At around 1 a.m., I was driving Diana home from my place.  I drove along my street to do a left to go north on Brownsline.  I don’t normally do this.  I normally go through the small side streets because it’s less congested, and I wouldn’t hit any traffic trying to do a left.  However, since it was the middle of the night, I presumed there would be no traffic, so I decided to head straight to Brownsline…

As we approached Brownsline, I could see a drunk, middle-aged, shirtless white man standing in the middle of the street on Brownsline just north of where I was.  He was yelling in the direction of the bar that was on the west side of Brownsline, and standing on the line that divides the north- and southbound lanes.

I should have detoured, but I continued with my left turn onto Brownsline, intending to head northbound to Diana’s place.  As I did my turn, he stopped looking at the bar, and focused his attention on my car.  He walked directly into the lane I had turned into – the right lane in Brownsline’s 2 northbound lanes.

I stopped.

He looked enraged as he walked toward my car.  I saw that he had nothing in his hands.  Diana instructed me to honk and reverse, but I instinctively first just locked doors.

I continued to pause.

In the brief moment between when he first stopped in my lane and looked at me, and when he stood directly in front of my car, all I could think was: what are my options.  I don’t want to hurt him.  I don’t want us to get hurt.  I don’t want to pay for damage to my vehicle.  So, I didn’t drive forward: I didn’t want to inadvertently hurt him, and  I wanted to keep him ahead of the vehicle, and not at either side.  I didn’t want to anger him further, so I didn’t honk.  I locked the doors in case he tried to get in.  I made sure I was ready to hit the gas if it came to that.

I continued to pause.  I didn’t reverse because I was afraid to take my eyes off him, and I can’t reverse without first checking my mirrors.

Then he ran toward my car, and furiously roared while he pounded the hood of my car with his two fists.  I honked, panickedly reversed, and screamed at the top of my lungs.

He began to walk out of my way to the left lane … into the path of a pick-up truck … that breaked, but hit him.

He appeared to still be standing as I put my car into drive, and speedily fled before he could continue to do any damage to my car.  Diana instructed me to pull over so that she could call 911.  So I did.  We were far enough so that I could drive off if he began to head toward us, but close enough so that we could see what was going on.  We saw cars and people start to crowd around, and it looked like he or someone, was dragged to the side of the road.

//

My dad always warned me to stay away from crazy people and situations.  When he was teaching me to drive, he’d point them out, saying that it was best to keep an eye out for them, and just to stay completely out of their way.  I learned that before I was born, he was sent to the hospital from a situation similar to mine: a couple of drunk men dragged him out of his car instigating a fight.  They wanted to see his “kung fu” – a racist comment if ever there were one.  There was traffic, so he couldn’t easily flee the situation.

Last night, I saw the drunk, middle-aged, shirtless white man standing in the middle of the street, and I didn’t heed his advice.  Years of warning, but it didn’t sink in until now.

Daniel always laughed at me when I hit the lock button every time anyone came near my car.  It may have been best if I detoured, but I’m happy knowing that I wasn’t going to have been easily dragged out of my car.

Mr. Right and I were getting to know each other by going out for coffees and drinks, talking away evenings on the telephone.  Then one evening we went on our first real date: dinner, a show, and drinks afterward.  The night ended, we kissed passionately at my doorstep, and said goodnight.

Prior to meeting him, I had booked a flight to somewhere to sing at something.  It was my first solo vacation, and I was really looking forward to going alone.  I hadn’t expected to meet Mr. Right.  He was new in my life so I wasn’t going to invite him on my trip.  Nor did I have any real inclination to ensure that I saw him before I left or upon my return.  I did ensure that he knew about the trip.  We had gone on one date.  That was it.  Knowing I was going away, in my mind, was all that was required of me, all that seemed appropriate, and all that I was comfortable with.

In order to prepare for my departure, I put in a lot of extra hours at the office.  I wanted to ensure that everything would be in order during my absence.  The evening before my departure, I got home from the office around 10 p.m.  I went straight to sleep.  I planned to be back at work early the next morning so I could finish off a few things before my flight.  I awakened the next morning to notice a voicemail.  I had missed several calls from Mr. Right.

Where are you, honey?  I was thinking that since you’re flying out tomorrow, we could spend this evening together, but it looks like I didn’t catch you.  Okay, so tomorrow morning, we’ll go to your favourite breakfast place.  It’ll have to be really early, I know. So, if I don’t hear from you, I’ll meet you there at 6am.

I didn’t go to the breakfast, nor did I bother calling him to let him know.  I went straight to the office that morning, finished up the few things that I had planned to do, and then left for my trip.  I had a great time and never gave Mr. Right a second thought.

Mr. Right and I never spoke again.  I didn’t call him upon my return.  I know I eventually responded in an email, but I can’t remember when, why, or how.  I venture to guess that it was at my leisure with the intention of ensuring he not contact me anymore.

I learned a lot from Mr. Right.  As intrusive, pushy, and controlling as that one voicemail seemed to be, I had to take responsibility for the fact that I misled him, even though it was not intentional.  I expressed interest, but I never discussed with him what I was looking for, and what I needed.  My only defense – albeit a fair one – is that getting to know someone new is complicated.

We try to look for signs and meaning: signs that our feelings are reciprocated, and meaningfulness in every tiny action directed to us.  What does a stare mean?  A long gaze in each other’s direction?  How about chats online?  Telephone calls? or the lack thereof?  Occasional gifts, surprises? Saying hello/good-bye?  Having tea together?  Not making time?  Not responding to messages?  What does anything mean?  The answer is simple: you can’t know how meaningful an action is or isn’t until you know the person.  Where Mr. Right went wrong was in ascribing greater meaning to my actions than was actually there.  I now try to just instigate explicit dialogue when I am confused (even if it is like pulling teeth).

There are no universal indicators of interest, and even when someone is interested, it doesn’t mean that anything should or will happen.  To help facilitate things, it genuinely is a pleasure when someone you’re interested in is open enough to help you understand them.  Otherwise, getting to know a person feels like a crap-shoot: blind throws with hope for the best, exciting small wins throughout the quick-to-accumulate net losses, and a growing feeling of helplessness.  If you’re not a gambler who gets a thrill from always only almost-winning, I’m not sure how you remain motivated in these sorts of situations.

Interest makes inaction tragic, but acting on interest is a big investment.  Be sure you can handle the level of risk before getting into the game.

Guest: “Does it feel strange being the only guest who isn’t white?”

I looked at the group and I realized that I was the only person who wasn’t white.  I not only failed to notice, but failed to be bothered … up until that point.

Guest: “You know, I have a cousin who lives in a small town near England who has never seen a black person in real life before.  Can you imagine?”

Me: “You know, I have a cousin in the Philippines who lives in a small town far from the main cities who has never seen anyone besides Filipinos. ”

She looked at me and smiled pleasantly, so as to agree that our cousins truly were unfortunate.  It saddened me to see that the message I was trying to send had just gone over her head.  At the time, I was disappointed, but whenever I retell this story, I laugh.  I laugh so hard … until I cry.

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.

//

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.

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.]

What power there is in a day.  Some days are celebrated monthly, some annually, bi-annually, and so forth by the Gregorian Calendar, or fiscal calendar, or Chinese Calendar, and so forth.

Calendars.  Regularity.  Recurrence.  Schedules to commemorate a future day.  Reasons to remember a past day.  Calendars give days power.

February 14, 2010.  It is the 14-year anniversary of my grandmother’s passing, and the day my father went into cardiac arrest.

What’s distinctly memorable is everything after the party.  I remember driving to the street that my apartment was on and my friend’s parents insisting that they drop me off right at my door to ensure that I was safe.  I remember waving good-bye as they drove away.  I remember the moment it hit me that my house keys were in the pocket of the sweater that Marlene had taken with her when she left.  I remember knocking and screaming really loudly hoping that someone, any one of my family members would awake and let me in.  I remember thinking back to the moment that my friend and her parents offered to wait until I got inside, and shooing them off.  I remember walking to the nearest payphone and collect calling my home in hopes that that would awake someone, and being really upset that it didn’t.  I remember how cold it was, that I bore only a short-sleeved t-shirt [because I had given Marlene my sweater] and thankfully, Jeff’s baseball cap because I’d forgotten to return it to him.  If it weren’t for that cap, I would have been freezing.  And finally, I remember my Deus Ex Machina: a successful collect call to one of my ex-boyfriends who happened to be home, a fun walk in the middle of the night, and free room and board.  He snuck me into his apartment past his mom and let me crash in his room.  I still remember sneaking out in the morning.  Hilarious.

Getting locked out of your home is dangerous and fun when you’re sixteen.  When you’re twenty-seven, it’s just a nuisance.

I started out this post with the intention of discussing the large discrepancy that exists between one’s online persona and his/her face-to-face one, but instead managed to veer off into the ugly world of regret, where some of my most shameful moments reside.

And contrary to what you would probably expect, I won’t recount how it was that we fell in and out of “love”.  I’m here only to remark on the sweet innocence that it is to be in love at the age of thirteen.  I still remember how my heart raced when in his presence, melted when I heard him speak my name, and stopped whenever our eyes met.  I remember the first time we held hands when we walked home together, our first embrace on Valentine’s Day, our first slow dance (to SWV’s Weak) at my best friend’s birthday party, and our first kiss on a Spring afternoon in the park nearby our school.  Every word, every glance, and every touch was so meaningful.  Relationships haven’t been quite as simple ever since.

I imagine one day I’ll experience such rapture again, and until then I’ll fantasize about it like a 13-year year old schoolgirl would.

NB:  I’m not still interested in him.

//

A Peek Through Tinted Glasses

By Carolyn Ursabia (circa 2000)

Did you know I died that day?
Held loosely onto life’s last breath
Decided I had nothing more to give,
I closed my eyes and embraced my death.

Didn’t I deserve more than this?
Because, I swear, I’ve done my best.
The blind faith wasn’t good enough
To have succeeded beyond this relentless test?

Because a heart can only take so much.
When broken, needs time to heal.
What then when it all comes down at once?
Mine surrendered its capacity to feel.

I thought experience was supposed to grant wisdom:
Break you down, then make you strong,
Open up your heart and mind
And teach you right from wrong.

Yet, still I see my world of darkness
Where no one saw my pain.
I see my restless, cloudy skies
And endless nights of rain.

I see myself, an empty shell
The remnants of a mind
The memory of who could have been
Had life, to me, had been more kind.

//

The Days of Grey

By Carolyn Ursabia (circa 2003)

I reside in the days of gray -
The meaningless ‘in between’
Where nothing counts.
Outside the bright sun shines
And makes me angry
Because it lies – the sun lies!
It is not a bright new day
Time could not have passed
Because I am still here
Where nothing changes inside me.
And where once I had hoped
That it would be TIME that would save me,
I was wrong.
Instead TIME opened up my eyes.
It shone the sun’s LIGHT upon the truth:
Time does not heal all wounds.

//

Daniel, you always rescued me, and taught me that I never needed saving.

//