I have a shoe box in my closet filled with poems, essays and short stories. All writings from years ago when I was earning my university degree. Now my email is brimming with drafts of anecdotes and ranting spiels. There are even flash drives with manuscripts and screenplays to boot somewhere. Until recently, I lacked the courage to share. The truth is,I am a story teller, a philosopher and a survivor who many look to for advice, opinion and insight.
I have decided not to let my insecurities about putting my words to print continue to be my accuse or deterrent not to share. Please enjoy.
Samson Hopkins is a dream hopper. His new friend Evy, takes him on a journey Sam hadn’t thought possible.
The dream cord is electric blue again like the lightning overhead. Evy pulls Sam through an apple orchard. They are being chased and Sam needs to hide his new friend.
Sam Hopkins in a dream hopper. With his superpower he turns bits of metal into a robot ready for battle.
On his first night away from home, Sam is pulled into a stranger’s worry dream. When they run into one another, something falls to the floor and shatters into pieces. With the power of this hand, Sam restores the robot. Unfortunately, it takes a few tries to build Nitro, the Bot Battle finalist.
Samson Hopkins is a dream hopper. With the touch of his hand he turns his sister’s bad dream fun.
Katy is having a scary dream where she is being chased by a fierce lizard. Her brother comes to the rescue and turns the snarling dragon into a fuzzy fluffy one.
Samson Hopkins is a dream hopper. He is pulled into his father’s stressful work dream and makes it fun and silly.
After installing a sprinkler system, John turns it on. The pipes burst and water rains down. John’s boss is infuriated and is about to fire him when Samson enters. The ten year-old dream hopper turns the water into confetti and the tools into water guns.
The instant I saw the screen of my mobile phone light up with my mother’s incoming call, dread unfurrowed in my gut. Even the inevitable is terrifying. Never would she call me at work if it were not important. In short, rapid statements, my mom tells me that she has just taken my father to hospital. The urgency that this instills within me is beyond compare. My surroundings sway and blur as my nightmare sifts in and out of focus. No quick solutions stare back at me as I scan my work place. Fear and concern crowd out all reason and logic.
“I have to go.” I say to my colleague, who sits at the opposite end of the room. It takes effort to push the panic from my voice with my cell phone still crushed up against my ear.
“They are taking him into isolation. I can’t go with him.”
“I know, Mom. That’s why you need to get the phone to him. Right now!” Grabbing my purse, I bolt from the studio. “I will get you a new one.” I say quickly, before she can point out the obvious fact that my parents have one cell phone between them. A flawed decision, once based on pure economics, leaves us in this predicament. She thought nothing of taking the phone with her because it is more hers than his and for that reason it will be a near useless device in his hands. Yet, it will be his only means of communication that will grant us the smallest window to say goodbye.
The grind of my gnashing teeth drowns out all sound as I think of my father. He must be so afraid. This was not what he expected his last days to look like. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself surrounded by his children and grandchildren upon his last breath. Never did he imagine that he would be alone in a hospital bed. Nor did I. This thought tears through me like shrapnel.
Slamming through the fire stairwell door, I fly down the concrete steps, staving off the wave of tears that threaten to break. A smart gust of wind and shards of sunlight stop me as I burst from the building with blinding anxiety. The icy realization that I had been running with nowhere to go hits me like a brick wall.
This cannot be real.
World War Three. The fight they could not avoid. Covid-19
The street I am standing in is empty, and I am reminded of how lonely this is; down town Toronto on a Tuesday afternoon and the city feels deserted, like the opening of an eerie Stephen King novel.
I shut my eyes against the moment, rejecting what was happening.
At first, all I can hear is my mother’s breathing. She is processing what I am asking of her and what I have left unsaid. With a jagged intake of air, I prepare to meet her protest with brutal facts. Instead, the faint noise at my ear shifts and I know that she has turned back towards the hospital.
“I’ll find his nurse.” There is a new determination in her voice that is hopeful and heartbreaking all at once. The cacophony of chaotic sounds that flit by as I listen amplifies the agonizing suspense. “There she is. Excuse me. Excuse me.” The shrill edge in my mother’s words sends a serrated blade across my remaining nerves.
After a muffled exchange, the tone holds the promise of fulfillment and I allow myself a moment of relief.
“Mom. Mom. You have to say good bye.”
“What?” The question seems to make time stand still. A cold fist of panic closes around me as I realize my mistake.
“To me, Mom. Hang up, then hand the phone off and call me when you get home. Are you okay to drive?”
“Yes. Okay.” The quiver in her voice nearly brings me to my knees. “Good bye, dear. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
Then the line goes dead before I can say anything. Feeling muzzled and gagged, the silent sting of it burrows into my head and heart.
“God Damn it!” My shout explodes from my throat and with it comes those relentless tears.
Walking in tight circles, I rock, hugging my upper body in a desperate effort to keep myself from falling apart. I have no where to go. There is no one to see. I am stuck at work considered an essential through this pandemic. Because I work in news, I know too much. I know that my mother will probably never see my father again, in person anyway. Eventually she will derive at this ugly reality too. I know that we only have until they outfit him with a ventilator to talk to him. And that is only if they have one available at a time when breathing apparatus are rare commodities even for high performing hospitals. And if they happen to have a spare kicking around, it will only be offered to him if he has a chance of survival. My father is 78 years old. He was a smoker in his youth but otherwise healthy if you don’t take his obesity into account.
My mother is a retired nurse and once the initial shock of having to leave her husband at the hospital wears off, she will come to many medical based conclusions. None of which I will want to hear.
There is no escaping this fate. In spite of the last 75 years of earning the right to be spared, the third generation takes its place on the front line. My grandparents faced the second world war and their parents confronted the first head on. There is something poetic and twisted about my parents looking down the barrel of the third world war. There is no doubt in my mind that this war against COVID-19 is a world war like no other. In a time that looks so different to 1945, it is no wonder that our definition of a world war would change too.
It is a testament to our abundance of misinformation and many manipulators. It shines a spotlight on greed and obscene wealth. Good people raised to provide a helping hand go unnoticed while the fat, selfish cats wither and die.
As a feminist who is a big supporter of the ‘me too’ movement, ‘black lives matter,’ and breaking the glass ceiling, I had unknowingly secretly been wishing for something to wipe the slate clean. Now that it has reared its ugly head, I can look at it straight in the eye and regret what I had once hoped for. This enemy will likely take many of my children’s grandparents.
This enemy does not discriminate. It does not care if you enlisted, as we were all drafted in this war. Our elderly and most vulnerable are the least likely to survive. But none of us will go unscathed. We will all bare deep scars that will take decades to heal if ever.
The world as we know it has shifted dramatically and permanently. There is no coming back from this without collateral damage and countless fatalities.
My parents are inseparable and have been for more than half a century. For this, one cell phone made sense until today. Now that my mother has handed the cell over, hopefully it finds its way to my father’s hands. But will he know how to use it? As he faces his greatest fear, will the phone grow more useless to him with mounting desperation?
So many competing thoughts bump and bruise my mind. After checking the time on my screen, another surge of panic nudges me. I need to get back to work. This is an irritating obligation that rubs up against me with resentment.
A cool March breeze brings goose-flesh to the surface of my skin. The chill of the day seeps into my bones. Winter refuses to release us from its icy grip. My chattering teeth are not enough to push me back inside. Yet, willing my phone to ring proves useless as I consider how this will all unfold.
My parents live two hours outside of Toronto, but this does not matter. With self isolation and public distancing, I do not dare go to her, anyway. So, I wait. I wait for her to make the drive home and pray that she calls me back before making a tea and staring out over the back yard contemplating what to do next without talking to me.
This, I have feared and anticipated for so long that I almost expect to meet it with a sense of relief as an unknown has been discovered. Instead, I am so afraid that I feel powerless for not going to greater lengths to prevent this tragedy.
This is my brutal truth; unknowingly growing up with a learning disability in 1982
Music always hits a sour note when trying to learn while unknowingly dyslexic.
The hushed tones of my mother were barely audible, but the deep baritone of Mr. Lanza was unmistakable. Never had I assumed to be his star pupil, but his words cut deep just the same.
What was wrong with me? Why did I never learn?
DW: Sour Note
At seven, I hadn’t known the difference between piano and organ lessons. My music teacher taught both after all yet, the piano sat front and center of his tiny parlor while the organ was deliberately tucked into the corner. Not until I was swallowed by the darkness of the car did my mother scold me for playing the piano.
I thought I had broken the rules, or that I had done something dreadfully wrong to embarrass my mother so. By playing the piano at my intended organ lesson, I had betrayed my mother. So, she had put an end to my organ lessons. This should have made me happy. After all, it was what I had wanted. Was it not?
Music lessons were just another sharp piece of my childhood.
When it floated around, I would break into a cold sweat and clasp my hands as a way to keep them from shaking.
It was like scheduling a weekly nightmare.
Every Tuesday at 6:30 pm, I would have to read aloud for an hour. This was my biggest fear. Half of the lesson was theory. Here, I literally had to read the music notes aloud.
The other half was practical, where my fingers outed me for the illiterate fraud I was to an extremely staunch Mr. Lanza. Compared to the many big scary men in my life, Mr. Lanza, my music teacher, was a gummy bear. A hairy, stout gummy bear that smelled of spicy aftershave. But that did not mean that he could not be daunting. The way his shoulders hunched with every wrong note or careless fingering was worse. In some ways, his defeated slump was more difficult than any harsh word or deep scowl.
In grade two, I had enough trouble reading words, let alone music notes, on a page full of clustered lines. Practicing never seemed to help, so I never bothered with it, despite of my mother’s gripes.
Like every child, I wanted to be liked and accepted, especially by those who were likely to pass judgement or evaluate.
Sour Note; pic 2
By continuously disappointing and frustrating Mr. Lanza, he practically curled into himself. Like every note was a slap.
As he shrank beside me, so did my hopes of earning his approval and favor.
This did not stop me from trying, though. True to my talents, I did all that I could to distract the man from the task at hand hoping that he would overlook my musical misgivings. Maybe he would find something else about me that was likable.
Each week when I entered the bright parlor, the gleaming baby grand piano greeted me first.
It was so beautiful. Dark cherry wood was so stunning that I would stop in the doorway just to stare at it before I turned my back to it to sit at the organ.Yep, an organ. Neither of my parents played an instrument. Yet, one of their prize possessions was a flippin’ organ that did nothing in the front room of our home but collect dust. Okay, that’s a lie. My sisters played. Not often, but way more than I did.
Thankfully, my feet did not reach the pedals, so I only had to learn the notes and my fingerings. Which was bad enough.
“Miss. Emily. What is that note? That one, right there?” Mr. Lanza asked with more patience than I deserved, because after many weeks, I still didn’t know. “Every, Good, Boy, Deserves, Fudge. Remember? Every. Good.” His pointer scratched and thumped the page propped up in front of me with every word. “Every. Good.” He repeated, and I realized that I was being prompted.
“Boy! B! It’s a B.” I said.
“It’s a B.” He said in the tired voice I was becoming to know.
SourNote – 2
“Mr. Lanza?”
“Yes, Miss. Emily.”
“Would you play it for me, so that I can hear what it’s supposed to sound like?” I asked.
This was my usual request, one that he was reluctant to indulge but always did. And it worked. I could feel the stress lift from him when he played. His odd, hairy knuckles gently curled as he plucked delicately at the keys. Not only did this break the tension, which seemingly straightened his spine, but this was how…
I learned all the pieces assigned to me; I watched his fingers, memorized the keys, and secured the melody to my mind.
After we switched places, he was taller than me again. The music changed him; it had the power to lighten him. The always proper Mr. Lanza would be slumping again with the turn of a new page. My random jabs at the organ keys, my wandering eyes over the foreign lines and notes, weighed him down. Biding my time, I waited for his pointer to slap the page, a sure sign of his growing irritation with his unteachable student.
“Mr. Lanza?”
“Yes, Miss Emily?” He asked,his question was more of a sigh of exhaustion.
“Could we maybe play at the piano?”
Beneath his large, caterpillar-like eyebrows, his gaze slid from me to the piano and then back to me.
Did he know that this was an effort to distract?
With a slow nod, he seemed to decide on something bigger than switching instruments. With that, I pulled the music book from its decorative stand and sat in aw behind the enormous beautiful piano. That particular piece did not sound any better, even to my ear. In fact, I was sure that my playing alone was an insult to the baby grand’s craftsmanship.
The agony did not last long before we heard my mother slip into the adjacent waiting room. Her boots bumped off the snow as quietly and politely as possible. With that, Mr. Lanza stood and tugged at the bottom of his jacket.
“Miss. Emily, I would like you to work on your scales now.”
“Alright, Mr. Lanza.” I said, happy to be at the end of our lesson even though it seemed rather early.
That’s when I heard it.
I had completed the scale in C major. Set in the pause as I repositioned my hands, were the harsh tones of my teacher. Straining to decipher my mother’s soft words, Mr. Lanza’s were unmistakable. Bass travels further than treble. Did you know that?
“Give up on this one, Mrs. Wright.” He said.
A stone I hadn’t known to be on my chest swelled coldly until it pressed against my throat. It was hard to breathe and harder to swallow. With panicked trembling hands, I flipped the pages of my book nervously as a way to drown them out. Not wanting to hear the rest of their conversation, I busied myself by playing C major scale again and again, not daring to make a mistake. Pain shot through my lips as I bit them together in hopes to will my eyes not to well up or drop tears on his beautiful piano keys.
Rejection, even if warranted, can leave its scars.
“Emily. It’s time.” My mother said, and I slipped between them and out the door as soundlessly as possible.
The car ride home was quiet and cold. The December dark had swallowed the early evening sky, leaving even the clouds lonely. The heater blasted, but offered no comfort. There, I waited through her deafening silence because I knew that she was beyond mad.
I had disappointed her again with my failure to learn, my defiance to play, and my betrayal of the organ.
She never told me that I would not be going back to Mr. Lanza’s, but the icy spot on my heart knew that I would never see the kind man again. My chance to say goodbye and thank him for his hopeless efforts was gone forever.
It was four years later when Mr. Lanza made it through to the forefront of my thoughts.
My grade six teacher loaded a wire contraption that held and aligned 5 pieces of white chalk. Immediately after pressing it to the blackboard with one long straight stroke, I recognized the music stand of my childhood books.
For the first time at school, I was familiar with a lesson before my teacher could begin.
In every space between the lines, Mr. McGregor drew a circle. In each circle, he wrote a letter. F-A-C-E. Then he moved on to the lines. In these circles, he wrote E-G-B-D-F. I saw it! For the first time in my life, I saw it. Right there laid out in front of me, so simple, so basic.
Before I could stop myself, I was standing. In the middle of my classroom staring at the chalk board. “I get it! I finally get it!”
The jeers and snickers from the other kids were easily ignored. My fellow classmates did not faze me. It was as if someone had flipped on a light and I was finally able to see. The joy I felt bubbled up and fizzed, making sitting an impossibility.
The stars had somehow aligned, and I could see something that had been right in front of me all along.
One disapproving glance from Mr. McGregor did not dash my enthusiasm, but it sobered me enough to take my seat.
For a long moment, I could only stare at the two distinct note arrangements on the board. Right there in black and white, I could see the piece that was missing from the beginning. The alphabet. Why would you separate the notes by lines and spaces to come up with ridiculous sayings?
“The spaces are F-A-C-E and the lines make up Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge; E-G-B-D-F.” They would say.
When you put them together, you get E-F-G-A-B-C-D-E-F. Why would no one ever point out the already known pattern of the alphabet?
Did no one ever consider that there might be a different way of teaching, especially when faced with a student who seems unteachable but not unwilling?
Before the thick point of folded paper tapped his shoulder, there was a rustle at Jason’s ear. It was a note. No doubt about who. That was as predictable as its contents.
A bad feeling nudged his insides when, behind him, a page had been torn from a coil notebook. When the freshly frayed edges had caught on his collar, he recognised that bad feeling for what it was, a warning.
He was not about to look back. Regardless, how cute she was, he made of show of cool disinterest. Instead, he casually raised his hand and pinched the note between his fingers. It slid from the wispy clutch of brightly coloured fingernails. The giggling died with the teacher’s dramatic throat clearing.
Several minutes went by and the persistent breathy whispers grew louder. Better to open it before the valley girls behind him created a scene; a classic strategy where they appear obliviously innocent of any wrongdoing while he, the boy, takes the brunt of the instructor’s wrath.
Green ink jumped from the page, bouncing into giant bubbly letters. Simple periods and dots were replaced with looping circles and exclamation marks leaped into balloons and hearts. The unnecessary animation made his skin itch and Jason suppressed a groan from nausea.
“Jason, I’m thinking of having a party Saturday night!! You should come and bring your friends. Cammy!”
Their anticipating stares were burning holes into his upturned collar. All he did was nod. It was subtle, but he was confident that his message would be received. The gaggle of giggles which followed was grating. Chicks. Such games displayed the same immaturity found in school. Popularity has its price.
A knock at the classroom door started his spine straight. Willing it not to be who he assumed it to be, Jason sat perfectly still. Mr. Wallis, the eighth-grade teacher, walked along the front of the classroom. In three long strides, he reached to door to greet their visitor, Mr. Wallis’ eyes flicked to Jason. Before he could dismiss this, a discreet finger curled at his teacher’s side confirmed Jason of his dread.
Curses turned swampy on his tongue for this tired routine. For a fleeting moment, he actually thought that maybe he had dodged it this year, his senior year. After gathering his books, Jason slid out from his desk and drudged to the front of the class as if wading in muddy water. Not wanting to attract any more attention, he said nothing when he joined the low speaking adults. Mr. Wallis dropped a heavy hand on Jason’s shoulder and he resisted the urge to brush it away.
“Mr. Tally, this here is Dr. Chin. Accompany her this afternoon.”
Jason complied. The beginning of the school year always proved bittersweet. Admittedly, greatful to get out of class and fluff off a few hours doing pointless tests, returning was never easy. Everyone always had questions. It was a complete waste of time. By centering him out like this, blending back in with his class was the greater challenge. If his peers knew of these tests, it would mess up his status. Stupid kids were rarely popular. As the class clown, he fit in. However, no one hung out with a known dumbass.
He liked her, well, better than the last few, anyway. Dr. Chin was pretty; youthful with midnight hair and thick, full bangs that fell over her brow. The determination in her steps, demanded the lead, a status threatened merely by her size. Jason got a kick out of towering over her. This applied to only a few adults. Within a few years, Jason would be eye to eye with his tallest teachers and instructors. That day could not come soon enough.
As they approached the tiny room at the end of the hall, amusement tickled the laugher from Jason’s throat. It did not escape, but he could not help but smile. When the door failed to open more than a few inches, Dr. Chin threw her shoulder into it and nearly bludgeoning herself with its ricochet. The balk she let out was endearing and ridiculous. Both compromised her credibility. The competency nose dive drainer her of confidence.
“Come this way.” Jason said, tipped his head and started down the hall.
Her sigh of annoyance was less than subtle. All of her funny little noises were in stark contrast to her no nonsense persona.
The hallway of shiny floors and glass cabinets opened into a massive entrance to their right. Above the expansive opening, highly polished gold letters read Tally Library. Dr. Chin slowed as she took in the sign.
Once inside, they immediately went to the left, where doors to small empty conference rooms lined the wall. Jason stepped into the first one and flicked on the light. Along its perimeter were boxes of books, stacked thoughtlessly against a door. The one Dr. Chin had originally wanted to use. Her note of irritation was amusing.
The far too congested room had an oval table and five over-sized black vinyl chairs. It smelled of stale coffee and fresh ink. Curious, Jason scanned the clutter and spotted a photocopier crammed among the boxes. Dr. Chin waved a delicate hand over the table. An indication for him to sit. He suspected that this gesture was a way to resume order. The command resembled those given by dog handles. He drew in his annoyance and complied with reluctance.
Dr. Chin proceeded to move two chairs extremely close together and place her soft brown briefcase in one before sitting in the other. It became abundantly clear that she had strategically positioned herself at the head of the table where, ironically, her frame was devoured by the massive furniture. She opened a pair of silver-framed glasses and set them on the table by her elbow. Once she re-positioned them three more times, she clasped her hands and looked up, unaware of his scrutiny.
“How have you been, Jason?” She asked with sincerity but aggressive eye contact.
“Good.” He said with growing skepticism. “How are you?”
Even at thirteen, Jason had a flair for charming people to distraction and he was grateful for the opportunity to flaunt his skill and conceal his intention to stall the inevitable.
“I am very well, thank-you. What did you do with your summer?” Her voice remained cheerful and casual.
He was more than happy to procrastinate by entertaining the pleasantries. “Hung out with friends.” Shrug. “Went to a few parties. Chilled by the pool, you know. Not much.”
She tilted her head and pushed one side of her mouth into a sardonic smile, as if waiting to hear a specific answer. “No summer job?”
“Nah.”
“Did you do any reading?” She asked, moving only her lips.
Jason lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. “Nope, didn’t do that either.”
“Do you know why we are here?” Dr. Chin tapped the table between them with a tidy fingertip.
“I can guess.” He chuckled. “I do this every year. You are going to do a bunch of tests that you will call exercises.” He made air quotes. “You will make notes and I won’t get to know how I did.”
Nodding, Dr. Chin began fishing into her briefcase. Booklets and papers were arranged methodically around the table with precision. Once placed, she touched the tops of each in order.
“You’re wasting your time.” He knew his warning was pointless. “No offense, Doc. I don’t care about any of this.”
Finally, she pulled out an aluminum box that intrigued him until he recognized it as an archaic stopwatch with a large face and two black knobs on the top.
“Really? You’re going to use that thing? Here, why don’t you just use mine?” Laughing, Jason tugged at his extremely rare and new Swatch, preparing to remove it from his wrist for her to use instead.
To his chagrin, Dr. Chin shook her head and raised a palm to suggest for him not to bother. “This will be just fine.”
“1965 called. They want their chess timer back.” Jason’s joke was met with a blank stare and he wrangled in his laughter with a choked cough.
If her lack of personality was meant to be intimidating, it was working.
With one last compulsive touch to the clock and each paper pile, she looked directly at him and said, “Shall we begin?
Stretching out, Jason unfolded beneath the table and crossed his ankles. Safety pins lined the inside of both pant legs, molding the denim to his long athletic frame. It was the newest style. Everyone was customizing their jeans the same way. The irony was not lost on Jason. His shameless efforts to fit dissolved to embarrassment under Dr. Chin’s scrutiny. She studied the pinched fabric all the way down to his wool socks shoved into black Birkenstock sandals.
When he threaded his fingers together and tucked them beneath the back of his head, Dr. Chin lifted her eyes to his. He stared right back. This game was easy. Jason was confident that he could stare anyone down. When Dr. Chin blinked, satisfaction pulled his face into a grin. Then she leaned to one side and crossed her legs. In placing her elbow on the arm of her chair, she perched her chin on her slightly curled fingers. There she sat, just looking at him expectantly.
Well, this was awkward. Squirming, Jason’s chair was suddenly slippery and uncomfortable. Neither said a word. Under the weight of her stare, he faltered like an eight-year-old. The good sense he was born with finally lashed out and gripped his insides. His innate need to be liked was threatened. Heat broke out across his cheeks, and instinctively, Jason began to straighten up. She said not a word, just nodded with patient appreciation. Damn, he lost out to the silent treatment.
The next ninety minutes were long and humiliating. Pressure was added, thanks to the boxy timer that sat ominously between them, ticking. The needling sound pecked at his patience and caused his lunch to twist in his stomach. The doctor was much wiser about his ability to distract and compromise results than the others. In the past, Jason was capable of faking a coughing fit or asking simple redundant questions to botch the accuracy of the ticking timer that made him sweat. He did not like to read and despised reading to others. He once had the Heimlich maneuver painfully performed on him because he had pretended to choke just before having to read aloud to his entire class.
It was last year, actually. Upon receiving the three-page student agreement, the teacher announced that the class would read the handout aloud. Everyone would be assigned to read a paragraph designated by where they sat. The mere word ‘aloud’ blurred Jason’s vision and restricted his breathing.
The desks had been arranged in two ‘u’ shapes; one inside the other. Jason sat in the middle of the outer structure. Feverishly, he counted the kids to his right, hell bent to predetermine his appointed paragraph so that he could rehearse. In a dizzying frenzy, Jason read and reread his part over and over. By the time his heart was no longer thundering against his chest, he had the words nearly committed to memory. By breathing normally and seeing clearly, Jason finally found confident enough to follow along with the rest of the class. He quickly realized that his teacher had unexpectedly gone the opposite way around the outer horseshoe. Ergo, he had memorized the wrong paragraph. Suddenly, everyone focused on him. He was next to read, and the text was foreign to him. The words on the page shimmered and swam. Jason’s heart began to race.
Without thinking, he threw his body onto the floor and, with remarkable believability, began heaving and convulsing. There was mass hysteria throughout the classroom. Girls were screaming and at least one was crying. He never imagined that he would take such spontaneous and dramatic measures to dodge reading aloud. To his own surprise, he flailed on the floor, and regretted not thinking through his exit strategy. It was beyond him to predict that Randy Booker, the captain of the basketball team and avid Boy Scout, would pick him up like a rag doll and begin thrusting giant fisted hands into his chest. Subjected to the violence of the Heimlich maneuver performed by a mammoth boy, triggered further unimaginable humiliation. Throwing up was involuntary. It was still the preferred outcome to this predicament. A little vomit dribble on his shirt and down his chin was worth it if he avoided reading aloud.
Needless to say, reading was not his strongest subject by any means. He was, however, adamant that a true depiction of his abilities would not be evident under such intense testing and scrutiny. Normally, these sessions were a joke; in his mind, they proved nothing. Then, Dr. Chin exchanged the reading cards for ones with numbers. They, too, were painfully stressful and nerve-racking for Jason.
“I am going to show you a sequence of numbers now. You will have ten seconds to study it. Then, try to repeat it back to me as best as you can. Okay? Simple enough?” She asked in a slow and clear whisper, complete with deliberate condescension.
The first card she introduced had a three-digit number. After ten seconds, he recited the numbers back. For the first time, he understood. Since first grade, they pullout him from class to participate in these sessions. It seemed pointless. Until now. The shift from words to numbers, Jason realized that the exercises were progressive. After completing a stage, the student leveled up. The inability to complete a stage, concluded the exercise. The instructor then recorded the result. In the past, Jason attempted activities two and three times. This suggested very little progression. Dr. Chin could not hide her astonishment when she ran out of number cards. The last one she held up read 1057 8864 2497 5234 1876.
Ten seconds later, Dr. Chin placed the card face down and nodded at Jason, who said, “1057 8864 2497 5234 1876”
“Twenty numbers! Jason! That was a twenty number sequence. You just rhymed it off like it was your home phone number.” She was genuinely excited by this result.
“Is that good?” His eyebrows strained to make one firm line of confusion.
Unaccustomed to having his ego stroked in these sessions, Jason was uncertain how to respond. They usually ended with him feeling dumber than a shoe horn.
“No, that’s pretty incredible. I have never seen anything like it.” She beamed at him.
“Well, words I can’t stand, but I have always been good with numbers.” Jason stretched and stifled a yawn.
“What do you mean? Like math?” Dr. Chin asked, taking a thoughtful interest in the new direction of their conversation.
“No.” He said, chuckling at her relentless focus on academics. “I mean like, I don’t have to write phone numbers down. I know sports stats and players’ numbers by heart. I guess I just have a good memory when it comes to numbers, that’s all.”
“Oh, I think it is much more than that.” She said.
“Yah? Like what?”
“Well, I cannot say for certain. But I would like to ask you some more questions of a different nature.” She pulled a notebook out of the pile and placed it in front of her.
“As long as I don’t have to read anymore, shoot.”
Aftere opening the notebook, Dr. Chin uncapped a fountain pen and put on her glasses for the first time throughout the session. She was ready to write. Pen poised. Eyes cast down. “Were you ever injured as a child?” When he did not answer, she restated the question. “Any head injuries, major concussions, or extremely high fevers?”
Heat crept up the back of his neck as a familiar burn scorched through his thoughts. It was typical for the suit doling out the tests to probe inappropriately into his past. There must be a reason. They had to find something to blame for his messed up perception. What good would any of this do? Who was this supposed to benefit? Jason felt like an idiot. He almost fell for it, almost let his guard down. As if he could trust Dr. Chin. She was just like the rest; judging him, wanting to research him to find out what was wrong with him. Anger bubbled up and Jason’s grip on the situation steeled.
“What are you getting at Doc?” He asked.
She failed to pick up on his hostility and refused to change course. “Do you remember ever having a head injury or serious concussion or meningitis?” Dr. Chin pressed on, distracted by pages before her. She flipped through another book, clearly trying to reference something.
Jason fell silent with smoldering fury. Finally, Dr. Chin pulled her nose from her notebook, annoyed by the delay, and met his glare. She gasped, belatedly understanding her transgression. Perhaps she recognized her mistake and saw Jason as a person and not just a subject.
“Are you for real right now?” His temper blazed, and he bolted up. “You’re asking me if I was dropped on my head as a baby? If I have brain damage? You are just like the rest. I’m outta here.”
“Jason, I didn’t mean to suggest…”
The sharp jab of propriety stopped him at the door. “Tell me we are done here,” he said, the creaking of the knob in his grip.
She nodded sheepishly.
“By the way. You have a serious case of O.C.D. and the sensitivity of a python. You might want to work on that. Especially if you plan on pursuing a career working with kids.”
Fury fuelled Jason’s storm from the room. For the briefest of moments, he had felt smart, capable, even proud of himself. What was he thinking?
An excerpt from The Only Road Manuscript 1988 – Nicole
People Talk
How could Mother Nature be so cruel? The mocking silhouette in the window did nothing to answer.
A fat drop of condensation streaked down the fog covered glass as the bus bumped and clambered down the road. Anxiety was Nicole Bradley’s unwelcome passenger. The girl hated school. Expressing disdain on the first day back was not new. But, since receiving the worst haircut known to man, she dreaded her return to the institution. Even the most well-balanced adult would be stripped of their self-confidence in the face of such an abomination. This was devastating at a catastrophic level for the preteen.
Nightmare Haircut
It was 1988, and grade seven awaited Nicole. To overcompensate for her misgivings, she stocked her September wardrobe with skirts and dresses in different colors and lengths. The summer had betrayed her. It seemed a mean joke that puberty had somehow called upon every other girl in her class while confining her to the underdeveloped frame of a fourth grader. She spent the entire season beneath an oversized t-shirt, hoping to conceal what she did not have. Meanwhile, her friends sported two-piece bathing suits and outfits that made it hard not to notice their blossomed womanly figures. Her lack thereof was just as obvious, and she was insane behind her emerald lenses. Insecurities rendered her breathless. She nearly drowned in the deep, turbulent waters of self-loathing. Fear held her back from splashing around in a swimsuit. On more occasions than she cared to recall, she was mistaken for a boy. Such blunders crashed against her with an undertow that continuously pulled her self-esteem below the surface.
This was a case of unwanted and unintentional gender confusion; not an ideal situation for a preteen desperate to come into her own. The self-worth of teen girls all too often was combed through, tied up, and weaved into their personal appearance. For twelve-year-old Nicole, an extremely short, masculine cut was the most tragic event yet. True to her unbearably awkward adolescence, she wished for nothing more than to look older. The thought of being mistaken for a boy at the hair salon was so inconceivable that her ego refused to consider it for fear of short circuiting.
“You’ll be beating the girls off with a stick.” Tammy, the hairdresser said, whisking a handheld mirror around Nicole’s shoulders and neck to display the back of her newly shaved scalp.
Confusion tapped its toe, while her optimism hogged the stage. Maybe she got the latest chic style. Images of Pat Benatar and Annie Lennox flashed in her mind as she bobbed her head, trying to convince herself that it was not so bad. At the chime of the store’s entrance bell that announced her mother’s return, Nicole’s chair was set in a slow spin. Then it all came into focus. Everything happened at once. The impact of the hairdresser’s words collided with the horrified expression on her mother’s face. For a moment, there was no movement or sound. The mood in the salon shifted. Tammy’s proud grin soured the instant she realized her disastrous error. Nicole shut her eyes against the blow and the overwhelming scent of product that claimed her lungs as Tammy scrambled to lather her hands with styling gel. Then, jammed her fingers into what little hair was left. Intentionally blocking her client’s view with her own body, Tammy was determined to spike and shape the obviously masculine do. It was the eighties; hair was all about height, right? It looked more feminine the higher it stood, or so the women at the salon encouraged.
The tears did not come until after Nicole sat on the bathroom counter at home, staring at her reflection. With her sock feet in the sink and her nose inches from the glass, she studied herself in utter disbelief. No amount of brushing or tugging would bring her hair back. It was a mushroom. That was what they called it, a mushroom. A word Nicole could not bring herself to repeat after she and her mother stormed from the salon, less than impressed. Straight strawberry blonde locks seemed more golden now that her skin was visible beneath the extremely short stubble around her ears and across the back. The top was much longer in comparison, all three inches of it. With a heartbroken sigh, she tried to make the best of it until her sister charged into the confined room.
Enter Satan
“This, I have got to see.” Debra pushed open the door and stood with one hand still perched on the knob and the other on her hip. From the threshold, she stared at her younger sibling, unblinking for a long minute. It was unlikely that she was weighing her reaction before bursting into laughter.
“Oh my God, she scalped you, like you needed to look more like a boy.” Miss compassion’s exit was swift and in her wake, she levied and insult with permanent intentions. “Well, you’ve got the whole butch thing down.”
The mirror only galvanized her misery. It did nothing to improve her predicament. So, she climbed down from the counter. Behind clenched teeth, she swallowed the warm saliva that often gathers when preparing to cry or throw up. Her eyes welled and threatened to unload heavy streams of tears. Bravely, she walked down the hall and resisted all emotion until she reached her room and closed the door. To the floor, she crumpled in a heap. With her back pressed against the only wall separating her from Satan and the rest of the world. There, all alone, she wept in silence.
That was over a week ago. Nicole avoided going out or seeing her friends ever since. After clearly giving up on the notion that her hair would grow out in seven days, though not from lack of trying on her budget and resources. The fact that beer, egg, and leave-in conditioners were unsuccessful growing agents was a lesson she learned the hard way. Of course, both disaster remedies were Debra’s suggestions, in her typical matter, a fact tone. Once she cried tears of frustration, sadness, and rotten odor, resignation resounded, and reduced her to rely on hope alone.
Back to School
She was hopeful that by the time school started, she would have grown comfortable with her new look, maybe even creating ways to style it to give it flair. Hopefulness would not help that she looked like a confused little boy. All that distinguished her from the boys at school was the sea green pencil skirt she was wearing. Nicole was not permitted to wear make-up yet, and willed her apparel would be enough to avoid the certain snickers and head tilts of pity. Her spiky reflection glared back from the window of the bus. The dreaded first day back at school. Fortunately, Nicole remained oblivious to the next crisis lurking just around the corner.
Slow to descend the very large steep steps of the school bus, reluctance to face her friends was a weight at her feet, and the limited slit of her skirt narrowed her steps. Distracted by this maneuver, she almost didn’t recognize Lindsay as the girl who grabbed her arm and ushered her from the bus. Stopping only after they reached the sheltered insert of the external gymnasium double doors. The massive steel slabs were set into the red bricked wall of the school. Once out of sight, Lindsay’s giant blue eyes searched Nicole’s with wild intent.
“I know, I know. It’s really bad, isn’t it?” Nicole plucked at strands of hair sporadically; a nervous impulse which had manifested itself into a complex over the past week.
“What? No. This isn’t about your hair, but now that you mention it, WOW!” Her eyes grew even wider, which did not seem possible. A big eyed ‘wow’ from Lindsay Petticomb was never good. More sarcastic than anything. Nicole translated this verbal and facial expression as only best friends can. Lindsay managed to communicate in an instant that Nicole’s hair was shocking. It was not a great look, but they still could be seen walking around together. This gave Nicole a little solace.
“When was the last time you saw Frank Fortelli?” Lindsay asked with an interrogating edge.
“Why? Is he here?” The sudden need to survey her surroundings did nothing to ease the new onset of panic.
“No.” Lindsay returned, holding each letter’s sound as if ready to burst into song.
“Good. He moved to go live with his dad.” Nicole peered around her friend. Once she realized that scouring the yard was pointless, her gaze landed back on Lindsay, who was still demanding an answer with her wide eyes. Nicole instantly began to blink. Her eyes were dry and irritated, just looking at the strain in her friend’s unwavering stare.
“When did you see him last?” This time, her words were slow and serious.
“The last day of school.” Nicole said at the same speed and with exaggerated clarity. “When he dumped me!” She qualified this with a confused head shake and returned her speech back to normal. “You know this. You were there with me. Remember?”
Lindsay let out a deep breath. “I thought so. I just wanted to check.” She paused and pressed her lips together as if trying to smooth the jagged bits on her tongue.
“Lindsay!” The suspense was eating at Nicole.
“I heard something.” She shrugged apologetically. “Something that you are not going to like.”
Frank Fortelli was one of those guys that people just liked saying their entire name. He was never just Frank. It was always Frank Fortelli. A boy that Nicole used to go with, whatever that meant at the ripe age of twelve. This wasn’t odd, because she always had a boyfriend. From as early as grade two, if you could call them that. It never went beyond school. The inhospitable venues the country had to offer its youth did nothing to encourage preteens to hang out. People did not live close enough to another to go just visit, either. Never did she speak over the phone, and on those rare occasions, it was always with Lindsay. When she had gone with Frank Fortelli, her interest in boys extended as far as talking to them at school and taking part in some of their recess activities. She did recall that Frank Fortelli had attempted to hold her hand once. It was at Track and Field, an annual event that Nicole looked forward to every year. It was a big deal. As a retired tomboy, she always liked to consider herself an athlete, although her body and her skill level would disagree. This never stopped her from trying. However, her interest in sport drastically outweighed her interest in boys, explaining why she ignored the subtle advances from Frank Fortelli.
This momentary flashback of a boy she had barely thought about all summer brought a resolve. His reasons for dumping her never crossed her mind, and now the mystery was no longer. By turning him down, she crushed his fragile ego. An enlightened smirk crept across her face at this sudden realization.
Nicole reflected on the last day of school and Frank Fortelli catching up with her and Lindsay just before they stepped on their neighboring buses. She could not remember for certain what he said, but it was clear that he had dumped her. The memory of hiding crying eyes on her way home made her chuckle.
The Power of a Rumor
Lindsay’s story was a fresh stab in the heart. Serrated with inaccuracies, a merciless blade aimed to socially devastate its victim. The scar on her reputation would precede her for the rest of her adolescence. Even at twelve, she knew this with certainty. While within the shallow depths of the doorway, Nicole remained protected from judgment and ridicule. For the time being, she looked out at the fake friendly faces, ignorant to her arrival and impervious to her truth. The moment of insecurity upon her was disarming. For days, she prepared for the gawking expressions brought on by a bad haircut. A blemish, she was sure to outgrow in a matter of weeks, a seemingly manageable predicament in hindsight.
Her world had just fallen. And as it hung there, suspended in the morning sun of the first day of school, its future darkened. A circulated rumor was pointless to refute. It had a life of its own, as it pulsated and morphed from lips to lobes of bored and stagnated peers throughout the summer. No one was interested in the self- exonerating truth. Her name was whispered about unknowingly for weeks. Although she had never kissed a boy, she was marked as a slut; a groundless label that would bore a permanent imprint on her flesh, her name and her soul like a repulsive tattoo. Unfairly, the boy who branded her was gone, leaving only a rumour about him, her, and a blue blanket behind.
In their own right, teens are experts on the ‘now’ that exists in their world. Pop culture, music, movies, television shows, even hot current events regarding environmental issues are their specialties. Teens are excited about coming into their own. Being able to contribute to adult conversations that they have an invested interest in or knowledge of is a big deal. A significant milestone is achieved the moment one can relate and offer an opinion at the grown up table.
About Teens
The thing about teens is…
…their expertise is limited to the now, rather their ‘now’ as it holds value to them. They have no reference to three years ago.
And when an adult cannot comment on the newest Avril Lavigne‘s song that addresses depression and mental illness the teen then feels empowered even superior to the adult or in this case the parent who is not in the ‘know.’
That feeling goes to their head and then they turn into assholes.
My
kids are approaching their teens quickly and I do not want to hate them. So I
am doing everything in my power to prepare myself as well as do what it takes
to guide them towards becoming the exceptional teens that are not loathed by
adults around the world.
Here
is how I explained it. Using a deck of cards as a metaphor for knowledge and
expertise, I slapped it down on the table. This is you today. All that you know
is about today with few proceeding references. You are expected to know
everything about today. In five years you will also know about then. I fan the
deck out demonstrating less concentrated knowledge on a specific time period.
Then I spread the deck out further and explain that is what happens over
decades, as in the knowledge of their parents. This is not to minimize the knowledge
of others; for there was a time when we were all experts on a ‘today.’ All were
relevant at the time and significant in their own right.
I
do not know Avril Lavigne’s song
about mental illness, but I do know how in 1974, Jaws kept an entire generation out of all bodies of water and how
critical Public Enemy was to the
music industry as rap found its way to mainstream in the 1990s.
Pulling
the deck further apart, I explained that my parents have an even greater wealth
of information. It is spread across many more decades just more thinly. All are relevant, all equally as enlightening.
I would not dare question my father’s knowledge of the sixties because I wasn’t
there just as my kids avoid discussing anything predating 2017 because they
haven’t a thing to add.
They
are supposed to know more about today than I do.
And if ever they dare be condescending when I am not as knowledgeable about whom Taylor Swift is dating, I have reserved the right to smack them upside the head or pelt them with questions regarding Rodney King and the L.A riots or the impact Quentin Jerome Tarantino had on Hollywood. It’s amazing how quickly their pretentious smug expressions falter when I make mention of something outside of their expertise of today.
I have pleaded with my kids to be respectful no matter what.
Everyone is an expert on something and that deserves not to be minimized or disregarded. We all have a part to play. My concern are the parents who distance themselves from their know it all teens at a time when they need our social guidance the most.
It is perfectly natural to feel empowered with knowledge but constantly impressing upon our young adults that the wisest of us all knows that they know nothing at all.
Praise
your teens for engaging in conversation and celebrate their knowledge but instill
upon their new developing minds and opinion that their deck of cards remains a
short stack.
In
the meantime, if my son ever makes fun of me for not knowing the words to the
newest Shawn Mendez song I will
change the wifi password and send him to his room with the Joshua Tree CD.
Yes, by all means; career goals, financial budgeting, parenting approaches, retirement plans, blah, blah, blah.
All of those are shared priorities for the future, in the long run. But those are not the shared priorities of everyday bliss. They will not help you achieve a happy and successful relationship in the day to day.
There is a secret to a happy relationship, and I am going to share it with you.
Shared Priorities
Do everything you can to make your partner happy. Ensure that they have the same goal.
If you are making them happy…
and they are making you happy….
happiness all around!
It is really that simple. That is the shared priority. Know your partner’s priorities and make them your own.
Clearly, this calls for an example.
Let me start by saying, do not compromise on what matters most. This method will not help you if you haven’t already picked a partner worth fighting for.
After a failed marriage, I realized that I had betrayed myself. I had fooled myself into ignoring the attributes that I had once held highest when choosing a partner. To me, one must possess an unflappable work ethic, a kind heart, and capable hands. Once I reestablished my sure grasp of those character traits, I found my true love, to whom I married. These three attributes are the foundation of the man, husband, and father he is and why I love him so.
This unfortunately does not mean that we brought the same priorities to the relationship. For the big picture, future goals, everything aligned. It was the small, everyday expectations that we just assumed our alike hearts would agree upon. They didn’t.
And I’ll bet either do yours.
That being said, my partner likes for specific places in our home to be tidy and clean. This, I refer to as ‘showcase‘ clean. You may already be nodding with agreement, and I would nod too if these places were the kitchen, the bathroom, or even the front foyer. Nope, my husband wants the laundry room to be spotless. Yep, that room also, known as the mudroom.
He once dedicated an entire day to cleaning this area to his liking. In doing so, he moved all that made this room functional into the garage. To be fair, when he was finished, it was showcase clean. It was a spotless, shiny, and useless laundry room, just like a Home Depot floor display.
To be clear, I don’t get it. The need to have the room that is meant to be hidden away behind closed doors clean, above all other rooms in the house, is beyond my comprehension. I mean, we keep that cat’s litter box in the laundry room, for Pete’s sake. This also made for a messier garage. Relocating clutter is not cleaning in my opinion.
Out of respect for my husband’s wishes, I do try to keep the washer and dryer clear of clutter and the floor free of laundry when I can. On the flip side, he returns the favour by refraining from hanging things on the banister at the bottom of the stairs – which drives me crazy.
When we were first together, hats, coats, and bags could often be found dangling in the middle of the living room from the railing of the stairway in centre view of the front door. Grrrrrr.
This meeting of the minds or sharing of the priorities did not come easily. It came after an explosive argument.
We all believe that we are easy to live with. Your partner would disagree. Just ask them. Have an open conversation. Do not make it a competition. Listen. Do not get defensive.
If they are brave enough to share with you what irks them, be strong enough to accept what you hear.
Be prepared to express your priorities too- again, not a competition. You do not need to ‘out do‘ their uncapped toothpaste complaint by lashing out about the swallow of milk they left in the fridge; that, honestly, had not bothered you before the conversation began. In addition to listening and not getting defensive, take a moment to pull on a thicker layer of skin if you haven’t already got one.
It is also important to understand that this takes time. Just by expressing your priorities to your partner does not mean that they adopt them as their own immediately. Again, I still don’t get the need to have the dryer top clear. It took a long time for me to stop myself before haphazardly emptying my arms onto the first surface when coming into the house from the garage. The dryer is a natural catch-all. In avoiding unloading there was a process.
At first, I would make the laundry room part of my tidying routine. Once I realized that the clutter collecting on the dryer was mostly mine, I began curbing the habit.
Do not get me wrong. When things are hectic, the house is a mess, and I am dropping more balls than juggling, I have to admit the dryer’s cleanliness is the first to fall off my priority list. Why? Because, the drier top is not my priority.
It is natural for the priorities of others to be the first dismissed or ignored when distracted.It is also really easy to dump my things on the dryer when I see a rogue backpack looped over the banister of the stairs. This, I know is 80% petty, but 100% honest.
Hey, I said that the theory was simple, not the practice.
But imagine how wonderful life would be if your partner’s aim everyday was to meet your priorities. If their number one goal was to make you happy, how easy would it be to match that goal? Sounds pretty incredible, right? So why not have the conversation. Start there.
Make your partner’s priorities your priority. When they do the same…
