Papa: "Where are you going dressed like that??"
Caught. But not so fast....
Me: "I am going to the movies with Becky."
Papa: pondering and rubbing his chin "What time will you be home? It should be before sunset."
Me: exasperated and rolling my eyes "I cannot align the timing of the movie with when the sun sets!"
Papa: "Are you arguing with me? Because if you are, you are not allowed out. And don't you roll your eyes at me, young lady!"
Me: pretending to be sweet and caring "Right you are Papa! I am wrong about the sunset time. But I will make sure to be home before 10pm"
Papa: "10pm?! You are going to run the streets at night like some common hoodlum, with no rules or edicate? Is this the reputation my eldest daughter must project? You will be a loose teenager, without morals and dignity, coming home at such a God awful time??" middle vein in forehead is now popping out and pulsating
Me: cursing under my breath and looking for my mother to step in...anytime Mama, your husband is driving me crazy "No Papa. We will go straight the theatre, watch the movie, and come straight home. You know Becky will get me home at a respectable time...I promise!!" ringing my hands with desparation and trying to stand with good posture and a demure smile
Papa: raising one eyebrow and thinking intently with an intimidating stare "Fine, but if you arrive home one minute past ten, I will ground you for a week and make you organize the newspapers!"
OMG--not the newspapers. Normal people threw them out the same day after reading. Not my father. He collected three months worth of papers and made us chronologically order them with the pretext that he was looking to cut out his favorite articles (he never did). All organized just to be thrown out. Bloody hell.....
Papa: "OK go. But don't embaress me at the theatre. Someone may know you."
Score!!!!
I grab my purse and exit the house before he changes his mind. Becky is waiting outside her house in her car. I jump in the passenger side and signal her to leave in the direction of the theatre as I can see my father staring out the side window at us.. I quickly instruct her to turn down a street to my school, out of my father's sight. We make it to the school, where the dance has already begun. We 'high five' and I jump out and ask her to pick me up at 9:45.
Homefree.
I walk in and the dance is already underway and I meet up with two of my school friends who are in the corner, sipping soft drinks and giggling quietly at the couples slow dancing on the floor. We stand and watch, hoping to be asked to dance but knowing full well no boy in his right mind would even fathom the idea of asking us. We would dance the fast songs, trying to get close to the boys but they see us coming a mile away and beeline towards the 'popular' girls who wear tight Jordache jeans, legwarmers, revealing tops and feathered hair. I pushed up my glasses to prevent them from slipping off my nose during fast songs.
Fast forward to 9:45. I run outside with my trusted neighbor waiting for me. Climb into her car, make it home at 9:55, run in the house, show my face to my father who is sitting in the living room, with the light on, pretending to read the newspaper I would be organizing a month from now.
Papa: "Why are you all sweaty?"
Me: thinking quickly "It was a scary movie and I got scared and broke out in a sweat."
Papa: grimacing and shaking his head "Why the hell are you watching scary movies? You won't sleep all night, then be tired the next morning and insist on missing school! Did I allow you to see a scary movie? Is this movie rated PG? Because if its AA (adult accompany) I will ground you right now on the spot!!"
Me: "I saw a PG-13 movie. It was a cartoon..."
Papa: "Ohhhhh, ok. Cartoon is acceptable as long as there is no nudity..."
Wha???
I go upstairs and close the door. I hug myself and laugh. That was too easy! I'm snuggling in my warm bed when he whips my door open an hour later, with an all-knowing look, with the newspaper under his arm.
Papa: "You think you are REALLY smart, don't you" wagging his finger at me with one hand on his hip.
Caught. Damn.
Me: "But Papa, you don't understand. You need to let me be a teenager and try everything. It doesn't mean I am bad..."
And I thought it was so easy. My game was up. I was caught and would be grounded for the rest of the school year and monitored. How did he find out? Did he follow me?
Me: "I promise, I won't do it again...its out of my system...I didn't dance...."
Papa: interrupting "So you thought you could trick me, didn't you? You think you are smarter than your father?!?!"
Me: "No Papa, but I have needs...."
Papa:"Needs? There is no horror cartoon showing! shaking the entertainment section at me...You watched an AA movie with nudity didn't you? Why you need to see naked people? Shame on you. I swear you go out at night and the devil follows you!"
I lifted my blanket to cover my smile. It really was all too easy.....
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Teacher Preacher
A teacher can make or break you.
I remember seeing my teachers as non-human. Running into them outside of school left me feeling strange. They had lives too? They shopped for groceries, put gas in their cars and had families of their own? But during the school year, they were a steady fixture in the classroom, a part of my daily life. They represented an extension of my parents who would help me overcome my hardships as I tried to fit in an ever-changing environment that continually sucked me in and then spit me out.
Teachers were there to help the ones continue to perform well and give additional support for those who struggled to grasp the concepts.
Grade 7 was one of my best years. Mrs. Peacock-Snider was my homeroom teacher. She loved my work and I received constant public praise for all my subjects. However, all Hell broke loose when it came to Math and my life seemed to turn down a dangerous path. Our homeroom class always had a different Math teacher every grade. And I never seemed to be paired with the right one.
Mr. Rhodes was probably the most popular teacher in our elementary school--all the kids loved him, and initially, so did I. He was extremely witty, funny and engaging in the classroom. He made our class fun and enjoyable. But it took half a year to realize that his treatment of me differed from the rest of the class. And I started believing that there must be something wrong with me if everyone else loved him.
No matter how hard I tried to impress Mr. Rhodes, by studying hard, doing the bonus questions on all the math tests and staying after school for extra help, I never fell into his good books. I tried my best to achieve the highest marks in his class but I fell short. Everyone else understood the concepts and teaching methods but, alas, I struggled the whole year. I finally came to grips that my mind just didn't work that way. And it didn't help feeling ostracized on top of that.
"Mr. Rhodes, I just don't know why I get Bs every test! I study hard, come for extra help. I guess I really don't get it," I remarked one day after school. There was one other girl waiting with her Math book under her arm while I spoke. I scratched the mop on my head and adjusted my glasses. Tara brushed aside her lovely blond hair, and fluttered her blue eyes while smoothing her stylish clothing. I looked down at my ratty sweater, green pants and three year old running shoes that were one size too small.
I could tell he wanted to brush me aside so he could focus on Tara. "It's because you are lazy," he announced, avoiding eye contact, while my own eyes widened with shame. I had nowhere else to look. Was he testing me? Was he challenging the truth? I shrunk a little more. He was six feet tall and normally not menacing. That day, he seemed exasperated with me and wanted to move the conversation on.
"I am not lazy. You should see my other marks. I have the highest mark in Grade 7 in every other subject," I lowered my head so he could not see my tears.
"Well then apply the same study habits to Math as you do those subjects," he said and then turned gingerly to Tara and asked her sweetly, "What can I do for you?" He continued to ignore my presence as I waited, not realizing his last statement was a signal for me to leave. Mr. Rhodes proceeded to the blackboard to work through an equation she was stumped on. I watched how he carefully mentored her with support and encouragement until she grasped the concept. He was patient and caring--no sign of the brisk abruptness he exercised with me.
Age twelve is a young age to be disgusted with the human race, but that day was one of my lowest points in my elementary career. Too young to understand that having his approval was the not the be all and end all--however, yearning for teacher approval was like wanting your parents to hug and protect you.
Career aspirations and educational choices are directly influenced by teachers. Many have lost the passion or truly enjoy what they teach. It has negative repercussions on their students. Maybe you disagree. A teacher, parent, mentor, manager or role model. Non-existent you say?
Without a doubt, Mr. Rhodes was a great teacher--just not for me, for reasons beyond my comprehension back then and today. Perhaps I was not the model child in his eyes, God only knows. Ironically, throughout the years, I never had a 'great' math teacher, who made me love fall in love with the subject or change how I processed the concepts. And perhaps my psyche subconsciously arouses negative feelings when I think of Math because of him. Any excuse in the book?
I can tell a more positive story. And again, all it took was one teacher.
Many years ago, I switched my major in University from Sociology to English because of one tutorial assistant, Grant, who taught my first year English course that summer, off-campus. I took English as an elective course, only to fill my schedule. In short, Grant changed my destiny.
"You may not get it now, but you are on the road to greater things..." he said to me, looking me squarely in the eye, one night after class while I watched him red pen all over my first essay. He never degraded my efforts or told me I was lazy. Instead, he saw a small light and he illuminated it with his kind eyes and encouraging voice. I knew then, what he told me was the ultimate truth, to no gain of his own.
Years later, when I was the first up on stage to receive my Honours Degree in English Literature, all while finishing top of my class with High Distinction and on the Dean's list, I looked out in the crowed to my father, husband and in-laws, who were smiling and applauding wildly.
But in that moment, I could only remember Grant. He stayed with me all those years as I struggled and toiled through all my classes, balancing a family, work and school, up all hours of the night, revising and reviewing my essays. And I kept hearing his soft voice ringing in my ears, year after year, pushing me to finish and in the end, achieve greater things.
A teacher can make or break you. It's ok. I chose the right road--and I wrote it...with his help.
I remember seeing my teachers as non-human. Running into them outside of school left me feeling strange. They had lives too? They shopped for groceries, put gas in their cars and had families of their own? But during the school year, they were a steady fixture in the classroom, a part of my daily life. They represented an extension of my parents who would help me overcome my hardships as I tried to fit in an ever-changing environment that continually sucked me in and then spit me out.
Teachers were there to help the ones continue to perform well and give additional support for those who struggled to grasp the concepts.
Grade 7 was one of my best years. Mrs. Peacock-Snider was my homeroom teacher. She loved my work and I received constant public praise for all my subjects. However, all Hell broke loose when it came to Math and my life seemed to turn down a dangerous path. Our homeroom class always had a different Math teacher every grade. And I never seemed to be paired with the right one.
Mr. Rhodes was probably the most popular teacher in our elementary school--all the kids loved him, and initially, so did I. He was extremely witty, funny and engaging in the classroom. He made our class fun and enjoyable. But it took half a year to realize that his treatment of me differed from the rest of the class. And I started believing that there must be something wrong with me if everyone else loved him.
No matter how hard I tried to impress Mr. Rhodes, by studying hard, doing the bonus questions on all the math tests and staying after school for extra help, I never fell into his good books. I tried my best to achieve the highest marks in his class but I fell short. Everyone else understood the concepts and teaching methods but, alas, I struggled the whole year. I finally came to grips that my mind just didn't work that way. And it didn't help feeling ostracized on top of that.
"Mr. Rhodes, I just don't know why I get Bs every test! I study hard, come for extra help. I guess I really don't get it," I remarked one day after school. There was one other girl waiting with her Math book under her arm while I spoke. I scratched the mop on my head and adjusted my glasses. Tara brushed aside her lovely blond hair, and fluttered her blue eyes while smoothing her stylish clothing. I looked down at my ratty sweater, green pants and three year old running shoes that were one size too small.
I could tell he wanted to brush me aside so he could focus on Tara. "It's because you are lazy," he announced, avoiding eye contact, while my own eyes widened with shame. I had nowhere else to look. Was he testing me? Was he challenging the truth? I shrunk a little more. He was six feet tall and normally not menacing. That day, he seemed exasperated with me and wanted to move the conversation on.
"I am not lazy. You should see my other marks. I have the highest mark in Grade 7 in every other subject," I lowered my head so he could not see my tears.
"Well then apply the same study habits to Math as you do those subjects," he said and then turned gingerly to Tara and asked her sweetly, "What can I do for you?" He continued to ignore my presence as I waited, not realizing his last statement was a signal for me to leave. Mr. Rhodes proceeded to the blackboard to work through an equation she was stumped on. I watched how he carefully mentored her with support and encouragement until she grasped the concept. He was patient and caring--no sign of the brisk abruptness he exercised with me.
Age twelve is a young age to be disgusted with the human race, but that day was one of my lowest points in my elementary career. Too young to understand that having his approval was the not the be all and end all--however, yearning for teacher approval was like wanting your parents to hug and protect you.
Career aspirations and educational choices are directly influenced by teachers. Many have lost the passion or truly enjoy what they teach. It has negative repercussions on their students. Maybe you disagree. A teacher, parent, mentor, manager or role model. Non-existent you say?
Without a doubt, Mr. Rhodes was a great teacher--just not for me, for reasons beyond my comprehension back then and today. Perhaps I was not the model child in his eyes, God only knows. Ironically, throughout the years, I never had a 'great' math teacher, who made me love fall in love with the subject or change how I processed the concepts. And perhaps my psyche subconsciously arouses negative feelings when I think of Math because of him. Any excuse in the book?
I can tell a more positive story. And again, all it took was one teacher.
Many years ago, I switched my major in University from Sociology to English because of one tutorial assistant, Grant, who taught my first year English course that summer, off-campus. I took English as an elective course, only to fill my schedule. In short, Grant changed my destiny.
"You may not get it now, but you are on the road to greater things..." he said to me, looking me squarely in the eye, one night after class while I watched him red pen all over my first essay. He never degraded my efforts or told me I was lazy. Instead, he saw a small light and he illuminated it with his kind eyes and encouraging voice. I knew then, what he told me was the ultimate truth, to no gain of his own.
Years later, when I was the first up on stage to receive my Honours Degree in English Literature, all while finishing top of my class with High Distinction and on the Dean's list, I looked out in the crowed to my father, husband and in-laws, who were smiling and applauding wildly.
But in that moment, I could only remember Grant. He stayed with me all those years as I struggled and toiled through all my classes, balancing a family, work and school, up all hours of the night, revising and reviewing my essays. And I kept hearing his soft voice ringing in my ears, year after year, pushing me to finish and in the end, achieve greater things.
A teacher can make or break you. It's ok. I chose the right road--and I wrote it...with his help.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
The Sheik(h)
Ok, by far, this has to be one of the MOST EMBARRESSING moments in my elementary career. And yes, I am about to share it with all my blog readers. It took many years to get over this incident, but now I can look back and fondly reminisce about this innocent experience. Really, its ok. And quite funny....
It was Grade 7. I was 12 years old. I was still unpopular at this point but slowly gaining acceptance and respect for my rebellious ways. While my parents begged me to stay under the radar, I continued to believe that being myself would win people over in the end.
It was a sunny spring day. A gaggle of girls ran in from outside, talking incessantly and running past me to their lockers nearby. I noticed their excited expressions and secret giggles. I gathered something had happened outside. I walked over nonchalantly, trying to extract the gist of their conversation but they spoke in low tones and ignored my looming presence.
"Did I miss anything at lunch outside?" I asked innocently, looking at my nails and then back up at them.
The ringleader of this group was Amazon Wendy, who towered over me and was built like a linebacker. She was about to brush me off when suddenly a lightbulb went on. She first eyed me suspiciously but then smiled a big, toothy grin. She leaned into me as if to share the secret I so longed to be a part of.
"Did you see it?" she asked.
"See what??" I inquired, with wide eyes and a smile to match hers. My ears were pricked. Her cohorts moved excitedly behind her.
"The Sheik. Its outside. We saw it with our own eyes. I can't believe it!" Wendy exclaimed.
My mind was racing. I stood dumbfounded for a good minute, smiling gleefully, with no idea of what she was talking about. Wendy grabbed her books from her locker and spun around for class. I looked at my watch. I had exactly five minutes to work this out in my brain. The girls were laughing and shoving each other, either proud to have seen what they saw outside or from the fact that I was about to be duped. They all left except for one girl who overheard the conversation and was watching from behind her locker.
"Did you see (the) Sheik outside," I asked her. She nodded slowly.
"Do you want me to show you?" she asked.
I stood with trepidation in one spot. So folks, here is the picture my brain presented me with:
An Arab Sheikh was outside, with flowing white robes, a long beard and a keffiyeh tied to his head.
I thought to myelf, why would he be outside my elementary school at lunchtime? Was he someone's father, grandfather or was he visiting the school to decipher whether or not he should donate his millions?
The girl grabbed my hand and led me outside. She took me to a wall and pointed.
"There is the Sheik!" She covered her mouth as she gasped with laughter. I stood staring at a rubbery substance stuck to the wall, not comprehending what I was looking at. The girl ran off and I was left alone grappling with uncertainty. I am sure some of my male readers are now smiling a sly smile. But of course, what was a 12 year old girl, with limited experience, to think of the situation at hand?
I spun around, figuring she was pointing at the wrong attraction but my Arab Sheikh was nowhere to be seen. It dawned on me that the girls were referring to this object, stuck to the wall. I scratched my head and took a closer look. I remember thinking to myself that it looked like a mini-net for catching fish. I stepped back and turned to go to class. I was already ten minutes late. As I sat there for the rest of the day, I looked out the window, looking for the Arab Sheikh that was never there. After school when Wendy asked me if I saw it, I noddedly slowly and displayed a crazed smile, emulating their actions from before to show some kind of solidarity that I yearned to be a part of.
"Mama, I have to ask you a question!!" I yelled as I bounded into the house. My mother was not stunned or affected by my outbursts because there were so many at spontaneous times that she had grown accustomed to my style of inquiries.
"What is a Sheik?" She looked up from her sewing machine with thread coming out of her mouth.
"Its an Arab man who is usually from the Royal family. He is rich and wears a white robe," she responded and went back to her sewing.
"Does he carry this?" I opened up my Math book and there lay between the pages the very condom that was stuck to the wall.
I have never seen my mother turn the colour of scarlet red until that day. I could have sworn she was close to fainting. She ran like a mad woman discarding 'The Sheik(h)" from my Math book into the garbage and then scrubbing me in the bathtub until my skin was raw. I pleaded with her that I did not touch it with my hand and used a protractor to peel it off the school wall, but she would not listen. Instead, she invoked the name of God and mumbled prayers under her breath to bring me back to a purified state.
And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was my introduction to my first condom.....
It was Grade 7. I was 12 years old. I was still unpopular at this point but slowly gaining acceptance and respect for my rebellious ways. While my parents begged me to stay under the radar, I continued to believe that being myself would win people over in the end.
It was a sunny spring day. A gaggle of girls ran in from outside, talking incessantly and running past me to their lockers nearby. I noticed their excited expressions and secret giggles. I gathered something had happened outside. I walked over nonchalantly, trying to extract the gist of their conversation but they spoke in low tones and ignored my looming presence.
"Did I miss anything at lunch outside?" I asked innocently, looking at my nails and then back up at them.
The ringleader of this group was Amazon Wendy, who towered over me and was built like a linebacker. She was about to brush me off when suddenly a lightbulb went on. She first eyed me suspiciously but then smiled a big, toothy grin. She leaned into me as if to share the secret I so longed to be a part of.
"Did you see it?" she asked.
"See what??" I inquired, with wide eyes and a smile to match hers. My ears were pricked. Her cohorts moved excitedly behind her.
"The Sheik. Its outside. We saw it with our own eyes. I can't believe it!" Wendy exclaimed.
My mind was racing. I stood dumbfounded for a good minute, smiling gleefully, with no idea of what she was talking about. Wendy grabbed her books from her locker and spun around for class. I looked at my watch. I had exactly five minutes to work this out in my brain. The girls were laughing and shoving each other, either proud to have seen what they saw outside or from the fact that I was about to be duped. They all left except for one girl who overheard the conversation and was watching from behind her locker.
"Did you see (the) Sheik outside," I asked her. She nodded slowly.
"Do you want me to show you?" she asked.
I stood with trepidation in one spot. So folks, here is the picture my brain presented me with:
An Arab Sheikh was outside, with flowing white robes, a long beard and a keffiyeh tied to his head.
I thought to myelf, why would he be outside my elementary school at lunchtime? Was he someone's father, grandfather or was he visiting the school to decipher whether or not he should donate his millions?
The girl grabbed my hand and led me outside. She took me to a wall and pointed.
"There is the Sheik!" She covered her mouth as she gasped with laughter. I stood staring at a rubbery substance stuck to the wall, not comprehending what I was looking at. The girl ran off and I was left alone grappling with uncertainty. I am sure some of my male readers are now smiling a sly smile. But of course, what was a 12 year old girl, with limited experience, to think of the situation at hand?
I spun around, figuring she was pointing at the wrong attraction but my Arab Sheikh was nowhere to be seen. It dawned on me that the girls were referring to this object, stuck to the wall. I scratched my head and took a closer look. I remember thinking to myself that it looked like a mini-net for catching fish. I stepped back and turned to go to class. I was already ten minutes late. As I sat there for the rest of the day, I looked out the window, looking for the Arab Sheikh that was never there. After school when Wendy asked me if I saw it, I noddedly slowly and displayed a crazed smile, emulating their actions from before to show some kind of solidarity that I yearned to be a part of.
"Mama, I have to ask you a question!!" I yelled as I bounded into the house. My mother was not stunned or affected by my outbursts because there were so many at spontaneous times that she had grown accustomed to my style of inquiries.
"What is a Sheik?" She looked up from her sewing machine with thread coming out of her mouth.
"Its an Arab man who is usually from the Royal family. He is rich and wears a white robe," she responded and went back to her sewing.
"Does he carry this?" I opened up my Math book and there lay between the pages the very condom that was stuck to the wall.
I have never seen my mother turn the colour of scarlet red until that day. I could have sworn she was close to fainting. She ran like a mad woman discarding 'The Sheik(h)" from my Math book into the garbage and then scrubbing me in the bathtub until my skin was raw. I pleaded with her that I did not touch it with my hand and used a protractor to peel it off the school wall, but she would not listen. Instead, she invoked the name of God and mumbled prayers under her breath to bring me back to a purified state.
And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was my introduction to my first condom.....
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Win some, Lose some
The awareness of one's body usually coincides with puberty. You go through many changes and you compare those changes to that of your peers. I noticed the difference of my skin colour much earlier than that -- only because it illicited stares and unwanted behaviour from others outside of my inner circle that I deemed odd or strange.
And that was the crux of my problem. Initially, I grew up innocent enough thinking that everyone else had the problem and not I. However, puberty does crazy things to the preteen mind and I came to the conclusion that everyone was perfect, except me. Physically. Thank God it was only a superficial affliction. Deep down, I knew I was one step ahead in terms of maturity and intelligence. But not intelligent enough to convince myself that I was just as pretty as everyone else, in my own hairy way.
God blessed me with an over-abundance of hair. And what made it worse was that the fairer I became, the more noticable the dark hairs were. Growing up dark hid the hair, ironically. Much to my father's relief, my skin colour slowly began to 'improve' over the years and I stayed more indoors to study, read and write, rather than run rampant through the streets.
I was endlessly teased from Grade 6 to 8 about my unibrow, moustache and hairy arms. Literally, I was one walking fur ball. And to make matters worse, while every girl was conscious about growing her boobs, I was already given that asset at age 12. I was the second largest in my class, behind the 6 foot tall tomboy,Wendy. No one dared to mention her chest size in her presence for fear of retaliation. Wendy had already beaten up a few boys in our class when they mentioned that her boobs resembled the dodge balls we used in gym class.
Most girls were stuffing their bras (padded bras were non-existent at the time) with tissues or socks to get the attention of the jocks in class. Instead, my mother was trying to find ways to hide mine. At one point, she insisted that I use the same bandage that she used for her wrist. It made me look flatter but the bulge above and below the bandage was worse. I cried and told her I was cursed. Nevertheless, that was the least of my worries. While every girl in class envied my boobs, my unwanted hair was more of a distraction.
"Hey Sexy Lady! You are rocking it today but you forgot to shave!" The boys would laugh as I hid behind my locker door. I buried my head inside and regretted the day I was born. One boy came up to me asking for my notes from the previous day because he skipped school. My first inclination was to hand them over for him to photocopy, but he was one of the worst culprits when it came to teasing me about my looks. I shook my head in defiance and closed my locker door.
"Will you go to the dance with me tonite? I need a date for my sister. She loves moustaches!" he yelled after me. I kept walking, trying to ignore him while the tears stung my eyes. I would never be pretty enough.
I looked in the mirror and studied my reflection. I locked the bathroom door in case my parents came in and laid out the tools on the counter. I took off my glasses and saw a fuzzy girl looking back at me. The lack of vision made it better. I could not see my unibrow or moustache. My teeth were crooked and my french braids were outdated. I needed to change.
After many years of my mother telling me how beautiful I was and not to change what God had given me, I finally bowed down and succumbed to peer pressure. I would never fit in until I looked the part.
I took the razor and brought it to my face but immediately dropped it on the floor when I heard my mother trying to pick the lock to the bathroom door.
"What is going on in there?!" she whispered loudly, so not to wake my father. She jimmyed the lock with her hairpin and found me standing with shaving cream in my hand and the razor on the floor. She almost fell over at this sight.
"If you are about to do what I think you are going to do, I am going to ..." she exclaimed.
Instead of finishing her sentence, she picked up the razor and took the cream out of my hand. She examined the counter. Magnifying mirror, eyebrow plucker, scissors and rubbing alcohol. I sheepishly looked down at the floor. Why did I go on the physical traits of my father? Why didn't God give me her gene pool? She was beautiful. Fair, a small delicate nose, naturally sculpted eyebrows, killer cheekbones and not one hair on her face or body. I watched how her hands moved with precision to pick up all my instruments and remove them from my possession.
"Now, if I EVER see you touch these objects, I will disown you. The minute you put that razor on your face, you will have a lifetime of hair to deal with. Do you want to join your father every morning to shave? There are other ways to remove your hair. But now is not the time. Wait until you get married," she explained.
I nearly fainted on the spot. Wait until I am married? Who wants to marry the bearded lady at the circus?
"Mama, I need to change. All the boys pick on me at school and even the girls don't want to associate with me. All they ask me is what exercises I do at home for my chest!" My mother shook her head disapprovingly.
"I told you that I love you just the way you are. And people need to accept you as well." I didn't buy her explanation. I needed to act fast.
The next day, I unravelled my french braid and looked at my bum-length hair. I took me exactly half the school year in Grade 7 to convince my father to allow me to cut it professionally. I had to manipulate and bribe him at the same time. And it worked in my favour, for the time being.
Lie #1:
"My hair is too long and it gives me headaches. That is why I only have a 'B' in Math. If you let me cut my hair, I will bump my mark to an 'A'. I promise." I hated Math and my father knew I was not interested in increasing my mark. His only wish was for his eldest daughter to have straight As that year.
Lie #2:
To achieve Lie #1, I convinced a flat-chested, brainiac classmate to tutor me before every test so long as I told her my secret of how to attain big boobs. I had no clue what that was but I knew I could come up with some 'innovative exercises.' Something to do with massage....
We went to Magic Cuts and I asked for my long, unruly hair to be cut, shoulder-length in layers which was the latest fashion. Later that day, I allowed my next door neighbor to multiply my "upper moustache" into a pair of identical, precise brows.
To top it off, I spent my piggy bank money and bought hot wax from the local drugstore and ripped off my moustache in three takes. Luckily I had the weekend to recuperate the swollen upper lip as a result of my failed attempts. But I eventually got the hang of it.
My mother cried when she saw me. Her message was foreboding. "This is not the end. It will go on and on..." I had no clue what she meant but I would soon understand what she meant.
That night, I looked in the mirror and was taken aback with the results. I did not recognize myself but was pleased. I imagined I would win over my enemies at school. I didn't sleep the entire night out of sheer anticipation.
When I arrived at school the next day, I was met by gasps and stares in the hallways. People were whispering to themselves and I saw some nods of approval. I walked confidently to my locker and went to class. Wendy walked straight up to my desk. She had a menacing look on her face and I cowered slightly in her presence. She bent down to face me.
"Nice hair," she remarked and then returned to her seat. I smiled hesitantly. Another girl sitting close by overheard Wendy and soon chimed in. "You look so different but you look nice," she said. I bit my lip so not to cry with joy. Even my teacher commented on my new hairstyle. I was a whole other person. Finally. To be accepted. I had a glimpse of hope.
I walked back to my locker with a gaggle of girls gushing around me. Some were touching my hair, others were examining my upper lip while others tried to find out who did my eyebrows.
At the end, 'happiness is a photo, not a movie' and my fame was short-lived.
"Your boobs are so big, your eyes are black from running!" a boy yelled from across the hall and the rest of his clique snickered and laughed.
Mama was right... so why did I expect more? I got a B+ in Math that year and my classmate stopped talking to me after remaining an A cup until the end of Grade 8.
Win some, lose some....
And that was the crux of my problem. Initially, I grew up innocent enough thinking that everyone else had the problem and not I. However, puberty does crazy things to the preteen mind and I came to the conclusion that everyone was perfect, except me. Physically. Thank God it was only a superficial affliction. Deep down, I knew I was one step ahead in terms of maturity and intelligence. But not intelligent enough to convince myself that I was just as pretty as everyone else, in my own hairy way.
God blessed me with an over-abundance of hair. And what made it worse was that the fairer I became, the more noticable the dark hairs were. Growing up dark hid the hair, ironically. Much to my father's relief, my skin colour slowly began to 'improve' over the years and I stayed more indoors to study, read and write, rather than run rampant through the streets.
I was endlessly teased from Grade 6 to 8 about my unibrow, moustache and hairy arms. Literally, I was one walking fur ball. And to make matters worse, while every girl was conscious about growing her boobs, I was already given that asset at age 12. I was the second largest in my class, behind the 6 foot tall tomboy,Wendy. No one dared to mention her chest size in her presence for fear of retaliation. Wendy had already beaten up a few boys in our class when they mentioned that her boobs resembled the dodge balls we used in gym class.
Most girls were stuffing their bras (padded bras were non-existent at the time) with tissues or socks to get the attention of the jocks in class. Instead, my mother was trying to find ways to hide mine. At one point, she insisted that I use the same bandage that she used for her wrist. It made me look flatter but the bulge above and below the bandage was worse. I cried and told her I was cursed. Nevertheless, that was the least of my worries. While every girl in class envied my boobs, my unwanted hair was more of a distraction.
"Hey Sexy Lady! You are rocking it today but you forgot to shave!" The boys would laugh as I hid behind my locker door. I buried my head inside and regretted the day I was born. One boy came up to me asking for my notes from the previous day because he skipped school. My first inclination was to hand them over for him to photocopy, but he was one of the worst culprits when it came to teasing me about my looks. I shook my head in defiance and closed my locker door.
"Will you go to the dance with me tonite? I need a date for my sister. She loves moustaches!" he yelled after me. I kept walking, trying to ignore him while the tears stung my eyes. I would never be pretty enough.
I looked in the mirror and studied my reflection. I locked the bathroom door in case my parents came in and laid out the tools on the counter. I took off my glasses and saw a fuzzy girl looking back at me. The lack of vision made it better. I could not see my unibrow or moustache. My teeth were crooked and my french braids were outdated. I needed to change.
After many years of my mother telling me how beautiful I was and not to change what God had given me, I finally bowed down and succumbed to peer pressure. I would never fit in until I looked the part.
I took the razor and brought it to my face but immediately dropped it on the floor when I heard my mother trying to pick the lock to the bathroom door.
"What is going on in there?!" she whispered loudly, so not to wake my father. She jimmyed the lock with her hairpin and found me standing with shaving cream in my hand and the razor on the floor. She almost fell over at this sight.
"If you are about to do what I think you are going to do, I am going to ..." she exclaimed.
Instead of finishing her sentence, she picked up the razor and took the cream out of my hand. She examined the counter. Magnifying mirror, eyebrow plucker, scissors and rubbing alcohol. I sheepishly looked down at the floor. Why did I go on the physical traits of my father? Why didn't God give me her gene pool? She was beautiful. Fair, a small delicate nose, naturally sculpted eyebrows, killer cheekbones and not one hair on her face or body. I watched how her hands moved with precision to pick up all my instruments and remove them from my possession.
"Now, if I EVER see you touch these objects, I will disown you. The minute you put that razor on your face, you will have a lifetime of hair to deal with. Do you want to join your father every morning to shave? There are other ways to remove your hair. But now is not the time. Wait until you get married," she explained.
I nearly fainted on the spot. Wait until I am married? Who wants to marry the bearded lady at the circus?
"Mama, I need to change. All the boys pick on me at school and even the girls don't want to associate with me. All they ask me is what exercises I do at home for my chest!" My mother shook her head disapprovingly.
"I told you that I love you just the way you are. And people need to accept you as well." I didn't buy her explanation. I needed to act fast.
The next day, I unravelled my french braid and looked at my bum-length hair. I took me exactly half the school year in Grade 7 to convince my father to allow me to cut it professionally. I had to manipulate and bribe him at the same time. And it worked in my favour, for the time being.
Lie #1:
"My hair is too long and it gives me headaches. That is why I only have a 'B' in Math. If you let me cut my hair, I will bump my mark to an 'A'. I promise." I hated Math and my father knew I was not interested in increasing my mark. His only wish was for his eldest daughter to have straight As that year.
Lie #2:
To achieve Lie #1, I convinced a flat-chested, brainiac classmate to tutor me before every test so long as I told her my secret of how to attain big boobs. I had no clue what that was but I knew I could come up with some 'innovative exercises.' Something to do with massage....
We went to Magic Cuts and I asked for my long, unruly hair to be cut, shoulder-length in layers which was the latest fashion. Later that day, I allowed my next door neighbor to multiply my "upper moustache" into a pair of identical, precise brows.
To top it off, I spent my piggy bank money and bought hot wax from the local drugstore and ripped off my moustache in three takes. Luckily I had the weekend to recuperate the swollen upper lip as a result of my failed attempts. But I eventually got the hang of it.
My mother cried when she saw me. Her message was foreboding. "This is not the end. It will go on and on..." I had no clue what she meant but I would soon understand what she meant.
That night, I looked in the mirror and was taken aback with the results. I did not recognize myself but was pleased. I imagined I would win over my enemies at school. I didn't sleep the entire night out of sheer anticipation.
When I arrived at school the next day, I was met by gasps and stares in the hallways. People were whispering to themselves and I saw some nods of approval. I walked confidently to my locker and went to class. Wendy walked straight up to my desk. She had a menacing look on her face and I cowered slightly in her presence. She bent down to face me.
"Nice hair," she remarked and then returned to her seat. I smiled hesitantly. Another girl sitting close by overheard Wendy and soon chimed in. "You look so different but you look nice," she said. I bit my lip so not to cry with joy. Even my teacher commented on my new hairstyle. I was a whole other person. Finally. To be accepted. I had a glimpse of hope.
I walked back to my locker with a gaggle of girls gushing around me. Some were touching my hair, others were examining my upper lip while others tried to find out who did my eyebrows.
At the end, 'happiness is a photo, not a movie' and my fame was short-lived.
"Your boobs are so big, your eyes are black from running!" a boy yelled from across the hall and the rest of his clique snickered and laughed.
Mama was right... so why did I expect more? I got a B+ in Math that year and my classmate stopped talking to me after remaining an A cup until the end of Grade 8.
Win some, lose some....
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
My two mothers
She stood in the middle of the field and looked at the trees swaying back and forth as the wind pushed them towards her, like a crowd surging forward in anger. The skies were menacing that day, with dark clouds threatening her presence. But she stood firm, both feet planted securely in the Earth from which she sprung out of. Despite the turmoil around her, she had a serene feeling of peace, of belonging and she knew she was safe. There was thunder rumbling from the distance and the base sound erupted from within her starting from her stomach into her heart, up the esophagus, and proceeded into her throat where she let out a shout to combat the fear.
And that is how I endured.
That's it my child, let it out. Don't hold back. Don't keep it in. Let it out. Her eyes formed between the clouds and she was watching down to me. The wind was now howling and the leaves were chasing one another in a circular motion. I watched and waited for one to fall out of pattern, but not one leaf disobeyed. We both watched, her and I, waiting for an onslaught of a rebellion. I could feel it forming as the tall grass bent in the wind before me from miles away--a slow tidal wave coming towards me. Circles to my left, waves in front, rumbling from above and the wind billowing from behind my back. It was as if I was a centripetal force, without knowing how to control myself. But, piece by piece, I was filling up, replacing the depleted and stripped away soul that endured many years of emptiness and not knowing how to feel whole again.
I looked up at the cold, iron towers and pumped my fist at them. Up close, they were larger than life--a monstrosity, with jagged edges and never-ending in height, climbing way up high, past the dark clouds into an unknown space that I could only equate to God. The water came in drops and when I looked again into the sky, her eyes were gone.
So I ran. And I ran, however fast my legs could take me. Through the fields into the concrete jungle, where the animals were now in clear sight. Who threatened me with their stares, and shouted nonsensical things to me as I was in flight. They seemed strange to me, baring their teeth, laughing like hyenas, babbling like buffoons--only caring about themselves. Survival instinct. They followed me until I reached my cave. I was happy to be rid them all although they hovered near my abode, curious but looming. They had never seen my kind and did nothing to learn about me. I was different and that was all that mattered. I looked through a small crack in the cave to see if they had left. They were gone but they would be back the next day and I feared meeting them again. My wounds were too deep. She could only remove the superficial ones but those ones did not matter. I longed to be back with the winds, the sky, the leaves, the grass and the towers--alone. That was the only place I could be penetrated and healed. And she knew that this was the only way.
So everyday I returned to the field. She, in the sky, replenished my soul and she, in the cave, fed me for physical strength.
And that is how I endured.
And that is how I endured.
That's it my child, let it out. Don't hold back. Don't keep it in. Let it out. Her eyes formed between the clouds and she was watching down to me. The wind was now howling and the leaves were chasing one another in a circular motion. I watched and waited for one to fall out of pattern, but not one leaf disobeyed. We both watched, her and I, waiting for an onslaught of a rebellion. I could feel it forming as the tall grass bent in the wind before me from miles away--a slow tidal wave coming towards me. Circles to my left, waves in front, rumbling from above and the wind billowing from behind my back. It was as if I was a centripetal force, without knowing how to control myself. But, piece by piece, I was filling up, replacing the depleted and stripped away soul that endured many years of emptiness and not knowing how to feel whole again.
I looked up at the cold, iron towers and pumped my fist at them. Up close, they were larger than life--a monstrosity, with jagged edges and never-ending in height, climbing way up high, past the dark clouds into an unknown space that I could only equate to God. The water came in drops and when I looked again into the sky, her eyes were gone.
So I ran. And I ran, however fast my legs could take me. Through the fields into the concrete jungle, where the animals were now in clear sight. Who threatened me with their stares, and shouted nonsensical things to me as I was in flight. They seemed strange to me, baring their teeth, laughing like hyenas, babbling like buffoons--only caring about themselves. Survival instinct. They followed me until I reached my cave. I was happy to be rid them all although they hovered near my abode, curious but looming. They had never seen my kind and did nothing to learn about me. I was different and that was all that mattered. I looked through a small crack in the cave to see if they had left. They were gone but they would be back the next day and I feared meeting them again. My wounds were too deep. She could only remove the superficial ones but those ones did not matter. I longed to be back with the winds, the sky, the leaves, the grass and the towers--alone. That was the only place I could be penetrated and healed. And she knew that this was the only way.
So everyday I returned to the field. She, in the sky, replenished my soul and she, in the cave, fed me for physical strength.
And that is how I endured.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Great Expectations
Growing up in a mostly Caucasian neighbourhood presented some problems. We lived on a corner lot at a main intersection. You couldn't miss us. I remember moving into our home back in 1978. Leaving my friends behind was bittersweet as I was always up for a new adventure. The United Nations neighborhood was soon lost to a sea of white. I was conscious of it the next day after we moved. I think the stares were one indication that something was not right.
Being a creature of habit, my outdoor activities did not cease. My neighbour Becky and I became fast friends--our commonality stemmed from our 'Tomboy' tendencies. I didn't wear the typcial dresses (knowing I would not fit in anywhere with the designer wear the girls at school were wearing). It bothered my mother so much when I would come in from being out all day, darker than the colour of the pavement. I became so dark from direct sun exposure that you could only see the whites of my eyes and teeth.
My mother would sigh, throw her arms in the air and admit defeat. To be fair was a sign of beauty in our culture. The scabs on my knees, the dirt behind my ear, and the darkness of my skin bore features of period in time back home where my mother knew, had I grown up there, she would encounter problems marrying me off.
"Mama, I am 11 years old. I promise when I turn 15, I will stay out of the sun and cook roti with you," I would exclaim so not to worry her. Exasperated, she would shake her head and grab her knitting needles. "You cannot cook, sew, knit, make roti or cook a curry. Your husband will mistake you for a streetsweeper!"
"At least the street will be clean for road hockey," I would exclaim.
Imagine, being married at 15 and doing all of that. This coming from the woman who demanded to finish her Masters, threatened to throw herself in a firepit if her parents made her marry her cousin and procrastinated her own marriage to marry late, at age twenty-eight. And she wondered where I got my fiesty personality from.
I always knew, living in Canada, I was not going to suffer the same fate as my parent's generation. After going to Pakistan in 1979, I realized that life there was completely different.When my parents communicated their expectations, I would scoff and rebuke their ideas of how I needed to be raised. Just in that, I was a rebellious daughter. My father told me many times the following rules he adhered to growing up:
I had NO IDEA where to look, which way to turn my head, what to do with my hands and in what tone of voice to reply. Instead, my jaw remained opened, with my arms hanging at the side of my body and I replied barbarically.
"HUH?!!"
My father turned to my mother. "We both have Master degrees and this is what you give birth to? Teach this black street urchin some manners!"
I looked at my fair, pale beautiful mother and back to my dark-skinned, stern father. What was wrong with this picture??
I couldn't hold back. It literally took unimaginable forces to prevent me from standing down. But I lacked the common sense and political correctness--and despite my mother's pleading eyes, I was about to perplex my father who slyly tried to confuse me. Two can play at that game.
I slanted my eyes and placed my hands on my hips. The cliched remark heard often was so maligned into a incomprehensible riddle, that it was lost in translation. Good thing for me.
"Who is the rude big, black pot calling the little white kettle cold?" I asked calmly with one eyebrow raised.
My father opened his mouth but then immediately closed it. My mother scratched her head with a knitting needle. They were both at a loss.
On the contrary--I knew I got him back--turning swiftly on my heels and exiting the convuluted conversation with my dark-skinned head held up high.
Being a creature of habit, my outdoor activities did not cease. My neighbour Becky and I became fast friends--our commonality stemmed from our 'Tomboy' tendencies. I didn't wear the typcial dresses (knowing I would not fit in anywhere with the designer wear the girls at school were wearing). It bothered my mother so much when I would come in from being out all day, darker than the colour of the pavement. I became so dark from direct sun exposure that you could only see the whites of my eyes and teeth.
My mother would sigh, throw her arms in the air and admit defeat. To be fair was a sign of beauty in our culture. The scabs on my knees, the dirt behind my ear, and the darkness of my skin bore features of period in time back home where my mother knew, had I grown up there, she would encounter problems marrying me off.
"Mama, I am 11 years old. I promise when I turn 15, I will stay out of the sun and cook roti with you," I would exclaim so not to worry her. Exasperated, she would shake her head and grab her knitting needles. "You cannot cook, sew, knit, make roti or cook a curry. Your husband will mistake you for a streetsweeper!"
"At least the street will be clean for road hockey," I would exclaim.
Imagine, being married at 15 and doing all of that. This coming from the woman who demanded to finish her Masters, threatened to throw herself in a firepit if her parents made her marry her cousin and procrastinated her own marriage to marry late, at age twenty-eight. And she wondered where I got my fiesty personality from.
I always knew, living in Canada, I was not going to suffer the same fate as my parent's generation. After going to Pakistan in 1979, I realized that life there was completely different.When my parents communicated their expectations, I would scoff and rebuke their ideas of how I needed to be raised. Just in that, I was a rebellious daughter. My father told me many times the following rules he adhered to growing up:
- Never raise your voice in front of your parents
- Never look them in the eye when you were being punished
- Always look them in the eye when you understand their opinion
- Never look away when being spoken to
- Always look away so not to appear arrogant by looking them in the eye
- Never talk back when being punished
- Never remain silent so that your parents know you understand their opinion
- Acknowledge when they are right so not to appear arrogant
- Admit when you are wrong so they know you are not arrogant
- Finally, if you ever slam a door, may it be known that you are damn to hell for misbehaving
I had NO IDEA where to look, which way to turn my head, what to do with my hands and in what tone of voice to reply. Instead, my jaw remained opened, with my arms hanging at the side of my body and I replied barbarically.
"HUH?!!"
My father turned to my mother. "We both have Master degrees and this is what you give birth to? Teach this black street urchin some manners!"
I looked at my fair, pale beautiful mother and back to my dark-skinned, stern father. What was wrong with this picture??
I couldn't hold back. It literally took unimaginable forces to prevent me from standing down. But I lacked the common sense and political correctness--and despite my mother's pleading eyes, I was about to perplex my father who slyly tried to confuse me. Two can play at that game.
I slanted my eyes and placed my hands on my hips. The cliched remark heard often was so maligned into a incomprehensible riddle, that it was lost in translation. Good thing for me.
"Who is the rude big, black pot calling the little white kettle cold?" I asked calmly with one eyebrow raised.
My father opened his mouth but then immediately closed it. My mother scratched her head with a knitting needle. They were both at a loss.
On the contrary--I knew I got him back--turning swiftly on my heels and exiting the convuluted conversation with my dark-skinned head held up high.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Ode to Ms Wynan
My relationship with my father had always been tumultous. While I was trying to find myself and my purpose in the world, he had his own ideas about who I was and what I should be doing.
Preteen syndrome led to teenage rebellion... to a chaotic entrance into my twenties...a blur in my thirties and now.... steady reflection in my forties. I duly expect to be brain-dead by my fifties, but I will wait patiently rather than anticipate it with baited breath.
Ok, maybe I have Daddy issues. What woman these days, doesn't? A patriarchal figure that forms and massages us into what they want--like 'play-doh'. And we spend years trying to release ourselves out of that predetermined mould, which only melts and deforms itself over the years; yearning to be moulded over again, but this time, into our own liking. They have a grip over us, even when we move thousands of miles away, speak less to them over the phone, or meet with them at only special events--the force is unbreakable and undeniable.
Back as a preteen, my father represented the reality of the world that would break the dreams of the world my mother projected to me.
Mama: "You can be whatever you want to be!"
Daddy: "Are you kidding!? Not with those marks"
Mama: "Go, find a job and be financially independant"
Daddy: "Over my dead body you are going to work!"
Mama: "Go away to school and learn to live on your own"
Daddy: "Over my dead body you are going to live on residence. Pay your own tuition then!"
Mama: "Don't let anyone bring you down. Ignore and move on"
Daddy: "You don't listen to anyone! That is why you are in this position today!"
In Grade 6, God sent me a teacher who made up for the ignorant zombies I had in elementary school. Ms. Wynan. She was a homely, single and loving teacher who GOT me. I stood out in her class not only because I was picked on (something she saw from the first day of class) but because I was her star pupil. Our bond was instant and under her tutelage, I flourished. Every class with her yielded the highest marks I had ever achieved. She positioned me close to her desk and I was relentlessly picked on for being the 'teacher's pet.' However, this time, I didn't care. I was not concerned about the peer pressure of fitting in--it was the least of my concerns. My only care in the world was to have Ms. Wynan proud of me. She became my 'school mother'. Whatever my father criticized at home, that work was put on display in the school lobby for everyone to see.
When my father said, "You can't do that" I came home the next day defying his logic. My best work shone through my creative writing exercises that were modelled as the 'kind of effort everyone was to work towards to get an 'A' in the class'.
Ms. Wynan was blown away with my poetry and I would read it to her, after class, in private. She would tear up and tell me how beautiful my prose and poetry had become. Little did I know at the time, was as she read through the lyrics and ballads, and stories, she unearthed and understood the pain from which they were all created from.
We never spoke about what was going on in class when students would steal my pencil crayons or hide my shoes from the cubby hole but she did not hold back from reprimanding them in my presence. We both knew it only fuelled the fire of my bullying, yet at the same, I took comfort and solace from the fact she was protecting me at all odds.
I suspected many years later that she went through the same misfortune as I did and that history was repeating itself. This is the only reason I can think of now about who she was and what she represented to me in my life back then. We saw each other through a different set of eyes and realized each other's potential--she as a teacher and I, as her pupil.
I never forgot her generosity and support in middle school. From Grade 6, I stopped letting people cheat off my test to win their friendship, ceased trying to buy their affection, didn't mind being picked last for team sports and I finally learned to stand on my own two feet when affronted with challenges. At school and at home with my father.
Instead of fighting back the real and conjured demons most of the time, I finally sat back, reserved my energy and watched her in action--teaching me silently, how to accept the fact that my brilliance was only worthy to those who had equal brilliance to recognize and nurture it.
Preteen syndrome led to teenage rebellion... to a chaotic entrance into my twenties...a blur in my thirties and now.... steady reflection in my forties. I duly expect to be brain-dead by my fifties, but I will wait patiently rather than anticipate it with baited breath.
Ok, maybe I have Daddy issues. What woman these days, doesn't? A patriarchal figure that forms and massages us into what they want--like 'play-doh'. And we spend years trying to release ourselves out of that predetermined mould, which only melts and deforms itself over the years; yearning to be moulded over again, but this time, into our own liking. They have a grip over us, even when we move thousands of miles away, speak less to them over the phone, or meet with them at only special events--the force is unbreakable and undeniable.
Back as a preteen, my father represented the reality of the world that would break the dreams of the world my mother projected to me.
Mama: "You can be whatever you want to be!"
Daddy: "Are you kidding!? Not with those marks"
Mama: "Go, find a job and be financially independant"
Daddy: "Over my dead body you are going to work!"
Mama: "Go away to school and learn to live on your own"
Daddy: "Over my dead body you are going to live on residence. Pay your own tuition then!"
Mama: "Don't let anyone bring you down. Ignore and move on"
Daddy: "You don't listen to anyone! That is why you are in this position today!"
In Grade 6, God sent me a teacher who made up for the ignorant zombies I had in elementary school. Ms. Wynan. She was a homely, single and loving teacher who GOT me. I stood out in her class not only because I was picked on (something she saw from the first day of class) but because I was her star pupil. Our bond was instant and under her tutelage, I flourished. Every class with her yielded the highest marks I had ever achieved. She positioned me close to her desk and I was relentlessly picked on for being the 'teacher's pet.' However, this time, I didn't care. I was not concerned about the peer pressure of fitting in--it was the least of my concerns. My only care in the world was to have Ms. Wynan proud of me. She became my 'school mother'. Whatever my father criticized at home, that work was put on display in the school lobby for everyone to see.
When my father said, "You can't do that" I came home the next day defying his logic. My best work shone through my creative writing exercises that were modelled as the 'kind of effort everyone was to work towards to get an 'A' in the class'.
Ms. Wynan was blown away with my poetry and I would read it to her, after class, in private. She would tear up and tell me how beautiful my prose and poetry had become. Little did I know at the time, was as she read through the lyrics and ballads, and stories, she unearthed and understood the pain from which they were all created from.
We never spoke about what was going on in class when students would steal my pencil crayons or hide my shoes from the cubby hole but she did not hold back from reprimanding them in my presence. We both knew it only fuelled the fire of my bullying, yet at the same, I took comfort and solace from the fact she was protecting me at all odds.
I suspected many years later that she went through the same misfortune as I did and that history was repeating itself. This is the only reason I can think of now about who she was and what she represented to me in my life back then. We saw each other through a different set of eyes and realized each other's potential--she as a teacher and I, as her pupil.
I never forgot her generosity and support in middle school. From Grade 6, I stopped letting people cheat off my test to win their friendship, ceased trying to buy their affection, didn't mind being picked last for team sports and I finally learned to stand on my own two feet when affronted with challenges. At school and at home with my father.
Instead of fighting back the real and conjured demons most of the time, I finally sat back, reserved my energy and watched her in action--teaching me silently, how to accept the fact that my brilliance was only worthy to those who had equal brilliance to recognize and nurture it.
Friday, March 22, 2013
The Ugly Girl in the Mirror
I remember standing in front of the mirror during my formulative years and trying to find my beauty.
We all go through a relatively rough period in our lives where nothing we try or do enhances the features and attributes which are God-given. Many times, my mother caught me trying to shave my eyebrows, bleach my moustache or lay my fuzzy hair on the ironing board to straighten it out. I could never look like the most popular girl in my class who was fair, blue-eyed, blond with rosy cheeks and pretty, name-brand clothes.
Grade 5. Ten years old. On the brink of puberty. And allowing the sentiment of others to influence the views I had of myself. It was a tumultuous time for me. Trying to fit in but ostracized at every attempt. The more I tried, the more it backfired. I emulated the actions of others, warped by peer pressure, hungry for acceptance, deluding myself and devaluing what I believed in most. A lot to internalize at the mere age of ten. Back then in the eighties, the word 'bullying' was non-existent. I was plaything, an easy target-- tossed around, abused and returned to its owner, damaged, unworthy, filthy and unprecious. I stood and held my ragged self and threw her back in the popular mix, only to repeat the same cycle over and over again through the course of that year. No avail, to no one's care, crying silently as I watched as an outsider and endured as a participant.
Again, my torture was due to a crush on a boy. His name was David. The most handsome boy in my class; the best soccer player in the school. Athletic, lean, strong, with brown curls and a smile to die for. I watched him for many years from afar, not once making eye contact, but wishing he would notice me noticing him. And as I looked in the mirror, I knew I would never be that girl who would catch his eye.
"Mama, look at the ugly girl in the mirror. How can I make her pretty?" I asked one day in my mother's room, in front of the dresser.
"But you are very beautiful in my eyes," my mother would reassure me as she attacked the tangles in the mass puffball that was my hair. "Why should you care about what others think? What is most important is how YOU feel about yourself."
I looked back in the mirror and saw what others saw. Paki! Dirty chocolate! Moustache girl! I heard the taunts from kids at school and during my afterschool walk from the car windows of shouting, faceless cowards. I hung my head low on some days, and on others, I looked the other way, pretending not to hear. Self preservation. I built the walls as high as I could. But they barricaded me in at the same time.
One day, we had gym outside in the soccer field. Our class was split into two teams to play against each other. I ended up on David's team, being the last one chosen from the team captains. I was elated, excited and looking forward to showing him my moves. But alas, near the end of the game, when we were close to winning, I lost my confidence around him despite knowing the rules (and playing soccer almost everyday at home with the street kids), I inadvertently picked up the soccer ball, while it was in play, out of sheer excitement. Of course, the other team was awarded a penalty shot and scored on our goalie, causing our team to lose the game. David was extremely upset. His close friend, Charlie, who was East Indian but accepted by all because he was athletic and 'cool' berated me the whole way back to class. But I was blinded by my crush on David.
"Maybe you can show me what I did wrong and we can go over the rules again?" I innocently asked David. His face was red and his anger was brimming. Charlie whispered something in his ear and passed him the soccer ball.
"So I hear you have a crush on me?" he asked smiling. Oh my God. He knew. I shyly kicked a stone at my feet and could not meet his stare. However, he was not staring at me. He was glaring at me.
I smiled back and nodded. There was a small crowd who had surrounded us. My teacher Mr. Phillips was still rounding the rest of the students back on the field. Although I was happy to be on speaking terms with David, an inner voice was warning me about what was going to happen next. The sixth sense I had was working overtime and I suddenly became cautious. There was four guys facing me and a few girls.
"I think we should meet after school at the baseball diamond so I can beat you up," he said, his smile fading into a menacing sneer. And with that, he launched the soccer ball and whipped it at my head! Dazed, I fell back a few steps. He had hit me on the side of my face, which was now stinging. I put my hand there and felt how hot my skin had become. David and his friends laughed hysterically and walked off to line up before the doors.
Three girls and one boy named Alex stood behind me in disbelief. "Tell the teacher!" they exclaimed in unison to me. I was riveted to one spot still trying to come to grips with what had just happened. My face was still stinging but this time, and I was cognisant of the fact that the stinging was due to my tears. I walked over to Mr. Phillips and between sobs, told him what David had done. Mr. Phillips knew, over the course of time, that I was relentlessly teased but took no action to remedy my situation. He was unsympathetic and while I did not expect him to be able to stop the actions of others perpetrated against me, I longed for his support and encouragement to overcome the bullying.
"Well I hope you learned your lesson not to touch the ball while its in play. I'm tired of the whining and you really have to figure out a way to solve your own problems," he said while waving me away. I stood motionless, not comprehending what he had said. Alex grabbed my arm and moved me aside to the boulders that were near the doors. Everyone was going in for lunch. Alex, myself and the three girls remained outside.
I remember this incident like it was yesterday. It was a pivotal day in my life because it made me question what my parents had taught me. Do unto those as you wish done to you. Be kind and others will be kind. What goes around comes around. No matter how hard I tried to be nice, and fit in, none of it translated into an positive experience I could think of. I sat on the boulder with my head in my hands, and released the cries that I had bottled up inside of me. Alex and the girls, not knowing how to handle an injured, sobbing outcast, left me and went inside. I sat on the boulder and faced the parking lot, wondering whether I should run away or throw a stone through the windsheild of Mr. Phillips car. Everyone had failed me. The few friends that I had, the system, David, Mr. Phillips .... but most of all, I had failed me. I was done. I was broken. And I caressed the broken me and told her, this was expected and crying would solve nothing. As I wiped my nose on my sleeve, smoothed the wrinkles out of my tattered dress, I turned around, astonished to see Alex and the three girls (whose names I do not remember today) facing me with worried looks.
"Hey, we just told Mr. Phillips that we didn't like how he dealt with your problem. Its so unfair. We are sorry." I looked at them suspiciously. Was this some kind of trick? I got up slowly and smiled sadly.
"Don't worry about me. I will just ignore it like everyone tells me to do," I said. Alex and the girls came over and sat down near me.
"You are a pretty good soccer player--even though you picked up the ball. But normally you play good" Alex said, trying to be nice.
"I play well...not good," I corrected him but immediately took my words back, not wanting to upset someone who was trying hard to be friendly. I sat back down and hung out with them until the bell rang. They talked about how unfair all the teasing was and that I needed to be strong and not let it get the better of me. For the first time, in a long time, I started to believe in myself. Those few kinds words stuck with me through the years and gave me the power to rid the negativity of those who didn't believe in me.
I always thought my bullies were the enemy. In retrospect, the revelation was simple.
It was never them. It was the ugly girl in the mirror.
We all go through a relatively rough period in our lives where nothing we try or do enhances the features and attributes which are God-given. Many times, my mother caught me trying to shave my eyebrows, bleach my moustache or lay my fuzzy hair on the ironing board to straighten it out. I could never look like the most popular girl in my class who was fair, blue-eyed, blond with rosy cheeks and pretty, name-brand clothes.
Grade 5. Ten years old. On the brink of puberty. And allowing the sentiment of others to influence the views I had of myself. It was a tumultuous time for me. Trying to fit in but ostracized at every attempt. The more I tried, the more it backfired. I emulated the actions of others, warped by peer pressure, hungry for acceptance, deluding myself and devaluing what I believed in most. A lot to internalize at the mere age of ten. Back then in the eighties, the word 'bullying' was non-existent. I was plaything, an easy target-- tossed around, abused and returned to its owner, damaged, unworthy, filthy and unprecious. I stood and held my ragged self and threw her back in the popular mix, only to repeat the same cycle over and over again through the course of that year. No avail, to no one's care, crying silently as I watched as an outsider and endured as a participant.
Again, my torture was due to a crush on a boy. His name was David. The most handsome boy in my class; the best soccer player in the school. Athletic, lean, strong, with brown curls and a smile to die for. I watched him for many years from afar, not once making eye contact, but wishing he would notice me noticing him. And as I looked in the mirror, I knew I would never be that girl who would catch his eye.
"Mama, look at the ugly girl in the mirror. How can I make her pretty?" I asked one day in my mother's room, in front of the dresser.
"But you are very beautiful in my eyes," my mother would reassure me as she attacked the tangles in the mass puffball that was my hair. "Why should you care about what others think? What is most important is how YOU feel about yourself."
I looked back in the mirror and saw what others saw. Paki! Dirty chocolate! Moustache girl! I heard the taunts from kids at school and during my afterschool walk from the car windows of shouting, faceless cowards. I hung my head low on some days, and on others, I looked the other way, pretending not to hear. Self preservation. I built the walls as high as I could. But they barricaded me in at the same time.
One day, we had gym outside in the soccer field. Our class was split into two teams to play against each other. I ended up on David's team, being the last one chosen from the team captains. I was elated, excited and looking forward to showing him my moves. But alas, near the end of the game, when we were close to winning, I lost my confidence around him despite knowing the rules (and playing soccer almost everyday at home with the street kids), I inadvertently picked up the soccer ball, while it was in play, out of sheer excitement. Of course, the other team was awarded a penalty shot and scored on our goalie, causing our team to lose the game. David was extremely upset. His close friend, Charlie, who was East Indian but accepted by all because he was athletic and 'cool' berated me the whole way back to class. But I was blinded by my crush on David.
"Maybe you can show me what I did wrong and we can go over the rules again?" I innocently asked David. His face was red and his anger was brimming. Charlie whispered something in his ear and passed him the soccer ball.
"So I hear you have a crush on me?" he asked smiling. Oh my God. He knew. I shyly kicked a stone at my feet and could not meet his stare. However, he was not staring at me. He was glaring at me.
I smiled back and nodded. There was a small crowd who had surrounded us. My teacher Mr. Phillips was still rounding the rest of the students back on the field. Although I was happy to be on speaking terms with David, an inner voice was warning me about what was going to happen next. The sixth sense I had was working overtime and I suddenly became cautious. There was four guys facing me and a few girls.
"I think we should meet after school at the baseball diamond so I can beat you up," he said, his smile fading into a menacing sneer. And with that, he launched the soccer ball and whipped it at my head! Dazed, I fell back a few steps. He had hit me on the side of my face, which was now stinging. I put my hand there and felt how hot my skin had become. David and his friends laughed hysterically and walked off to line up before the doors.
Three girls and one boy named Alex stood behind me in disbelief. "Tell the teacher!" they exclaimed in unison to me. I was riveted to one spot still trying to come to grips with what had just happened. My face was still stinging but this time, and I was cognisant of the fact that the stinging was due to my tears. I walked over to Mr. Phillips and between sobs, told him what David had done. Mr. Phillips knew, over the course of time, that I was relentlessly teased but took no action to remedy my situation. He was unsympathetic and while I did not expect him to be able to stop the actions of others perpetrated against me, I longed for his support and encouragement to overcome the bullying.
"Well I hope you learned your lesson not to touch the ball while its in play. I'm tired of the whining and you really have to figure out a way to solve your own problems," he said while waving me away. I stood motionless, not comprehending what he had said. Alex grabbed my arm and moved me aside to the boulders that were near the doors. Everyone was going in for lunch. Alex, myself and the three girls remained outside.
I remember this incident like it was yesterday. It was a pivotal day in my life because it made me question what my parents had taught me. Do unto those as you wish done to you. Be kind and others will be kind. What goes around comes around. No matter how hard I tried to be nice, and fit in, none of it translated into an positive experience I could think of. I sat on the boulder with my head in my hands, and released the cries that I had bottled up inside of me. Alex and the girls, not knowing how to handle an injured, sobbing outcast, left me and went inside. I sat on the boulder and faced the parking lot, wondering whether I should run away or throw a stone through the windsheild of Mr. Phillips car. Everyone had failed me. The few friends that I had, the system, David, Mr. Phillips .... but most of all, I had failed me. I was done. I was broken. And I caressed the broken me and told her, this was expected and crying would solve nothing. As I wiped my nose on my sleeve, smoothed the wrinkles out of my tattered dress, I turned around, astonished to see Alex and the three girls (whose names I do not remember today) facing me with worried looks.
"Hey, we just told Mr. Phillips that we didn't like how he dealt with your problem. Its so unfair. We are sorry." I looked at them suspiciously. Was this some kind of trick? I got up slowly and smiled sadly.
"Don't worry about me. I will just ignore it like everyone tells me to do," I said. Alex and the girls came over and sat down near me.
"You are a pretty good soccer player--even though you picked up the ball. But normally you play good" Alex said, trying to be nice.
"I play well...not good," I corrected him but immediately took my words back, not wanting to upset someone who was trying hard to be friendly. I sat back down and hung out with them until the bell rang. They talked about how unfair all the teasing was and that I needed to be strong and not let it get the better of me. For the first time, in a long time, I started to believe in myself. Those few kinds words stuck with me through the years and gave me the power to rid the negativity of those who didn't believe in me.
I always thought my bullies were the enemy. In retrospect, the revelation was simple.
It was never them. It was the ugly girl in the mirror.
Friday, February 8, 2013
My furry kiss
When anyone asks me when was my first kiss, I have to stop and think. Not about when, but rather, HOW to explain the story about it. Majority of people envision a romantic scene, conjuring up their own memories of when they were first kissed. And then I hit them with a ton of bricks and they back away--wide-eyed, in disbelief and shock. I don't mean to do it on purpose. Many times I think I should lie and make up a story so that I may mirror THEIR experience. But that is bowing down to peer pressure and following popular culture. In the end, I have to tell it like it is. Innocent, simple and intriguing.
The other day, one of my close friends, upon talking about our youth, ventured in the past and the ultimate question was posed to me.
"Who was your first kiss?" she asked. We were sitting at Starbucks enjoying a hot beverage one brisk, cold evening.
I smiled and rolled my eyes. Here it was. I pondered for a moment, and thought about how to share this story. Should I give her snippets or tell the long drawn out version?
"Do you really want to know?" Now, I really had her. She put down her coffee, leaned forward with intrigue in her expression. It was forced to recount the long version.
I leaned back and wrapped my arms around the back of the chair with a sheepish grin.
"My Grade 4 teacher." I tilted the chair back dangerously, gauging her reaction. My friend sipped her coffee and burnt her tongue.
"WTF!" she exclaimed.
"Its 100% true," I smiled crookedly.
"Of course! I know what you are capable of. Ok, I am interested. Tell me the whole story!"
So....the story goes....
Yes, it was Grade 4 and Mr. McLaren was my teacher. He was fairly young--I guess I could peg him in his mid-thirties. Chestnut brown hair, slim build and wearing the typical style of hair for that time period...I think it was 1979. And ... he had a large moustache.
This was the second year I was stuck in a portable. The atmosphere was never right. Either too cold or too hot. Too humid or too dry. I swear, I used to think my growth had to do with the air in those portables. I had unruly head of hair that never stayed put, no matter how my mother styled it. Of course, at that age, I had to find a reason for all my woes. But Mr. McLaren was the only highlight of my Grade 4 year.
I did extremely well in all my subjects because I had his undivided attention. Unlike Mr. Waller, this teacher got me. When he would start his lesson, I would see a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. I sat smack-dab right in the front of the classroom and our desks were aligned in rows--thereby not requiring us to be partnered with anyone else. This I liked. On my own, without any distraction, or someone cheating off of me or hearing the taunts I heard in Grade 3. And, I had a great view of my teacher, the blackboard and his desk.
Mr. McLaren was all about "learning should be fun." He would infuse games into his lessons and he stored a treasure chest of goodies in one corner of the portable. Anyone who would score high marks on a test or quiz was allowed to choose a gift from this box. It became a huge competition of who finished their test first to pick their reward. I hated Math but this exercise was made fun for me by Mr. McLaren and I was very happy to participate.
Majority of the time, I was the speed demon of the class and I got my pick the top prizes from the chest. I would fly over to his desk, as he marked my test using his red felt-tipped pen and then reveal my score to the class. A few times I missed the mark, and walked back dejected. But it only motivated me to work harder. As I tell my girls today, work for yourself. You aren't bringing those 'A's home for me. Its your hard work and if it pays off, you should reap the rewards.
But back then, I did it for Mr. McLaren...
"Ok I am getting to the point," I told my exasperated friend, who was checking out a man who walked into Starbucks.
It was the day before Christmas holidays. We were emptying out our desks and packing our work into our school bags. Mr. McLaren had a cassette tape running in the background of Christmas songs. I remember humming along to them all. Who cared if I didn't celebrate Christmas! The songs always uplifted my spirits.
We were told to line up after putting on our winter clothes, ready to exit and embark on our Christmas break.
"I want to congratulate all of you on a successful first half of Grade 4. So I will come down the line and show you my appreciation," he said standing in front of us. "You have been my best class so far and I am so proud of all your accomplishments."
I nudged Tara next to me, excited to see what he would do. Tara and I were near the end of the line, closest to the door. I leaned forward and watched as my teacher started from the front of the line. He shook the hands of all the boys and then leaned down to kiss the girls. WAIT A MINUTE. Did I see that right??? At first I thought he was kissing the girls on the cheek, but as I leaned further out, very precariously, I saw otherwise.
I turned to Tara in horror. "Is he kissing all the girls on the lips??" She giggled and nodded her head. I stepped back in my spot and felt my heart flutter in my chest. OH MA GAWD. And he was making his way down the line towards me!!
I stood frozen, with a million thoughts racing in my brain. Not about him kissing the girls, but how I was going to kiss him back! Do I pucker? Do I open my mouth? Do I keep it shut? Where do I hide my tongue?
It was excrutiating, waiting for him to come down the line and without knowing it, I had scrunched my eyes closed in sheer terror. When he came to me, I heard a chuckle and felt his hand grab mine. I opened up one eye, ever so slowly. He was looking down at me, expectantly.
"Have a wonderful Christmas my dear," he said. And with that, his moustache met mine and he gave me a peck on the lips.
My friend almost fell off her chair laughing. Everyone in Starbucks turned to look at us while I tried to mask my face from turning red. I lifted a newspaper and pretended to read some article about tax increases..... but she would not let it go.
"Are you telling me that your first kiss was a middle-aged grown teacher perv with a walrus moustache??" she asked incredulously. I sighed and shook my head. Story of my life. Inappropriate occurances in a politically incorrect time period. It had to be me.
"Yes. But he kissed ALL the girls on the lips, not just me!" However, my friend was not impressed.
"If I was your mother, I would have marched down to the school and castrated him for kissing my daughter! How dare he!" she exclaimed, pounding her fist on the table. The good looking man she checked out coming in was now looking in our direction. I slumped behind the newspaper even further.
"You need to watch Mad Men. There was a lot of things that happened back then that should not have happened, like my bullying for instance," I reminded her, trying to change the subject of my kiss but she shook her finger at me.
"You poor thing. Taken advantage of at such a young age, robbed of her innocence, stripped of the one most important event to ever take place in a girl's life--the first kiss!!" My friend was beside herself and looking at the desserts for emotional support. She got up and insisted I eat cake to make me feel better. As she was buying our therapeutic remedies, I caught the eye of the gentlemen sitting across from us, slowly sipping his coffee. He was in complete earshot of our conversation but I did not think he heard everything. My friend came back and shoved cake down my throat while soothing me with her words about not being traumatized by the whole thing. I continued my story.
After he kissed me, I walked home with Tara in stunned silence. She was yapping about all the things she would do during the break and what she wanted for Christmas. The kiss had absolutely no affect on her but it occupied my mind the whole way home. When I entered the house and saw my mother, I could not keep it in.
"My teacher kissed me on the lips today to thank me for all my hard work at school."
My friend interjected with a snort. "What happened to just giving you a gold star!?" I ignored her and continued.
My mother stopped brooming and looked at me, expressionless. I walked past her to the fridge. She turned me around and unleashed her fury upon me.
"When are you ever going to stop with your imaginative lies? Tsk Tsk!" she said and threatened to hit me over the head with the broom.
Figures.
I ran upstairs, shut my bedroom door behind me and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I did not look any different. I checked for a mark on my lips but they looked the same, with the peach fuzz still intact above my upper lip. I smiled, took out all the treasures I had accumulated from my school bag and sat back in awe as I reflected over my experience.
My friend was right. Had this happened today, my lovely teacher Mr. McLaren would be locked up in some jail, with someone having their way with him.
But as I look back in the past, he was my first kiss. Innocent, simple and intriguing.
"Nothing wrong rewarding someone with a kiss," I joked to my friend who was now stuffing her face and slowly accepting the fact that I accepted the whole incident.
"And nothing wrong with a moustache," the smiling gentlemen added while passing by our table to leave, much to the astonishment of my friend and I...
...and yes, he had a moustache.
The other day, one of my close friends, upon talking about our youth, ventured in the past and the ultimate question was posed to me.
"Who was your first kiss?" she asked. We were sitting at Starbucks enjoying a hot beverage one brisk, cold evening.
I smiled and rolled my eyes. Here it was. I pondered for a moment, and thought about how to share this story. Should I give her snippets or tell the long drawn out version?
"Do you really want to know?" Now, I really had her. She put down her coffee, leaned forward with intrigue in her expression. It was forced to recount the long version.
I leaned back and wrapped my arms around the back of the chair with a sheepish grin.
"My Grade 4 teacher." I tilted the chair back dangerously, gauging her reaction. My friend sipped her coffee and burnt her tongue.
"WTF!" she exclaimed.
"Its 100% true," I smiled crookedly.
"Of course! I know what you are capable of. Ok, I am interested. Tell me the whole story!"
So....the story goes....
Yes, it was Grade 4 and Mr. McLaren was my teacher. He was fairly young--I guess I could peg him in his mid-thirties. Chestnut brown hair, slim build and wearing the typical style of hair for that time period...I think it was 1979. And ... he had a large moustache.
This was the second year I was stuck in a portable. The atmosphere was never right. Either too cold or too hot. Too humid or too dry. I swear, I used to think my growth had to do with the air in those portables. I had unruly head of hair that never stayed put, no matter how my mother styled it. Of course, at that age, I had to find a reason for all my woes. But Mr. McLaren was the only highlight of my Grade 4 year.
I did extremely well in all my subjects because I had his undivided attention. Unlike Mr. Waller, this teacher got me. When he would start his lesson, I would see a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. I sat smack-dab right in the front of the classroom and our desks were aligned in rows--thereby not requiring us to be partnered with anyone else. This I liked. On my own, without any distraction, or someone cheating off of me or hearing the taunts I heard in Grade 3. And, I had a great view of my teacher, the blackboard and his desk.
Mr. McLaren was all about "learning should be fun." He would infuse games into his lessons and he stored a treasure chest of goodies in one corner of the portable. Anyone who would score high marks on a test or quiz was allowed to choose a gift from this box. It became a huge competition of who finished their test first to pick their reward. I hated Math but this exercise was made fun for me by Mr. McLaren and I was very happy to participate.
Majority of the time, I was the speed demon of the class and I got my pick the top prizes from the chest. I would fly over to his desk, as he marked my test using his red felt-tipped pen and then reveal my score to the class. A few times I missed the mark, and walked back dejected. But it only motivated me to work harder. As I tell my girls today, work for yourself. You aren't bringing those 'A's home for me. Its your hard work and if it pays off, you should reap the rewards.
But back then, I did it for Mr. McLaren...
"Ok I am getting to the point," I told my exasperated friend, who was checking out a man who walked into Starbucks.
It was the day before Christmas holidays. We were emptying out our desks and packing our work into our school bags. Mr. McLaren had a cassette tape running in the background of Christmas songs. I remember humming along to them all. Who cared if I didn't celebrate Christmas! The songs always uplifted my spirits.
We were told to line up after putting on our winter clothes, ready to exit and embark on our Christmas break.
"I want to congratulate all of you on a successful first half of Grade 4. So I will come down the line and show you my appreciation," he said standing in front of us. "You have been my best class so far and I am so proud of all your accomplishments."
I nudged Tara next to me, excited to see what he would do. Tara and I were near the end of the line, closest to the door. I leaned forward and watched as my teacher started from the front of the line. He shook the hands of all the boys and then leaned down to kiss the girls. WAIT A MINUTE. Did I see that right??? At first I thought he was kissing the girls on the cheek, but as I leaned further out, very precariously, I saw otherwise.
I turned to Tara in horror. "Is he kissing all the girls on the lips??" She giggled and nodded her head. I stepped back in my spot and felt my heart flutter in my chest. OH MA GAWD. And he was making his way down the line towards me!!
I stood frozen, with a million thoughts racing in my brain. Not about him kissing the girls, but how I was going to kiss him back! Do I pucker? Do I open my mouth? Do I keep it shut? Where do I hide my tongue?
It was excrutiating, waiting for him to come down the line and without knowing it, I had scrunched my eyes closed in sheer terror. When he came to me, I heard a chuckle and felt his hand grab mine. I opened up one eye, ever so slowly. He was looking down at me, expectantly.
"Have a wonderful Christmas my dear," he said. And with that, his moustache met mine and he gave me a peck on the lips.
My friend almost fell off her chair laughing. Everyone in Starbucks turned to look at us while I tried to mask my face from turning red. I lifted a newspaper and pretended to read some article about tax increases..... but she would not let it go.
"Are you telling me that your first kiss was a middle-aged grown teacher perv with a walrus moustache??" she asked incredulously. I sighed and shook my head. Story of my life. Inappropriate occurances in a politically incorrect time period. It had to be me.
"Yes. But he kissed ALL the girls on the lips, not just me!" However, my friend was not impressed.
"If I was your mother, I would have marched down to the school and castrated him for kissing my daughter! How dare he!" she exclaimed, pounding her fist on the table. The good looking man she checked out coming in was now looking in our direction. I slumped behind the newspaper even further.
"You need to watch Mad Men. There was a lot of things that happened back then that should not have happened, like my bullying for instance," I reminded her, trying to change the subject of my kiss but she shook her finger at me.
"You poor thing. Taken advantage of at such a young age, robbed of her innocence, stripped of the one most important event to ever take place in a girl's life--the first kiss!!" My friend was beside herself and looking at the desserts for emotional support. She got up and insisted I eat cake to make me feel better. As she was buying our therapeutic remedies, I caught the eye of the gentlemen sitting across from us, slowly sipping his coffee. He was in complete earshot of our conversation but I did not think he heard everything. My friend came back and shoved cake down my throat while soothing me with her words about not being traumatized by the whole thing. I continued my story.
After he kissed me, I walked home with Tara in stunned silence. She was yapping about all the things she would do during the break and what she wanted for Christmas. The kiss had absolutely no affect on her but it occupied my mind the whole way home. When I entered the house and saw my mother, I could not keep it in.
"My teacher kissed me on the lips today to thank me for all my hard work at school."
My friend interjected with a snort. "What happened to just giving you a gold star!?" I ignored her and continued.
My mother stopped brooming and looked at me, expressionless. I walked past her to the fridge. She turned me around and unleashed her fury upon me.
"When are you ever going to stop with your imaginative lies? Tsk Tsk!" she said and threatened to hit me over the head with the broom.
Figures.
I ran upstairs, shut my bedroom door behind me and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I did not look any different. I checked for a mark on my lips but they looked the same, with the peach fuzz still intact above my upper lip. I smiled, took out all the treasures I had accumulated from my school bag and sat back in awe as I reflected over my experience.
My friend was right. Had this happened today, my lovely teacher Mr. McLaren would be locked up in some jail, with someone having their way with him.
But as I look back in the past, he was my first kiss. Innocent, simple and intriguing.
"Nothing wrong rewarding someone with a kiss," I joked to my friend who was now stuffing her face and slowly accepting the fact that I accepted the whole incident.
"And nothing wrong with a moustache," the smiling gentlemen added while passing by our table to leave, much to the astonishment of my friend and I...
...and yes, he had a moustache.
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