Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Cut Eye Meets One Bag Too Many

I hate being that passenger. You know, the one on public transit who is balancing too many bags, while trying to find a seat close enough to the door so that he/she steps on the least number of feet possible upon exit. Sigh. But today, I was that passenger and it reminded me of a great performance of subway theatre that I dubbed "Cut Eye Meets One Bag Too Many."

******

8:26 a.m. - The height of rush hour. I got on the train, remained standing and sandwiched myself between a pole and about a dozen people. As I was just about to enter my ‘zen’ place with my book in tow, the door chimed open at the next stop and in she walked... one-bag-too-many. Impeccably dressed and oblivious to those around her, she barreled through the train as if it were empty, dragging at least three bags at her feet and two hitched up on her hips. My girl then squeezed in front of me to grab the only available seat and nearly mash up ah foot with one of her over-sized treasures. The offender was a black, boxy briefcase on wheels and the unsuspecting victim, female, was pissed.

Now, let me pause at this point to mention that when I moved to Toronto and became a cog in the commuter-super machine I learned very quickly how to pass the time in lieu of reading material, sleepiness, etc. It’s simple. When yuh get tired reading the same subway/bus ad, start to maco! This is how I managed to witness the delivery of a cut-eye so sweet that it made me lose my place on the page I was reading altogether.

If you don’t know what a cut-eye is, you have never received one.

The injured, a.k.a. cut-eye, recovered quickly enough, but I would pay plenty more than a penny to hear the thoughts that ran across her mind in sync with her deadly glance. (aye aye moment: Most communication on public transit is non-verbal simply because it's safer. Always assume that you are travelling with at least one person crazier than you.)



Monday, April 4, 2011

Bound by truth

Last September, I joined a group of 12 strangers for a 10-week, creative non-fiction, writing workshop called “True To Life Writing” at Ryerson University. We all seemed to share two things in common: a desire to write and the fear of calling ourselves writers.


We were an eclectic bunch, bringing life to a classically bland classroom and bound by a code of silence that asked that we didn't share our writing with anyone (partners and confidants included). At least part of the rationale for the latter was to save our still fragile writers' egos.

Every week we would write, our imagination sparked by a word or scene painted by our instructor, Beth Kaplan. Then the following week, one by one, we would share our unedited, uncensored interpretations. The “feedback sandwich” would be passed around the room, with full critiquing license left for Beth who would edit for grammar, technique, flow and other such important writing things.


While using literary devices such as "suitcases" (or hidden nuggets that when revealed tell the real story, as Beth called them) remain top of my mind since we went our separate ways in December, the greatest reward was experiencing the level of trust we all placed in each other. The class was our safety net where judgement was left at the door. I shared more of myself with the group than most people I've known my entire life.

While still trying to grasp the reality of mummy's death, I reached out to the class, remembering the stories I had shared of my relationship with her and knowing instantly that they would understand the depth of my loss.

The end of the workshop was bittersweet. I was proud to have made it to the end, though some days I dragged myself there after work. But I was also fearful that I would not be able to keep up the momentum of writing as I allowed life to get in the way.

Thankfully, our relationships did not end with the class. We are now meeting once a month for “True To Life Writing Beyond Ryerson” at a little coffee shop and I feel fortunate to be a part of these writers' journeys and to have them be part of mine.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Blessings flow

While shopping for a bed in Ikea for my new condo today, an employee picked me out the sea of shoppers and asked if I needed assistance. I put on my brightest smile and immediately obliged; although I was waiting for the pick-up line (he was an older, black man afterall), I decided that using my feminine wiles was fair game to get help finding and carting out the several boxes that added up to my Queen sized bed.

After Joseph determined that there was no boyfriend in his way, he zeroed in on my (dread)locks. He was curious about my spirituality and my choice to go dread. I told him that I longed for locks since I was a teenager primarily for cosmetic reasons. But when I made the decision just over a year ago, after much angst, the matted strands of hair bore greater significance. It was a spiritual decision centred around my coming into my own and wanting to be my most authentic self, even if it meant going against the wishes of others (read: my mother). It was a small step against fear, though there are many bigger steps still to be taken.

Joseph and I chatted more as we ambled through the aisles, box by box. We talked about his former journey as a Rastafarian, the Twelve Tribes, fasting and clairvoyance, and why Toronto's boys need to become men. Then he said, “You're from Trinidad.” I blushed, always appreciative of those who can discern my accent with ease. That's when I discovered we shared a birthplace.

I seem to have a knack for finding Trinis anywhere, anytime - like moths to a flame without the whole getting burnt to death part.

My brief bonding experience with Joseph got me thinking about the blessings that constantly course through my life. I firmly believe the woman my mother was has opened doors for me that for others remain close. I know that the prayers my granny utters daily for me without fail reach across the shores.

So today, I'm thankful for my blessings. Not only did I find the perfect bed, but I met Joesph who made sure I got it safely to the cashier. (And he didn't ask for my number - refreshing!)

Friday, April 1, 2011

No April's Fool, just a writer

Two days ago, I told a dear friend that I think I may need to talk to someone – a professional. The night before my 10:20 a.m. revelation to her over a Google chat I was standing in the shower in a mad fit, flip-flopping between crying and composure. A montage of the events of the past four months flashed before my eyes. Hearing my father say, “mummy died.” Viewing her body at the funeral home. Delivering my point-form eulogy. Touching her face in the coffin at the cemetery. Forgetting to say “I love you” at the end of our last conversation.

As our virtual conversation continued, she asked why I didn't express what I've been feeling through my writing. I know I have a history of burying my emotions. What I didn't know was that I have been using sleep and drivel on the TV (Say Yes to the Dress, Jersey Shore, Real Housewives – need I say more!) as drugs to tune out.

Sometimes my thoughts scare me. I'm afraid to see them on paper, on the screen. Sometimes I feel the inside is just too ugly to share with others or for me to even read to myself. Sometimes I think I need a F-bucket to purge my thoughts out into.

But (aye-aye moment alert!), her final piece of advice during our chat made me rethink the way I've been censoring myself.

“You know you're in control right?” she asked. “If you want to write and burn it when you're done, then do that; if you want to write and file it away to never return to it, then do that; if you want to write and post, then do that.”

I decided to run with choice #3, for today.

This blog is about my journey of becoming, experiencing, stumbling, loving, living, but first to begin...