Pretentious, Self-Righteous Essays

I remember being 14 or 15, saving up my bus fare (by walking home from school) so that on weekends, when I got really depressed, I would take the bus up to the subway, randomly pick a subway stop on the map and then just go to it and see what was there.  The TTC routes are – for the most part – a lovely grid, and it felt impossible to get lost, especially if you knew how the transit system operated.

I remember hitting 16 and knowing where exactly it was that I wanted to go – no more random crap shoots.  Most popular were all of the major malls that were on subway lines: Eaton Centre, Scarborough Town Centre, Yorkdale Mall, and Fairview Mall.  Then there were all of the parties that everyone would hit up.  Primarily I think I went to Jamestown.  As I grew older, I’d meet more and more people who could drive and had cars so my string of small radii that dictated my hangouts (i.e. subway stations) collapsed and then expanded… but until that time would come, this was it.

It was on a subway ride that my sister and I were first flashed.  I say ‘first’ because it would turn out not to be the last time that it would happen.  And of all of the possible times that it could have happened, I would never have expected it to have been on a nearly full train during the evening rush hour.  Sitting side-by-side in double-seats at the back of a train, the flasher seated himself in front of us, held up his coat and suitcase to block us from running and to cover himself as he masturbated while staring at us.  Because of the way we were seated, we couldn’t reach the emergency strip – it was over his head.  We just waited it out and ran when we got to our stop.  I considered running off the train earlier, but experience has taught me that running off a train because of someone following you on it only creates the potential of being trapped alone on an unfamiliar subway platform with that person.  On the train were tons of people and attendants and potential help if he tried to touch us, and at my subway stop, I knew where to go.

Anyway, we’ve seen and experienced a lot by taking public transit.  This is just one example of one of the kinds of things that you can encounter when you’re a teenage girl on the subway.  Fortunately, we were neither raped nor killed.  I used to wonder what we could have done to prevent these things, such as not dress provocatively, but we didn’t, so I don’t feel guilty.  We were just two young females and we let him get away with it.  That’s why it happened.  I stopped letting people get away with their offenses, and they magically stopped happening.

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For work, I rent out a parking spot south of my office.  It is 2/3 the cost of parking at my office.  The hospital that my dad is in is several blocks away from this parking spot.  I haven’t wanted to pay for parking downtown that’s closer to the hospital partly because of cost, but mostly because I already pay for parking.  So, I’ve just been dropping off my mom at the hospital so she wouldn’t have to do the grueling walk in the cold, then walking to and from the hospital from my parking spot.

Yesterday, on my walk to the hospital from my car, three men asked for my name and number.  The first one made it a point to note that he sees me often and wants to know where I go every day.  The second was polite.  The third tried to grab my hand.  This was when it was bright outside.

I have typically walked over alone to get my car when we leave the hospital in the middle of the night.

I wasn’t before, but now I’m scared.

“The castle’s come down times before on many nights much like this night.”

I was 13 and my grandmother was 78 when she passed away.  It was a December when the ambulance came in the middle of the night to take her away.  She was unconscious and remained in the ICU for a couple of months.  I remember spending Christmas in the ICU.  When the money got tight because of all of the extra taxis getting home (we didn’t own a car), we took the bus.  And when we could no longer afford even that, we walked.

She was really weak and had been losing her memory for perhaps a year prior to her going comatose.  I remember being about 12 when she was no longer able to do all of the things that she liked to do on her own, such as garden and cook, and even longer since she’d done things that she didn’t like to do, like walk me home from school or play with me.  She was so serious.

My sister and dad suffer from the same core of afflictions as my grandmother.  Perhaps about a year prior to my grandmother’s admittance to the ICU, my dad had been going through the worst case of his eczema.  At the time, it was the first I’d ever seen it flare up at all.  He couldn’t move without making his skin crack.  I’d seen it with Marlene throughout our childhood, and it was a real surprise to me when I saw him with it.  Anyway, after a while without any improvement, our doctor had him hospitalized.  He was eventually able to come home and we all took care of him.  The doctors had been unable to pinpoint the cause.  All we knew was what we always knew: that it was an allergic reaction.  We blamed his work.  He worked in the factory of a printing company.  The company paid out disability for a while, but eventually stopped.  He wasn’t sick enough to get Ontario Disability Benefits, but was not well enough to make it through a full work day at a new job without being sent home because his employer could see that he couldn’t handle it. This after years of OT and hauling himself across the city by public transit to get the bills paid.  He was only in his 50’s, and he didn’t know how he would make it to retirement.

My mom couldn’t do much better.  She had been laid off from her job years earlier after she took bereavement time to attend her brother’s funeral in the Philippines. She returned to be laid off.  It made for an awkward situation for my sister who would wind up – by a twisted stroke of fate – doing her OAC Co-Op term in our mom’s old department with our mom’s former co-workers.  Anyway, my mom was well into her 50’s by then, so being hired for a long-term continuing position was difficult.  She wasn’t physically equipped to do labour, but she could do a lot of things, and I know she always tried.  Primarily, she did temp work in accounting.  And she put her crocheting skills to work making kippot for some evil man she called “Barrack” who was so rude to her and made her cry that even though we needed the money, we begged her to stop making them.  She even did call centre work in the evenings – there was no shortage of call centre work.  Out of an eagerness for workplace resiliency, I learned to do it myself.  I learned a lot of things from my mom.  Because who knew?  Maybe there would come a time when it was the only opportunity I had at my immediate disposal to make ends meet during times of crisis.  (For the record, such times existed.)   So she applied for hundreds of jobs and got a lot of interviews.  It was hard to watch her.  She was the sort of person who identified herself by her job.  And with every failed opportunity came more and more frustration.

It’s hard to pinpoint the moment things became irreparable for us as a family.  There were hints of self-destruction much earlier than this.  However, I do remember being 12 and being proud as the low-points brought us closer together.  And then I remember turning 16 and writing The Dancing Princess.  It’s scary now when I look back and read A Peek Through Tinted Glassed and The Days of Grey – words I strung together when I was 18 and 20, respectively.

I’m fine now.  My biggest problem then was that I couldn’t control anything.  Now I control everything.  It’s exhausting, and I get really frustrated on days like today when people assume that just because I’m the younger daughter, that I hold no responsibility.  I’m irritable enough without having to deal with ignorant people thinking they have me and my situation pegged.

[Today, today is a special day.  Today I posted explicitly how I felt about something.]

The first real high school event I ever sang at was the Christmas Concert when I was in the twelfth grade.  I sang an a Capella rendition of Boyz II Men’s  Let It Snow (ft Brian McKnight).  There were lights, cameras, and a full audience that listened intently and applauded loudly.  The experience was intoxicating.

I still remember auditioning for this event.  After having been called “too operatic sounding” in my then-most recent audition, I was really nervous as I walked into a room to sing for the Principal and the Chemistry teacher.  They were, after all, tremendously talented singers, themselves.  But I did it.  And I got the ‘ok’ to perform in the show.

I was so excited and nervous that all I did was rehearse.  The trouble was that I had an English paper due on the same day as the performance.  My choice was clear when I performed preparedly, and afterward asked my teacher for an extension.

This is the first memory I have of failing to meet a deadline.  I risked my average for a performance.  I was lucky that time because my teacher enjoyed my performance and she gave me the extension without penalty.  She said she understood.  I felt guilty at the time for asking for and accepting her mercy, thinking I deserved the consequence of a penalty for the late submission.  I had this crazy idea instilled in me that the “real world” (i.e. life after high school) wouldn’t afford me such leniency, and that I shouldn’t get used to it.

I’ve found that high school, through its [seemingly] arbitrary rules, deadlines, and punishment, gives us a false impression of life afterward.  There is perhaps utility in their enforcement, especially on impressionable youth and adolescents.  However, the truth is, it’s only ever become increasingly clear to me how institutions are all run by people, and all people have the potential to be very understanding…

2009 ended with me spending money at a rate never before reached in my life. Contrary to whatever perception you may have of me, I’m cheap.  I hate spending money.   But I closed off 2009 with a 2-week trip to California … I spent money … and I don’t hate myself for it [most of the time].  It was a great experience.  It wasn’t over the top.  It was nice, and it was worth it.

I think it’s because I was so poor growing up.  We could barely afford the bare necessities, let alone a 2-week vacation in California.  I knew very few things regarding what I wanted out of life, but if there was ever anything, it was financial security.  I never aimed to be rich – I aimed for living comfortably and the [near] impossibility of being poor.   I didn’t want to hit 60 and wonder how I’d afford to live the rest of my life.  This was especially because I didn’t imagine having a husband or children, and only have immediate family here in Canada.  I know I was a child, but I was tired of the ups and downs.  I saw the gain from taking risks, and I saw the rewards for adopting moderate strategies.  This is why I couldn’t stand the thought of going into debt for my impractical university education [yes, yes, I had a scholarship, but it wasn't enough money for living expenses].  This is why I’ve planned for retirement since I was 19.  I can only bring myself to invest money – not gamble it.  Yes, I know what I’m saying about my university education.  Hitting 19 and realizing that there exist a plethora of employers [not the least of which being the University] that pay at least $50K for hard-working, intelligent but uneducated individuals was a pivotal point in my life.  By the age of 20, I could either have been able to help cover my family’s living expenses and had a positive net worth, or been a liability with a negative net worth.  And since there was urgency for me to reach a higher earning potential early, is it really surprising that I made the decisions that I made?

Anyway, no matter how technically secure my life is, I think I’m always going to feel like the poor person I was when I was growing up.  There were times when I was probably just 1 month away from living on the street, and I never forget that.

Ever since I watched Who’s The Boss?, I wanted to own a Jag.  I didn’t know what a Jag was, or how it looked, but Angela Bower had one, and she epitomized everything I wanted to grow up to be: beautiful, intelligent, successful, and independent.

I’m twenty-seven, and I drive a silver 2004 Nissan Altima.  It’s technically my second car purchase, but I count it as my first.  When I started my search, I was looking for fuel economy, and I walked out with an affordable car that felt luxurious because of its size and features.  I fell in love with her during the test drive.

I guess we never really know what we want until we get there.  Given the opportunity to trade-in my vehicle for either a Jag or a car with better fuel economy, I wouldn’t.  Somewhere along the line, she just became everything I wanted.  I’m sure some of that is comfort, but a lot of that is pleasant surprise.

Fake it till you make it! A mantra from our high school instructor.  It was a reference to the strange behaviour of the atom.  You may not understand what’s going on in the conventional sense, but you’re in good company.  You have equations that work – use them.

It takes a lot of faith to fake it till you make it.  It’s a blind guiding principle.  You have to either be ignorant or really trust the people who are telling you what to do.

Fake it till you make it! he preached, but not even he made it.  I don’t think that some things ever become clearer.  Can you live with yourself knowing that your action was based on blind faith or that your inaction was the debilitating consequence of your skepticism?  The answer really depends on what you prefer: memories of things that you did or a clear conscience, knowing that you were cognizant of the consequences every step of the way.  There is a middle-ground, I know, but each particular decision seems to be an either/or.

I miss Misfortunate, but I’m sure that a lot of it is because I’m remembering only the good parts.  But because I’m aware that I do this, I know that it wasn’t perfect.  I miss the good parts.  I will always miss the good parts of anything – memories, foods, etc…  This is not to be confused with wishing that I could have it back.  I would never dare say that.

The question came up – even if not intended the way I’d taken it – of whether or not I would be looking to replace Misfortunate.  The prospect never even crossed my mind and now that it has, I realized that the answer is no, I wouldn’t.  It is what it is.  I miss it out of a respect for the best of it, but I can’t recreate it, and I’m not looking to replace it.  The truth is: I half-lie to myself to justify having invested so much time in it and I’m certain that upon careful and objective examination, I could shatter this happy image of it that I keep in my mind.

There may yet be better fits for me or there may not be, but either way, I will be open to and seize at whatever opportunities come my way.  That’s the only way to live.

I am a die-hard Raptor fan.  I have been since 2002 – the first year that I ever attentively watched NBA Basketball.  The only reason that I did when I did was because it was the first year that it didn’t interfere with school.  High school and elementary school terms don’t end until June, so I always missed NBA Playoffs.  May 2002 marked the end of my first year of University, and I didn’t have any summer courses, so I was free after my last exam.  (I still distinctly remember the exams I had to write at the end of that term.  One was a philosophy course on Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, and I wrote it in Varsity Stadium.  The others were for PHY140Y1Y, MAT157Y1Y and MAT240H1S.)

So that year, I got caught up in the Raptors’ greatest win streak which was led by Antonio Davis, the drive to the playoffs, and the battle against Jerry Stackhouse and the Pistons in the series that changed my life forever.  We had lost Carter to a knee injury just prior to the All-Star break.  We went into that break well over 500, and came back to lose 12 straight games.  It was looking hopeless until Davis, as our Co-Captain, led the team to win 12 of the next 14, putting us in 7th place in the East going into playoffs.  We faced Ben & Jerry without Carter, but did a decent job.  I still remember the dying seconds of the final game we played.  We were down by 3, 10 seconds on the clock, Chris Childs hurriedly dribbles the ball and just as he crosses the timeline, blind to the wide-open better 3-point shooter, Dell Curry, he threw up a wild half-court shot that had no chance of making it so it wasn’t surprising when it didn’t.  We lost our possession.  The clock ran out.  It was over.  Raptors lose.  Raptors lose.  Raptors lose.

There were a lot of reasons why I fell in love with them when I did besides the fact that I had the time to.  I loved the roster.  The hearts of Antonio Davis (ok, no scoffs here – he was great back then), Alvin Williams, Mo Pete (Morris Peterson), and JYD (Jerome Williams) won me over.  I’m happy knowing that Alvin and JYD are back and part of the organization.

The subsequent years saw some of the worst NBA play, team losses due to injury, win records, and trades, but there was always effort.  Where they lacked in talent, they made up in character.  Some say that moral wins don’t count, but I say they do.  I need to.  I’ve always felt as though Raptors’ ball was an analogy for my life.

I went to a Catholic High School that had a dress code, and uniforms.  A lot of the time, I wasn’t even in class, and so I rarely wore that uniform.  My high involvement in extra-curricular activities put me outside of the classroom for a good percentage of the time, and the general awareness of my activities by the faculty meant that I was rarely bothered about not being in uniform.  It was generally assumed that I had a good reason, or so I imagine this was the case.  I was nearly never questioned about it, but then I didn’t, after all, take advantage of this trust.

Anyway, in the eleventh grade, the same unpopular peer of mine that I referred to in Reasons often complained to me about how he should have been granted special privileges, such as not wearing the complete uniform all the time, or being late, or generally being an insolent teenager.  His argument was that he had earned it: all of his hard work in the extra-curriculars (we had rallied to bring one that had been canceled back into existence), and his high grades from class warranted his exemption from the rules.  (I can’t help but wonder if there’s any way of bypassing this juvenile attitude, or if we’re all condemned to adopt it until we grow out of it.)

It’s hard to know what will garner thanks and praise, and even what sort of appreciation is appropriate.  One thing that is for certain is that it cannot be the goal.  Recognition is just a bonus.

At work, I try to provide good customer service, meet my goals, complete my tasks on a daily basis, but it is always a pleasant surprise when a colleague gives me something to show appreciation.  My co-worker gave me a gift the other day – a bottle of red wine.  A gift was the last thing I expected.  After the last couple weeks I’ve had, it made me really happy to know that at least one person genuinely appreciated my effort and cared enough to show me.

In thinking more about people who disappear from our lives and leave us hanging, I recalled a conversation that I had had back in twelfth grade with an unpopular peer of mine.  He was complaining about how others had left him hanging for what he deemed “no good reason”.  He hypothesized that it was because they preferred to “be cool”, and went on to say that this was why they partook in substance abuse, or didn’t do their homework.  His conclusion was that he should feel vindicated in their lack of success due to substance abuse, but didn’t because they discarded their friendship in favour of “being cool”.  There were just too many things wrong with his reasoning, but I decided to stick with only one when I replied with “Is it just so inconceivable to you that perhaps they had other reasons, ones that you don’t understand?”  There are so just many roads to becoming an addict of the self-destructive sort.  How dare he be so selfish as to think that he was one.

The truth is we can be so inclined sometimes to be selfish and think that we are the cause of someone’s behaviour, neglecting the existence of the real possibility that often has a non-zero probability that it has nothing to do with us.  We sometimes just don’t know the whole story, and with our limited resources, we can make a selfish guess.  The irony is that we demean ourselves when we do this.  We have to remember: we are not at the centre of the universe.