off on my bike into the rain. Summer rain had to be the most glorious weather to be caught in. It was cool in the damp air and my hair was soaked immediately. As I whipped down the sidewalk, I glanced sideways to see my father standing at the opening of the garage, with his hands on his hips. He was not happy.

I splashed through puddles, drenched until my clothes stuck to my skin, laughing and speeding down the street, while letting the heavens cry upon me. The clouds were dark, foreboding and I waited to be sucked up into the sky. And then it thundered. I felt the crack rip through my entire body and it sent me to a screeching halt. I stood helplessly alone in the middle of the street and became utterly terrified. There was no one. Not a soul. Not even a car driving by. The second clap of thunder was more severe.

And then I began to cry. What a stupid idea, I said to myself. Immobilized with fear and a sudden urge to pee, I remained in the same spot for five minutes. I hugged my bike with the sinking feeling that the end was near. Suddenly, I felt someone grab my arm. I thought it was God. He had come for me--and now was taking me up to heaven!

Turns out God looked very much like my father. He was standing with his black umbrella and beige trenchcoat. His expression was stern however, I could have been mistaken. And as I shivered in the cold, with the rain falling on my head and the water dripping off my nose, scared out of my wits, praying out loud for God not to strike me with lightning, it was unmistaken. My father's eyes were smiling.

He held the umbrella over my head while I cried and cycled back slowly, under his shelter. The garage had been left open so I glided back in with a rush. My strong father grabbed the garage handle and pushed the door in. I got off my bike but it took me several attempts to bring down the kickstand. I was shaking like a leaf. He put his warm hand on my shoulder and guided me back indoors.
Protected.

"How were the tears from heaven?" he asked as he took a towel and wrapped it around my entire body. I was not facing him, guilt-ridden from my impetuous joy ride.

"Oh, I don't know, Daddy! There was so much water I don't know if they were God's tears or my own!"

Since I was facing the opposite direction, I did not know if the shaking was from my father drying me off or from his uncontrollable laughter.

PS My mother told me many years later that although he felt bad about my whole experience in the rain, my line about the tears was a joke he proudly shared countless times with their friends in social gatherings...

PhD of Ear Infections

In 1975, my father flew to Pakistan, leaving behind my mother with three children. Myself at age five, my sister who was three and my brother who was just two.

I do not remember him leaving but I remember my mother scrambling for help when I fell ill.

It all started one cold November evening as I cycled to my friend's home. We spent a cozy evening in her family room watching a movie. I was extra fidgety that night, constantly rubbing my ear. There was a ringing tone and slight discomfort but I brushed it off. Nothing was going to ruin my night. But an hour in, I started to feel the pain. Two hours later, I excused myself, jumped on my bike, and rode furiously home, with an agony in my ear that would not subside.

Three hours later, I was beside myself. My mother made me a hot water bottle, covered with a towel and pressed it against my swollen ear but I moaned in pain. It felt like someone was jabbing a knife into its core.

The next thing I remember, we were transported to our family friend's home. The mother was a pediatrician. I cried in pain and in the middle of the night, she took me to the hospital. My mother could not accompany me because she had to watch my siblings. I remember calling out her name as I sat on the cold hospital operating table. I was frightened out of my wits.

This was it. They were going to cut out my ear. No mother or father to witness the horror. Our family friend had changed into a lab coat and was holding a large syringe.

"I stole my neighbour's Barbie," I cried out, hoping that this last minute confession would absolve me from the punishment I had received from God. My father had given me multiple warnings that my late night escapades were considered a huge sin and that I would be punished somehow, someway.

I covered my ear and begged her that I could not get my PhD if I only had one ear.

She stepped back in surprise. "Who wants you to get a PhD?" she exclaimed, putting down the syringe.

"My father said that I better get a PhD or else," I sobbed, still holding my damaged ear. At this point, pus was now oozing out. My ear drum had finally erupted and I felt an eerie feeling of peace.

She placed both her hands on my shoulders and laughed. She laughed so hard that her whole body shook and vibrated into my body. Dumbfounded, I looked at her and thought she had gone crazy. Great, a nutjob was about to operate on me....

"I think you are a little too young to be worrying about your degree. Right now, we need to clean out that nasty infection in your ear. This syringe is full of water and it will flush out the pus and wax from the canal." Another doctor walked in to assist her.

"You mean my dad did not ask you to cut out my ear?" I asked.

She looked over at the other doctor who must have been smiling behind his mask.

"No, my dear. But you should return the Barbie back to your neighbour," she replied and she inserted the syringe into my ear. The surge of water was very painful. There were two sizes of syringes and each time they inserted the large one I begged them both to use the small one.

When the procedure was done, she picked me up and carried me into her office. She gave me a lollipop and then proceeded to whisper something into my healing ear.

"Did you hear me?" she asked. I smiled and nodded, sucking loudly and wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

When my father returned from Pakistan, I excitedly relayed the entire story to him as I sat on his lap and wrapped my arm around his neck. I made sure my good ear was close to him in case my 'damaged' ear grossed him out.

"So.....she did not cut off your ear? She should have cut it off. It got infected because you went out late that night." He looked at me sternly, waiting for my response.

I shifted uncomfortably in his lap but then I remembered what our family friend had whispered to me in her office after the whole incident.

"She said how could she cut off my ear if I was waiting for my father to come back and tell me how much he loves me?"

I have to say my father was rendered speechless for a good five minutes and while I sat on his lap, he inspected my ear...both of us smiling, each for our own reasons.....

Pendulum of Love

Upset with all the attention my new sister commanded, I was brimming with jealously. My father was more relaxed with her, of course. She was after all, just a baby. He could give her back to my mother when he was 'done' with her. However, with me, I was a reoccuring nightmare - I kept coming back.

One afternoon of poking my head through his newspaper, my father finally gave up with my shenanigans and blew his stack.

"You need to find something to do. Why don't you read a book?" he suggested.

"I have read them all," I pouted. I was extremely bored. Being grounded for the third time that week was weighing heavily upon my heart.

"Then play in the backyard," he glared at me. He tried to lift his paper but I pulled it back down.

"Come out and play with me," I smiled slyly. He shook his head and raised the paper anyway. I sighed dramatically and dragged my feet to the door and stopped to see if he was looking. He did not look my way. My heart sank into my stomach. I could not change his mind nor sway his attention and opened the sliding door with such dejection that even it creaked as if it were moaning.

I sat on the concrete step and pulled my knees up to my chin. I remember even back then how my emotions swung like a pendulum; from one extreme to the next. At one instance, I could be elated, tantalized with excitement, running with an over-exploding joy where the average outsider would have thought the circus came to town.

But equally so, I was also known to be affected by bouts of forlorn, depressed periods where nothing or no one could say or do anything to change my demeanor or negativity. It was if the pendulum had swung in the opposite direction and the momentum had no choice but to continue.

The gravitational pull could not be defied, no matter what.

The only healing agent was the passing of time -- to allow for the pendulum to swing back.

My father came out, rubbing his palms together, ready to play ball in the backyard. I raised my eyebrow in defiance and did not move.

"Come now, pupoo. I have finished my paper. Let's get some exercise and fresh air."

I did not move. My knees remained firmly planted under my chin and I did not utter one word. My heart was still heavy and I could not push myself to join him.

"You wanted me to join you and now here I am, so get up." There was a sense of urgency in his voice now.

I could not move. The heaviness was two-fold now. I am an afterthought, I told myself. When I asked him, he did not come. Now he comes when it pleases him, not me. I am nobody special. And I made myself believe it.

"GET UP!" he yelled now. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his hands on his hips.

Problem with our DNA was that we were both equally stubborn. I remained seated and did not budge. He stood for one solid minute, muttering under his breath nonsensical things and then finally brushed passed me and closed the creaky sliding door.

I remained in that fetal position until sunset when my mother pried me apart around dinner time. She did not say one word to me because she saw the anger in my eyes.

But she waited until the pendulum swung back.

And when it did, she took me in her arms and hugged me so hard that I finally let go ..... and smiled through my tears.

Share the love.

Social MEdia

I definately got it from my father. Whether he could control it or not was not my problem. And although it was a characteristic inherited on his side, my mother allowed it to run freely without inhibitions. I coined the phrase 'viral' even before social media was created.

From the time the sun came up in the morning, until the stars came out at night, I was a banshee on the run. I was never one of those toddlers who would sit quietly on their own, busying themselves with blocks, toys or paper and pen. Not one of those children who could occupy their time with their parents and siblings for hours on end. Not the normal offspring of a mild-mannered couple who wanted their daughter to read and write at the tender age of four.

I was Social MEdia, running out into the world, revealing the happenings in my home to anyone that would listen to me. I could not sit still. I could not revel in my own silence. I needed people. I needed attention. I needed the spotlight. Such a far cry from who I am today where somedays my solace can only be found in silence, where privacy is a God-given right, where the thought of someone knowing all my secrets would make me cringe and wrap myself into a fetal position and blanket my mind and soul from the glare of the spotlight.

At age four, I did not care. I wanted to shout out to the world who I was.

With the ability to ride a two-wheeler bicycle, I would wolf down my breakfast and tear out to the garage to the wheels of freedom. That bike would call to me the entire night and I would dream I was travelling to another world when I took it every morning on the daily trek around my neighborhood. There were days at 6am there would be not a soul awake and I would take my bike out those early summer mornings with my mother sitting on the front step, yawning and knitting. My father would wake up at his usual time, discover my absence and let my mother have it. She would quietly knit while he barked out orders about preventing me from 'exiting the building'.

When I would return for pit stops and gas (bathroom breaks, snacks, change of clothes) he would grab and officially ground me. I was not to move from either my bedroom or family room. But since he had many things to do inside and outside the house, my inevitable departure could not be intercepted.

I would meet all my friends around the neighborhood and we would spend the day together. When they had to go in for lunch and dinner, I would reluctantly wait outside their houses, sitting on my bike. I knew if I went home, my father would jail me once again. Out of sheer pity, many of the parents would invite me in and I would eat all sorts of divine cuisine, some of which I was prohibited to eat. But I did not care. This was my only chance to try see, hear and feel the lives of other people besides that which I encountered on a daily basis in my own home, boring me to tears. I cried to others about my father's imprisonment, his steadfast stance on rules and my impending doom each day upon my return. I would speak to anyone who would listen. If the parents of my friends heard me, some would even approach my father for explaination.

Those nights the punishment was two-fold. After explaining to them that he was a social worker and that he would never beat me up and hang me from my ankles until dawn, he would revert to sitting me down with a tired look on his face and beg me to stop conjuring up these stories. OK, so I was guilty of exaggerating the truth. But the amazement and utter shock in the faces of the people I spoke to was euphoric. To command the attention of my audience and have them hanging on to every word I said made me feel worthy. My mother did the same but her reaction was nonchalance--she knew my beguiling behaviour.

For others, my stories were legendary. Intriguing. Breathtaking. And completely fabricated. I was like the neighborhood newspaper delivery girl. Throwing a new story on each doorstep. One they would read and then discard that same day. But I got the message out. However way I could. I was the Newsmaker.

I was Social MEdia.

The enigma that is my mother

Of course, it is after many years we regret our time with our loved ones. We underappreciate, take advantage of and relinquish our familial ties, while they are alive. I have seen this with many and resolved not to follow suit. In reviewing my relationship with my mother, I did just that. I neglected her and concentrated on me; without one word of disapproval. She was the only person in the world who got me and never used it against me and I never took the time to admit it to her.

The enigma that is my mother.
My protector. My buffer.
Heaven is truly at her feet. Her lap was my pillow.
Her smile was my treat.

In 1973, we travelled to Pakistan. I was only three and my sister was fours months when we travelled back to the homeland with my father. I do not remember much of this trip but can only speculate with pictures and stories recounted by my father's family.

I hated taking baths. The water was cold during the winter months and it took long to heat. My mother would chase me in her inlaws home to clean the dirt I accumulated playing in the dusty streets. Her health had suffered after two quick deliveries and the another one on the way. My aunt beseeched her to sit down and proceeded to grab me and throw me in the cold, dark bathroom for a rubdown. I would cry and scream for my mother. I remember seeing her face in the window, trying to calm me down but she was not allowed to come near me. She soothed me from a distance. My aunt told me many years later that I asked everyone to call me Cinderella during that trip and I tried to understand why. Stripped naked and forced to be bathed by my evil aunts was the only thing I could conjure up for reference.

The enigma that is my mother. My fairy godmother.
Her ever-looming smile
Bathing me with warm caresses.

Many years later, as a young adult, I looked down at her sleeping body, wrapped from head to toes in white muslin cloth, and she reminded me of a nun. Pure, forgiving and non-judgemental. Her face was peaceful and I rained over her with tears of gratitude and appreciation. While I write about my childhood, my mother is at the forefront. She has shaped me and humbled to accept all that is good and all that is bad.

The enigma that is my mother. Where are you now?

Urpunjenglish

Despite the delay in my speaking abilities, my father thought once I commanded the language, I would flourish in speech. (Buzzer sound). Negative.

And his prodigy would disappoint him once again when she started school. I remember my JK school teacher very well. She had Dorothy Hamill hair and a very sweet smile. I saw that smile many times as she tried to discern my language. She was very patient and many times used sign language to communicate with me. Not typical sign language for deaf people but some clandestine body language that only her and I could understand.

I remember being very scared the first day of school school. The day timings did not make sense to me although in retropect, it was pretty straightforward. There was morning recess, a lunch period,afternoon recess and 3:30 dismissal.But for the only Pakistani girl in the class, whose mother tongue was not English, I was pretty messed up.

I spoke a very strange language according to my father. While my parents spoke in Urdu with me -- a formal and very poetic language that has Persian and Arabic root words, they communicated amongst themselves in Punjabi, colloquial slang version of Urdu that was very harsh and laden with guttural sounds. When my father spoke to neighbours, stop owners and his work colleagues, of course it was in English with a heavy Punjabi accent. I was therefore exposed to three languages before the age of 4.

Hence, after many years of silence, when the day finally came, the time my father waited years for, I did a very strange thing. I ended up consolidating all languages into one, which today I will call: Urpunjenglish. That's right folks -- I created my own way of speaking. My poor father, thought I would be his enlightened one, by fluently speaking all three languages and impressing the socks off his friends. I knew something was awry when he abruptly stopped taking me to his high society poetry meetings after I spewed nonsensical things from my mouth in public. For the most part, many people would pat me on the head with a constipated look. Others would simply smile, shake their heads and walk away. Some straight out asked my father if I had a speech impediment. And the emphathetic ones would write down their doctor's phone number on the back of the poetry meeting agenda sheet.

At the end of the day, everyone had difficulty understanding me except one person.

My mother.

I would incessantly babble all day long in her presence and she quickly figured out my communication. She never used body language but did ask me to repeat myself. Incredibly, I never said the same thing twice but she could understand what I was referring to. Since ONE person could communicate to me, there was never a need to help me speak one language properly. That was until I started school. Hmm, they never thought about that.

On many occasions, I would sit in class with no clue what the hell was going on. I was very good at going along with the motions. If drama was a credit to obtain in kindergarten, I would have an Academy Award by Senior Kindergarten. I made it look like I understood. When my teacher would ask, articulating every single word in her sentence, if I understood how to use the abacus in class, I was nodded until my neck hurt. Instead, I dismantled it and made a beaded necklace during craft time.

When I would grab my crotch during reading time, my teacher would send me to the washroom only to find me an hour later, standing alone in the hall, looking at pictures of past school principals on the wall. I still love looking at photos...

During reading time, I would make up my own story by looking at the illustrations instead of reading the text. My teacher would smile her strange smile and jot down notes in her book. When I stretched over to peek when she was distracted, I noticed I had the least amount of gold stars beside my name.

I do remember being kept after school regularily for ten minutes, wiping the chalkboard while my mother spoke to the teacher. They would both look over at me, and then I would see my mother shaking her head after the teacher would point to all her fingers. Back then, I thought it sweet that she teach my mom how to count. I would learn later that she was listing off all the times I was caught misinterpreting clear instructions that day.

Word got back to my father who had to go and see my teacher for parent/teacher interviews. When he returned, I was summoned into the living room for THE talk. I was commanded to speak no other language beside English. He turned to my mother and repeated the command. Everyone was supposed to speak English with me so I could learn how to ask to go to the bathroom at school. My mother put her hand on my shoulder as I trembled with fear. The order was given and I had to obey. From the next day forward, I had to abandon Urpunjenglish and venture in a world of crazy words like "the". Could not explain this word back then but I was aware that if I started every sentence with "the", it would mean two things: that I was really smart and I could speak English.

One day, we were dismissed for morning recess. Because I still had trouble reading time, I mistook the dismissal for lunchtime. I raised my hand to impress my teacher and the rest of the class with the all important question of the day.

"The time?" I smiled, proud that I put two English words together.

"Yes, its time. Be back when the bell rings", said my teacher. What she didn't understand was that I had asked if it was THE TIME FOR LUNCH. I noticed many kids in the schoolyard as I left and skipped across the street to my house. When I knocked on the door, my surprised mother let me in. I nodded, and pointed to my belly. "The time", I smiled. My mother looked at me curiously and fed me ice cream, at 10:30am in the morning. I heard the bell ring from the window and flew out of the house. Of course, I was ten minutes late. I slithered back into class while my teacher was reading her book, hoping she did not notice me. But she did.

It was lunchtime and she dismissed class once again. It was then I realized I had gone home to eat lunch at recess time. The teacher held me back while the rest of the class filed out.

"The time?" I asked.

"Nooooooo," she replied. I was confused. Enough of this crap! I was finally speaking English and still could not understand what the hell was going on.

This time her smile was tight and intimidating.

"Do you understand that you went home for lunch during morning break?" Out of embarressment, I nodded and put my hand on my stomach.

She insisted I stay during lunch time so she could teach me to read time. As she moved the hands around the clock to show me when recess and lunchtime was, the pain in my stomach got worse. I kept repeating, 'the time', 'the time' but she said NO, thinking I wanted to leave.

The next thing you know, I had vomited all over the carpet. "The time" also meant that it was time for me to be sick.

English....ahhh what a beautiful language. Words can mean so many things....