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.....
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
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.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Kooties
I missed Donny. We never did say goodbye. When I went into Grade 2 in Mrs. Wolfe's class, Donny ended up with another teacher. He ceased to exist the year I moved and I don't remember him thereafter. But now I missed him in my new school. The boys were mean and the girls were influenced by the majority. I stuck out like a sore thumb--and the more I tried to fit in, the more ridicule and backlash I brought unto myself.
I remember recess time the most. That was when the bullying was at its worst. Back in the early 80s and 90s, 'bullying' did not exist. No one acknowledged it to be a problem or a social issue. But I was aware of it and no one tried to remedy it. Not the teachers, the parents or the children I went to school with. I was incessantly teased because I was an easy target. My clothes were not designer, let alone even matching. I implored my mother to go out and at least buy me one acceptable outfit but she always smiled in return and insisted my friends had to accept me as I was. When I pleaded with my father, he was not impressed with my 'material attitude.'
"Why are you always trying to be like the other children? Be yourself and people will accept you," he insisted."You are smarter and more intelligent than all the children put together in your class!"
I sat on the front porch with my father listening to now what became a routine lecture after I would come home teased and dejected. "The best thing is to ignore them. If you let them get to you, they have won. If you ignore, they will get tired of teasing you," he said while moving out of his lawn chair to pick up some garbage off the front lawn. "You are too emotional and trying hard to be accepted. Take your time. We just moved here. Just IGNORE them." He shook his head and walked inside the house. I remained outside, alone, hugging my legs and burying my chin in my knees. He just didn't understand. He grew up in a place where everyone was the majority in Pakistan. They all wore the same clothes, ate the same food, spoke the same language and had the same skin colour.
Here I was, the only brown girl in the school, with funny clothes, static hair, and an ever-growing moustache. I lay awake that night thinking about what my father advised me to do. IGNORE them. Use my intelligence. Don't try so hard.
Tomorrow would be a new day.
When the school bell rang at 10:15 the next morning, my heart was thumping loud in my ears. I needed to set my plan in motion. The small, freckled boy jumped from his seat, grabbed his coat from the hook and beckoned to his friends. He never liked sitting next to me, especially when I covered my answers with my arm every time there was a test. I knew it was a bone of contention for him but if he was going to tease me, there was no way in hell I was going to let him cheat and get a better of me!
They were waiting outside the portable when I came out. A group of boys: some from my class and others in Grade 3. I looked for my only friend Tara who waved me over to where they were playing double dutch. We started to play but one of the boys grabbed the rope and interrupted our game. He came over and shoved my shoulder.
"You're it! You now have the KOOTIES!" he screamed and everyone ran in different directions, away from me. I stood alone and looked around. Tara stood with three other girls and shrugged her shoulders. I never forgot this gesture--the shrugging of her shoulders. I took it personally and felt she was shrugging me off to fend for myself since she did not possess the power to help or support me. Part of it was that we were outnumbered. The other part was solely selfishness. Even though she remained my friend for many years, well into Grade six, I never felt so alone until that day. And a result, my reaction was rash. That was one of my problems. Instead of weighing my options, ruled entirely by emotions, reasoning always came in second. I had an audience and I was going to take advantage of it.
"You don't have to push me to give me the KOOTIES! It seems I had the KOOTIES when I moved here--which is really unfair! I have said and done nothing to you to deserve this!" I yelled, pointing to my freckled enemy."If that is how you feel, then I will infect all of you with these stupid, invisible KOOTIES!" I turned to the entire crowd who had grown still while I went off in my tirade on the playground. "That's right! How can I have them if you cannot see them? Does he even know what he is talking about?! You listen to him as if he rules the playground! I don't know why you are friends with someone who is SO MEAN! Today I may have the KOOTIES, but tomorrow it will be one of you and then you will understand how I feel!"
I stopped to see everyone's reactions. Tara looked down at her feet, the rest of the girls looked sheepishly at each other and the boys did not know where to look. The freckled boy gave me a menacing look. I had just challenged the ringleader and embaressed him in front of his pack. He did not like this. We had a staring standoff and I did not move. He then took one step back and yelled, "She has the KOOTIES! RUN!"
Fight fire with fire. The blood rose in me and I took my hands out of my pocket and surged forward.
"I WILL GET ALL OF YOU WITH MY KOOTIES!!" I screamed pumping my fist in the air. I ran and caught up with each and every boy and hugged them until they could not breathe. I saw fear in their eyes as I announced that my KOOTIES had been transferred to them. In the back of my mind, I heard my father's voice telling me to ignore them, use my words not my actions, but I soon realized that my speech to the entire recess population had the opposite effect on them all. They would not listen to intelligence or reason. Flight or fight. And each time, I chose fight.
Until my teacher came out of the portable to see what all the fuss was about. He blew his whistle as I was on top of the freckled boy, hugging him so tight that he relented and cried out for help. Mr. Waller came over just in time as I jumped off, smoothed out my clothes and smiled at my teacher who eyed me suspiciously.
"What is going on here dear?" He was always very polite with me and I reckoned it was because I was the new girl.
"Well Mr. Waller, it seems everyday I have the KOOTIES and I will always have them unless I give them to someone else. I tried to explain to the class that if I have this disease you would be able to see it but no one can show me that I have them. They don't understand what I am telling them so I thought I would give it to all the boys. Clearly, everyone looks the same as before," I stated, pointing to all the boys who were panting, grabbing their knees and catching their breath.
Mr. Waller stroked his chin. He was sizing me up. I stood up straight and waited for his judgement. I knew I would be vindicated. There was no arguing with my logic.
"We do not run and physically assault others during recess." he concluded. "But I do see where you are coming from. However, all of you deserve some punishment for this behaviour," he said looking at me and the boys in my class. The freckled boy began to protest but Mr. Waller put up his hand. "No futher discussion. The entire class has detention after school." The bell rang and the class headed back to the portable, exchanging exasperated looks but I lagged behind to walk next to Mr. Waller.
"Kooties do not exist. I don't have them but they think I have them. Its not fair! I remarked.
Mr. Waller put his hand on my shoulder and gave me the dumbest advice I have ever heard a teacher give their pupil. "Kooties exist if you believe they exist. You are the only one who doesn't believe it. Maybe you should, so that you are like the rest of the class." And with that, he walked off.
I stood still on the field, trying to comprehend what he had just said. The realization was deafening.
They say, by age seven, your personality has formed. You are who you are and you are an unique individual.
I sighed deeply. It was then I knew, alone on that field, as if a lightening bolt had struck me, no matter what, I would never try to fit in.
And I would prove to them all, that kooties were what we made of it.
I remember recess time the most. That was when the bullying was at its worst. Back in the early 80s and 90s, 'bullying' did not exist. No one acknowledged it to be a problem or a social issue. But I was aware of it and no one tried to remedy it. Not the teachers, the parents or the children I went to school with. I was incessantly teased because I was an easy target. My clothes were not designer, let alone even matching. I implored my mother to go out and at least buy me one acceptable outfit but she always smiled in return and insisted my friends had to accept me as I was. When I pleaded with my father, he was not impressed with my 'material attitude.'
"Why are you always trying to be like the other children? Be yourself and people will accept you," he insisted."You are smarter and more intelligent than all the children put together in your class!"
I sat on the front porch with my father listening to now what became a routine lecture after I would come home teased and dejected. "The best thing is to ignore them. If you let them get to you, they have won. If you ignore, they will get tired of teasing you," he said while moving out of his lawn chair to pick up some garbage off the front lawn. "You are too emotional and trying hard to be accepted. Take your time. We just moved here. Just IGNORE them." He shook his head and walked inside the house. I remained outside, alone, hugging my legs and burying my chin in my knees. He just didn't understand. He grew up in a place where everyone was the majority in Pakistan. They all wore the same clothes, ate the same food, spoke the same language and had the same skin colour.
Here I was, the only brown girl in the school, with funny clothes, static hair, and an ever-growing moustache. I lay awake that night thinking about what my father advised me to do. IGNORE them. Use my intelligence. Don't try so hard.
Tomorrow would be a new day.
When the school bell rang at 10:15 the next morning, my heart was thumping loud in my ears. I needed to set my plan in motion. The small, freckled boy jumped from his seat, grabbed his coat from the hook and beckoned to his friends. He never liked sitting next to me, especially when I covered my answers with my arm every time there was a test. I knew it was a bone of contention for him but if he was going to tease me, there was no way in hell I was going to let him cheat and get a better of me!
They were waiting outside the portable when I came out. A group of boys: some from my class and others in Grade 3. I looked for my only friend Tara who waved me over to where they were playing double dutch. We started to play but one of the boys grabbed the rope and interrupted our game. He came over and shoved my shoulder.
"You're it! You now have the KOOTIES!" he screamed and everyone ran in different directions, away from me. I stood alone and looked around. Tara stood with three other girls and shrugged her shoulders. I never forgot this gesture--the shrugging of her shoulders. I took it personally and felt she was shrugging me off to fend for myself since she did not possess the power to help or support me. Part of it was that we were outnumbered. The other part was solely selfishness. Even though she remained my friend for many years, well into Grade six, I never felt so alone until that day. And a result, my reaction was rash. That was one of my problems. Instead of weighing my options, ruled entirely by emotions, reasoning always came in second. I had an audience and I was going to take advantage of it.
"You don't have to push me to give me the KOOTIES! It seems I had the KOOTIES when I moved here--which is really unfair! I have said and done nothing to you to deserve this!" I yelled, pointing to my freckled enemy."If that is how you feel, then I will infect all of you with these stupid, invisible KOOTIES!" I turned to the entire crowd who had grown still while I went off in my tirade on the playground. "That's right! How can I have them if you cannot see them? Does he even know what he is talking about?! You listen to him as if he rules the playground! I don't know why you are friends with someone who is SO MEAN! Today I may have the KOOTIES, but tomorrow it will be one of you and then you will understand how I feel!"
I stopped to see everyone's reactions. Tara looked down at her feet, the rest of the girls looked sheepishly at each other and the boys did not know where to look. The freckled boy gave me a menacing look. I had just challenged the ringleader and embaressed him in front of his pack. He did not like this. We had a staring standoff and I did not move. He then took one step back and yelled, "She has the KOOTIES! RUN!"
Fight fire with fire. The blood rose in me and I took my hands out of my pocket and surged forward.
"I WILL GET ALL OF YOU WITH MY KOOTIES!!" I screamed pumping my fist in the air. I ran and caught up with each and every boy and hugged them until they could not breathe. I saw fear in their eyes as I announced that my KOOTIES had been transferred to them. In the back of my mind, I heard my father's voice telling me to ignore them, use my words not my actions, but I soon realized that my speech to the entire recess population had the opposite effect on them all. They would not listen to intelligence or reason. Flight or fight. And each time, I chose fight.
Until my teacher came out of the portable to see what all the fuss was about. He blew his whistle as I was on top of the freckled boy, hugging him so tight that he relented and cried out for help. Mr. Waller came over just in time as I jumped off, smoothed out my clothes and smiled at my teacher who eyed me suspiciously.
"What is going on here dear?" He was always very polite with me and I reckoned it was because I was the new girl.
"Well Mr. Waller, it seems everyday I have the KOOTIES and I will always have them unless I give them to someone else. I tried to explain to the class that if I have this disease you would be able to see it but no one can show me that I have them. They don't understand what I am telling them so I thought I would give it to all the boys. Clearly, everyone looks the same as before," I stated, pointing to all the boys who were panting, grabbing their knees and catching their breath.
Mr. Waller stroked his chin. He was sizing me up. I stood up straight and waited for his judgement. I knew I would be vindicated. There was no arguing with my logic.
"We do not run and physically assault others during recess." he concluded. "But I do see where you are coming from. However, all of you deserve some punishment for this behaviour," he said looking at me and the boys in my class. The freckled boy began to protest but Mr. Waller put up his hand. "No futher discussion. The entire class has detention after school." The bell rang and the class headed back to the portable, exchanging exasperated looks but I lagged behind to walk next to Mr. Waller.
"Kooties do not exist. I don't have them but they think I have them. Its not fair! I remarked.
Mr. Waller put his hand on my shoulder and gave me the dumbest advice I have ever heard a teacher give their pupil. "Kooties exist if you believe they exist. You are the only one who doesn't believe it. Maybe you should, so that you are like the rest of the class." And with that, he walked off.
I stood still on the field, trying to comprehend what he had just said. The realization was deafening.
They say, by age seven, your personality has formed. You are who you are and you are an unique individual.
I sighed deeply. It was then I knew, alone on that field, as if a lightening bolt had struck me, no matter what, I would never try to fit in.
And I would prove to them all, that kooties were what we made of it.
Monday, December 24, 2012
What do you mean I am not white?
In the spring of 1978, my father accepted a job in another city thus requiring us to leave the city I knew and grew up in at the tender age of 7. When he announced this to the family, I was mortified. How could this be happening? To leave all my friends, the neighborhood and even Mrs. Sirunis?!
My Grade 2 teacher, Mrs. Wolfe, had become one of my closest allies. She just got me. She nurtured me and nursed my wounds when I proclaimed defeat in any battle that overwhelmed me. When I told her that I was moving, she made the entire class sign a goodbye card. Everyone wrote well wishes and even pasted some pictures of me in action at school or with my friends. Life would never be the same :(
My memory alludes me when comes to our family leaving and moving. I try to recall the events leading to ending up in the new city but I cannot grasp them. I do however, remember saying goodbye to my best friend Melissa, and her parents Godfrey and Rose.
I walked up to their house with my father to say goodbye. At age seven, it is hard to express one's sincerest emotions without getting embaressed by them. I remember shying standing BEHIND my father as he shook Godfrey's hand while Rose wiped hers with a dishtowel. She beckoned me to hug her, which I did but I could not do the same with Melissa. After weeks of hugging everyone under the sun and displaying my emotions to the world, I could not bring myself to even hug my best friend. I mimicked my father and shook Melissa's hand. She too looked embaressed and smiled back a toothless grin. She had just lost her front teeth. We had some small talk and then my father told us it was time to go. I walked down her driveway and paused to look back at her and smile. That was the last time I saw Melissa.
Melissa was replaced by Becky within a day. When we arrived to the new home, I was struck by how different the neighborhood was. First of all, we were the only 'brown' people on our street. Yes, it was a mainly Caucasian city. And I was about to switch from the majority to the minority...
Becky was playing in her front yard the next day after we arrived. She was playing catch with her older sister. Each time the ball went over the bushes into our side yard, my brother, sister and I would retrieve it, liked starved puppies and shoot it back over. It became a game that we all played for well over an hour. Becky finally came over and we became fast friends over the next ten years.
Becky never commented about my skin colour but she did ask about my background. She listened to my soliloquy of how my parents immigrated to Canada (this story was told a million times by my father who made it clear that I benefitted greatly due this one important decision he made over eight years ago). She shrugged her shoulders and asked what sport equipment we had. I pulled out a deflated soccer ball from our garage. That was the extent of my interrogation from her. Not one ounce of judgment or analysis. We were friends and that was all there was to it.
But when I started school mid year in Grade 2, I was quickly reminded about being the new girl. And a lot seemed to relate to what colour I was.
"What do you mean I am not white?" I retorted to the small, freckled boy who sat next to me on the first day of school.
"Well I am not sure why Mr. Waller put you next to me. You should sit somewhere else because the rest of us are white!" I looked at him confused as I slowly put my new notebook in the desk. He tried hard to sit away from me, in an angle, preventing his elbow from touching mine.
I was confused and perturbed as I walked home alone. My father had only showed me once how to get to school and clearly I was lost. I walked in a complete circle until one girl who lived on the same street noticed my confused state as I stood on the corner staring at the street sign.
"You are the new girl in Grade 2 right?" she asked. She was pretty and innocent looking, with long blond hair, rosy cheeks and a white starched dress. The antithesis of me. I looked down at my lime green pants, brown dress shirt with green leaves, and my hair in a matted mess, tucked behind my floppy ears.
"I am lost. I need to get home for lunch," I panted, already emotionally and physically tired from the morning I endured. She took my hand and walked through a short cut until I saw the trees that looked familiar near my home. We were on a main street that led directly into a forest at the top of the street where my house was one of the corner houses on an intersection. Before she left me, I turned to her to ask the million dollar question.
"Tara, am I not allowed to live here because I am not white?"
She looked at me oddly, tilting her head to one side.
"I did not notice your colour," she said and skipped to her home seven houses down.
Somehow, I was not convinced.
My Grade 2 teacher, Mrs. Wolfe, had become one of my closest allies. She just got me. She nurtured me and nursed my wounds when I proclaimed defeat in any battle that overwhelmed me. When I told her that I was moving, she made the entire class sign a goodbye card. Everyone wrote well wishes and even pasted some pictures of me in action at school or with my friends. Life would never be the same :(
My memory alludes me when comes to our family leaving and moving. I try to recall the events leading to ending up in the new city but I cannot grasp them. I do however, remember saying goodbye to my best friend Melissa, and her parents Godfrey and Rose.
I walked up to their house with my father to say goodbye. At age seven, it is hard to express one's sincerest emotions without getting embaressed by them. I remember shying standing BEHIND my father as he shook Godfrey's hand while Rose wiped hers with a dishtowel. She beckoned me to hug her, which I did but I could not do the same with Melissa. After weeks of hugging everyone under the sun and displaying my emotions to the world, I could not bring myself to even hug my best friend. I mimicked my father and shook Melissa's hand. She too looked embaressed and smiled back a toothless grin. She had just lost her front teeth. We had some small talk and then my father told us it was time to go. I walked down her driveway and paused to look back at her and smile. That was the last time I saw Melissa.
Melissa was replaced by Becky within a day. When we arrived to the new home, I was struck by how different the neighborhood was. First of all, we were the only 'brown' people on our street. Yes, it was a mainly Caucasian city. And I was about to switch from the majority to the minority...
Becky was playing in her front yard the next day after we arrived. She was playing catch with her older sister. Each time the ball went over the bushes into our side yard, my brother, sister and I would retrieve it, liked starved puppies and shoot it back over. It became a game that we all played for well over an hour. Becky finally came over and we became fast friends over the next ten years.
Becky never commented about my skin colour but she did ask about my background. She listened to my soliloquy of how my parents immigrated to Canada (this story was told a million times by my father who made it clear that I benefitted greatly due this one important decision he made over eight years ago). She shrugged her shoulders and asked what sport equipment we had. I pulled out a deflated soccer ball from our garage. That was the extent of my interrogation from her. Not one ounce of judgment or analysis. We were friends and that was all there was to it.
But when I started school mid year in Grade 2, I was quickly reminded about being the new girl. And a lot seemed to relate to what colour I was.
"What do you mean I am not white?" I retorted to the small, freckled boy who sat next to me on the first day of school.
"Well I am not sure why Mr. Waller put you next to me. You should sit somewhere else because the rest of us are white!" I looked at him confused as I slowly put my new notebook in the desk. He tried hard to sit away from me, in an angle, preventing his elbow from touching mine.
I was confused and perturbed as I walked home alone. My father had only showed me once how to get to school and clearly I was lost. I walked in a complete circle until one girl who lived on the same street noticed my confused state as I stood on the corner staring at the street sign.
"You are the new girl in Grade 2 right?" she asked. She was pretty and innocent looking, with long blond hair, rosy cheeks and a white starched dress. The antithesis of me. I looked down at my lime green pants, brown dress shirt with green leaves, and my hair in a matted mess, tucked behind my floppy ears.
"I am lost. I need to get home for lunch," I panted, already emotionally and physically tired from the morning I endured. She took my hand and walked through a short cut until I saw the trees that looked familiar near my home. We were on a main street that led directly into a forest at the top of the street where my house was one of the corner houses on an intersection. Before she left me, I turned to her to ask the million dollar question.
"Tara, am I not allowed to live here because I am not white?"
She looked at me oddly, tilting her head to one side.
"I did not notice your colour," she said and skipped to her home seven houses down.
Somehow, I was not convinced.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
You have more than you know
I did not have much growing up. According to me, I did not have fancy clothes, amazing toys or a well-decorated home. After hanging out with my friends in the entire neighbourhood, I concluded that I was the most unfortunate child that ever existed. Ok, so I was a tad bit melodramatic, but at age six, one's perception of the world is biased and only based on tunnel vision.
I NEVER heard my mother complain. Ever. Even when she was suffering from chest pains that led to her death from a massive heart attack at age 46, she would never outright tell anyone about what was bothering her. And when I was young and complained to her about everything I did not have, she would only smile and reply,
"You have more than you know"
This answer perplexed and frustrated me. I would ask her to explain what she meant, but that is all she ever said to me when I was in a middle of a fit or arguing about what my father did not provide for me. Her way of discipline was subtle and passive. My father, on the other hand, was brash, blunt and to the point. No emotion, no sympathy, no empathy or support. It was his way or the highway.
And that was the crux of it. I blamed him for my lack of material goods because growing up, he had control over all the money. And what he gave to my mother was the issue--it was never enough.
I remember going to the store one day with my mother, who towed my sister with one hand and pushed my brother in the stroller. The main plaza was a twenty minute walk from our house. It was a cold, fall day because I remember my mother having to stop to adjust our hats and scarves. When we reached the store, I ran wild through the aisles, looking for the latest craze, which had been aired on every commerical on TV. It was a talking doll. Who knew dolls could talk? All you had to do was pull the cord and she would say various sentences. I dreamt about her nightly and knew that I must have her.
I picked up the box and ran to my mother. She was collecting diapers, formula and baby food for my brother.
"Mama! I found her! Can you buy her for me?" I was panting, out of breath from running all over the store.
"Sorry darling. I only have enough money to buy food and diapers for the baby."
She pulled out her wallet and started counting her cash. I stood quietly, and held the box to my chest. I need this doll. Every girl at school has the same doll. I had grown tired of Marie, who at this point was completely bald and had a gaping hole at the side of her body that exposed an old sock that belonged to my father.
"MAMA! Get more money from Papa then. Does he really need diapers?" I insisted pointing at my brother who was sucking his thumb and smiling at me.
My mother tried to grab the box from me but I ran off. She sighed heavily and got into line. I stood from afar and watched her count her change, pay the cashier and tie the bags to the stroller. She turned to look for me.
"Put the doll back and let's go home. I cannot afford to buy your doll. I am sorry."
I shook my head and stomped my foot. Deep down, I knew she was not the right person to have this public battle with. But I could not leave the store without the doll. I looked at my brother with contempt. He was three years old and should have been potty trained. My mother turned the stroller towards the doors and started to leave. I frantically walked over to the cashier.
"My father will come back and pay for her. I promise!" The cashier looked at me dumbfounded but was interrupted by mother who had intervened.
"Put the doll down. You cannot take it without paying. Talk to your Papa when he gets home," as she grabbed the box, gave it to the cashier and pulled me by my hood.
Needless to say, I refused to hold my sister's hand and moaned all the way home. My mother told me later that at one point, I lay on the sidewalk and asked her to run over me with my brother's stroller to end my misery. Yes, I was the ultimate drama queen--but she told me to take it up with the master of the house...my father. And that I did.
Right after he placed the last morsel of food in his mouth (since I was instructed never to speak or interrupt my father during dinner) I interrogated him with a barrage of questions.
"How much money do you make?"
"After you pay the bills, can the money leftover pay for my doll?"
"Can I not eat for one week in order for you to pay for my doll?
"Can you let Mama pay for all the bills and things we need?"
"Can I get a job and pay for my doll myself?
"Can I return all the bottles and use that money for my doll?"
My mother looked over at me emphatically and cleared the table in silence. My father sat back in his chair and picked his teeth with a toothpick--his 'after-dinner routine'. I scrunched my nose and awaited is reply. I tried to sit up straight and even placed my hands in my lap to impress him. What could go wrong? I gave him many answers on how to pay for my doll. It was a sure win for me.
"Why do you need this doll?" he implored.
"Because everyone at school has her."
"If everyone jumped off a bridge to their death, would you do the same?" I always hated this response and back then, never understood where he was going with this statement. JAB.
"Yes I would if there was a talking doll at the bottom of the bridge." My father roared with laughter and then abruptly left the table. I followed him into the family room.
"Daddy, I need this doll! She talks. You just pull the cord and she talks. Isn't that amazing?"
"I don't need to pull a cord and you talk non-stop. That is what I call amazing," he said picking up his newspaper to hide behind. JAB. I could feel the tears forming. I hated it when he would flip the argument into some kind of a comedy routine.
"I know you have the money but you won't spend it on me because you buy what YOU like. That is not fair! When I have my own children, I will buy them whatever they want because...well....because..." My father lowered the paper slowly and waited for me to finish my sentence. The drama queen was rising inside of me.
"Because why?" he said raising his eyebrow, still smiling.
"Because I will love them more!" I shouted. My father stopped smiling and called for my mother. She came around the corner, wiping her hands with a dish towel.
"Did you hear what she said? She doesn't think I love her because I do not buy her things. Tell her that money does not buy love! Tell her!" he exclaimed.
"She is right here. And you are already talking to her. You tell her," my mother said softly and left the room. I looked back at my father who was agitated. I know today that my father meant well, but back then he had trouble conveying his message, without getting his feathers ruffled.
My father ran his hands through his hair and regarded me with suspicion. His glare was always intimidating to me but I kept my feet firmly planted and glared back.
"Daddy, I promise, I will never ask for another thing as long as you buy me this doll," I pleaded. I knew I was lying but I had to make a case.
"I hear this ALL the time. Tomorrow it will be a new toy that comes on TV. You do not need this doll. Be a leader, not a follower!" JAB. He waved me off and picked up his newspaper. To make things worse, when he folded his section over, the advertisement for the doll was facing me! JAB.
"Daddy! Look, she is in the newspaper! This is the doll I want!" I grabbed the paper and pointed to her picture.
Lesson #1: NEVER grab a newspaper out of your father's hands!
My father stood up and towered over me. He snatched the paper from out of my hands.
"GO TO YOUR ROOM! You will never understand until you have your own children!" he yelled.
My mother came running into the family room and took me by the shoulders. I showed him my fist on the way out. Fight fire with fire. Yes, I did not know any better.
My mother took me to my room and closed the door.
"When will you learn?" she asked. I changed into my pajamas and angrily got under the covers while she watched. I could see she was trying to calm me down. Funny enough, it was never through words. It was through her actions. She would smile and wait. Her patience was unbelievable. She put up with my father and her strong-willed daughter and became the referee in our fights. It was her calmness that kept me sane.
She stroked my hair and waited for my huffing and puffing to stop. "You will get everything you want... but in time. Be patient. Appreciate what you have today,' she said soothingly. She put her hand on my chest. "Do you hear that? Its your heart beating. Air goes in and comes out. You are breathing. That is what is keeping you alive now. Some children have died because they have problems with their heart. Some children are very sick and they live in the hospital. They cannot run and play like you do everyday. God gave you a healthy body. You make Him sad when you don't thank him for it."
I lay in stunned silence. I never thought about it in that way. I searched her kind face for more answers.
"Maybe if I am sick, I will get all the presents I want in the hospital. Then Papa would buy me the doll!" I exclaimed with renewed energy. My mother shook her head in disappointment.
"That is a horrible thing to say! You want to be sick? How can you enjoy your toys if you are lying in a hospital while your parents are upset with worry? Shame on you!"
She was right. And I hated to admit it. But she made sense and somehow the doll was no longer important.
Lesson #2: Hindsight is 20/20
Lesson #3: Be a leader, not a follower
Three lessons I learned from my father.
But my mother's phrase has been the only one I catch myself saying to my own three drama queens today....
I NEVER heard my mother complain. Ever. Even when she was suffering from chest pains that led to her death from a massive heart attack at age 46, she would never outright tell anyone about what was bothering her. And when I was young and complained to her about everything I did not have, she would only smile and reply,
"You have more than you know"
This answer perplexed and frustrated me. I would ask her to explain what she meant, but that is all she ever said to me when I was in a middle of a fit or arguing about what my father did not provide for me. Her way of discipline was subtle and passive. My father, on the other hand, was brash, blunt and to the point. No emotion, no sympathy, no empathy or support. It was his way or the highway.
And that was the crux of it. I blamed him for my lack of material goods because growing up, he had control over all the money. And what he gave to my mother was the issue--it was never enough.
I remember going to the store one day with my mother, who towed my sister with one hand and pushed my brother in the stroller. The main plaza was a twenty minute walk from our house. It was a cold, fall day because I remember my mother having to stop to adjust our hats and scarves. When we reached the store, I ran wild through the aisles, looking for the latest craze, which had been aired on every commerical on TV. It was a talking doll. Who knew dolls could talk? All you had to do was pull the cord and she would say various sentences. I dreamt about her nightly and knew that I must have her.
I picked up the box and ran to my mother. She was collecting diapers, formula and baby food for my brother.
"Mama! I found her! Can you buy her for me?" I was panting, out of breath from running all over the store.
"Sorry darling. I only have enough money to buy food and diapers for the baby."
She pulled out her wallet and started counting her cash. I stood quietly, and held the box to my chest. I need this doll. Every girl at school has the same doll. I had grown tired of Marie, who at this point was completely bald and had a gaping hole at the side of her body that exposed an old sock that belonged to my father.
"MAMA! Get more money from Papa then. Does he really need diapers?" I insisted pointing at my brother who was sucking his thumb and smiling at me.
My mother tried to grab the box from me but I ran off. She sighed heavily and got into line. I stood from afar and watched her count her change, pay the cashier and tie the bags to the stroller. She turned to look for me.
"Put the doll back and let's go home. I cannot afford to buy your doll. I am sorry."
I shook my head and stomped my foot. Deep down, I knew she was not the right person to have this public battle with. But I could not leave the store without the doll. I looked at my brother with contempt. He was three years old and should have been potty trained. My mother turned the stroller towards the doors and started to leave. I frantically walked over to the cashier.
"My father will come back and pay for her. I promise!" The cashier looked at me dumbfounded but was interrupted by mother who had intervened.
"Put the doll down. You cannot take it without paying. Talk to your Papa when he gets home," as she grabbed the box, gave it to the cashier and pulled me by my hood.
Needless to say, I refused to hold my sister's hand and moaned all the way home. My mother told me later that at one point, I lay on the sidewalk and asked her to run over me with my brother's stroller to end my misery. Yes, I was the ultimate drama queen--but she told me to take it up with the master of the house...my father. And that I did.
Right after he placed the last morsel of food in his mouth (since I was instructed never to speak or interrupt my father during dinner) I interrogated him with a barrage of questions.
"How much money do you make?"
"After you pay the bills, can the money leftover pay for my doll?"
"Can I not eat for one week in order for you to pay for my doll?
"Can you let Mama pay for all the bills and things we need?"
"Can I get a job and pay for my doll myself?
"Can I return all the bottles and use that money for my doll?"
My mother looked over at me emphatically and cleared the table in silence. My father sat back in his chair and picked his teeth with a toothpick--his 'after-dinner routine'. I scrunched my nose and awaited is reply. I tried to sit up straight and even placed my hands in my lap to impress him. What could go wrong? I gave him many answers on how to pay for my doll. It was a sure win for me.
"Why do you need this doll?" he implored.
"Because everyone at school has her."
"If everyone jumped off a bridge to their death, would you do the same?" I always hated this response and back then, never understood where he was going with this statement. JAB.
"Yes I would if there was a talking doll at the bottom of the bridge." My father roared with laughter and then abruptly left the table. I followed him into the family room.
"Daddy, I need this doll! She talks. You just pull the cord and she talks. Isn't that amazing?"
"I don't need to pull a cord and you talk non-stop. That is what I call amazing," he said picking up his newspaper to hide behind. JAB. I could feel the tears forming. I hated it when he would flip the argument into some kind of a comedy routine.
"I know you have the money but you won't spend it on me because you buy what YOU like. That is not fair! When I have my own children, I will buy them whatever they want because...well....because..." My father lowered the paper slowly and waited for me to finish my sentence. The drama queen was rising inside of me.
"Because why?" he said raising his eyebrow, still smiling.
"Because I will love them more!" I shouted. My father stopped smiling and called for my mother. She came around the corner, wiping her hands with a dish towel.
"Did you hear what she said? She doesn't think I love her because I do not buy her things. Tell her that money does not buy love! Tell her!" he exclaimed.
"She is right here. And you are already talking to her. You tell her," my mother said softly and left the room. I looked back at my father who was agitated. I know today that my father meant well, but back then he had trouble conveying his message, without getting his feathers ruffled.
My father ran his hands through his hair and regarded me with suspicion. His glare was always intimidating to me but I kept my feet firmly planted and glared back.
"Daddy, I promise, I will never ask for another thing as long as you buy me this doll," I pleaded. I knew I was lying but I had to make a case.
"I hear this ALL the time. Tomorrow it will be a new toy that comes on TV. You do not need this doll. Be a leader, not a follower!" JAB. He waved me off and picked up his newspaper. To make things worse, when he folded his section over, the advertisement for the doll was facing me! JAB.
"Daddy! Look, she is in the newspaper! This is the doll I want!" I grabbed the paper and pointed to her picture.
Lesson #1: NEVER grab a newspaper out of your father's hands!
My father stood up and towered over me. He snatched the paper from out of my hands.
"GO TO YOUR ROOM! You will never understand until you have your own children!" he yelled.
My mother came running into the family room and took me by the shoulders. I showed him my fist on the way out. Fight fire with fire. Yes, I did not know any better.
My mother took me to my room and closed the door.
"When will you learn?" she asked. I changed into my pajamas and angrily got under the covers while she watched. I could see she was trying to calm me down. Funny enough, it was never through words. It was through her actions. She would smile and wait. Her patience was unbelievable. She put up with my father and her strong-willed daughter and became the referee in our fights. It was her calmness that kept me sane.
She stroked my hair and waited for my huffing and puffing to stop. "You will get everything you want... but in time. Be patient. Appreciate what you have today,' she said soothingly. She put her hand on my chest. "Do you hear that? Its your heart beating. Air goes in and comes out. You are breathing. That is what is keeping you alive now. Some children have died because they have problems with their heart. Some children are very sick and they live in the hospital. They cannot run and play like you do everyday. God gave you a healthy body. You make Him sad when you don't thank him for it."
I lay in stunned silence. I never thought about it in that way. I searched her kind face for more answers.
"Maybe if I am sick, I will get all the presents I want in the hospital. Then Papa would buy me the doll!" I exclaimed with renewed energy. My mother shook her head in disappointment.
"That is a horrible thing to say! You want to be sick? How can you enjoy your toys if you are lying in a hospital while your parents are upset with worry? Shame on you!"
She was right. And I hated to admit it. But she made sense and somehow the doll was no longer important.
Lesson #2: Hindsight is 20/20
Lesson #3: Be a leader, not a follower
Three lessons I learned from my father.
But my mother's phrase has been the only one I catch myself saying to my own three drama queens today....
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