Blue pants, white stripes, trace portable tattoos into the fertile land of a teacher’s psyche: a place where crushed heads and dismembered limbs soak in liquid red. The colours you wear bear a statement of the world your ancestors were unfortunate to inherit. A place where war has turned Natives against Europeans, Europeans against Natives, Native Europeans against European Natives, you against yourself. Blue sky rushes alongside white clouds. White petals caress blue waves. Blue marbles roll over white sand. The colours you wear bear a statement of America’s aching past, and the dislocation of your culture today . . .
Book 3
Pain Management
Dennis Hanley had used up three of his four weeks at the institute, a small salmon-coloured building on University Avenue’s hospital row. His Worker’s Comp had paid for the first two weeks, and his parents were paying for the other two. At the institute they didn’t call group therapy “Group” they called it “Conference,” and everyone was supposed to dress in regular day-clothes—there were no robes or gowns to be had at all—although by the third week some people just kept their pajamas on all day.
Dr. Krayman was a young man with a easy-going manner and a huge black mustache. In Conference he said, “Pain is a signal, and a signal is a message that has to be decoded. So let’s some of us describe some of the signals we’re getting from our bodies.”
A guy named Ernst spoke first. “I get a signal from my body that says I’m carrying a heavy weight.”
“All right,” said Dr. Krayman. “And how is that manifested in your body, Ernst.”
“I have pain in my back and legs that won’t go away.” Ernst nodded like this was something shameful.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Toronto locations referenced in this piece
“Dennis Hanley had used up three of his four weeks at the institute, a small salmon-coloured building on University Avenue’s hospital row . . . ” —University Ave.
“Behind a flower-vined red-brick wall on a side street near Yonge and Eglinton, he’d been pricked viciously by an old Jewish doctor with body maps on the wall . . . ” —Yonge & Eglinton
“And inside a pale blue room in a teaching hospital at the University of Toronto, a class of students in gowns that were too large for them watched eagerly as their professor scraped, pinched, heated, thumped and punctured various parts of him . . . ” —University of Toronto
“He waited with the two of them at a stop on College Street, glancing once in a while down the block to the other side to see if anyone was coming to get them. No one was . . . ” —College St.
“‘Melanie and I have a lot in common, we discovered. But yeah, I’ve spent most of my life on Jones Avenue. Went to junior and high school out there.’ . . . ” —Jones Ave.
“They crossed the bridge over the Don River and then went through a Chinatown Dennis hadn’t realized was out there. A city with two Chinatowns . . . ” —Broadview (Chinatown)
On a Day in May Encounters
My friend, my friend, I cannot stop the rain. I cannot catch your grey clouds in the cup of my palm and prevent the murky drops from seeping through the ridges of my hand. I cannot turn back time to foreshadow what has happened. Nor can we close our eyes to still the frames in our lives. I can only place my olive-skinned hand upon your cheek and tell you I understand.
And that is the problem, we understand too well. We can’t explain it away because we know what it’s about. And as much as we know why such events happen, there’s only so much within our control. Events have a way of unfolding, as they often do. We’d like to think they can be indiscriminate, but you and I know that this isn’t always true.
That Sunday, I waited for you. How I waited in anticipation. After a year separated by distance, I relished every moment to be spent with you. One o’clock, two o’clock, where are you? Three o’clock, four o’clock . . . and then as if on cue, I hear from you by phone, your voice muffled by the sound of cars speeding by.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Toronto locations referenced in this piece
“What? At the corner of St. George and Bloor, in front of the shoe museum, you say. On your bicycle, then stopped by two police officers, you continue . . . ” —St. George & Bloor
“And so at the corner of St. George and Bloor, steps away from the shoe museum, on one of the sunniest days of May, they search your knapsack, checking every item while throngs of passersby gather to pass their judgement . . . ” —Bata Shoe Museum
Zoe’s Dance
Zoe had learned long ago that it was unwise to voice her thoughts about weddings. After all, who would listen to a woman who never dreamed of being the bride? As a girl, she often played wedding with the neighbourhood children. The others always fought for the same roles—bride, parents of the bride, flower girl or organist. Zoe only ever wanted to be the priest. She’d put on her grandmother’s oversized black wool cardigan and demand an answer to the words she’d seen on television soaps: Do you take this man? The impatient guests wiped away sweat in the late afternoon summer heat. The groom, who’d been promised his fair share of chips and gum, tried not to look bored. Now, at thirty, Zoe waited for the weddings around her to pass. Once all her cousins were married, she thought, life might assume some quiet and stability.
She checked herself for the last time in the hallway mirror before leaving her house. Wiping away some of the inky liner around her eyes, she tried not to look down at her bright blue sleeveless dress.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Toronto locations referenced in this piece
“They arrived at the Isis Banquet Hall on Danforth Road, the place where Zoe’s family held all their functions . . . ” —Danforth
Scented Worlds
Sharmila sat still in a corner seat on the subway. She was on her way home from downtown. The officials in their shining towers had summoned her for a hearing after she had missed two citizenship tests in a row. She had expected to find herself before a judge. Instead, she was led to a large testing area and handed a citizenship test. It was their way of having one take the test. Silly official people! The whole thing was sooo easy. It disappointed her, as had many other things since she first arrived. What had she really expected of this land?
At the hearing, there was a desi Canadian government officer who tried to impress everyone with his brisk, efficient manner. He smelled a little of her father’s Old Spice cologne. At first Sharmila thought that he was one of the assistants. But he turned out to be one of the commissioners. The judge appeared after the test and spoke to her rather kindly. There was no hint of a scent about him. The night before, her husband had urged her to study for a surprise test. He lectured her for ten minutes about the perils of failing the citizenship test. Her eight-year-old son warned her in sombre tones to pass so he could get his citizenship too. “It’s not fair, Mum,” he said. “If you fail, I get to fail too!” She had smiled at him and wondered how right he was.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Toronto locations referenced in this piece
“The train stopped at Victoria Park. Sharmila wondered if her husband was going to be late again tonight . . . ” —Victoria Park
“Sharmila’s station appeared at the end of the dark tunnel. Warden Station. She stepped off the subway, through the turnstiles and down the wet, slippery stairs . . . ” —Warden Ave.
“She had gone to the desi shop on the corner of Markham and Eglinton yesterday. The sign proclaimed proudly: HALAL BANGLADESHI, PAKISTANI, INDIAN MEEAT SOLD HERE . . . ” —Markham Rd. & Eglinton Ave.
Armadillo
Connie cries for hours, the tears welling up. She’s an endless fountain and the words that I offer are not the least bit effective in making her stop.
I feel like I am really not here while she is doing this: breaking up and down. I make the necessary gestures, go through the motions that someone in my position should—a touch on the shoulder, a reaching out for her hand—but really, my actions are all orchestrated, rehearsed even, as I have been through this thousands of times before. My sister, the drama queen. She has the uncanny ability to think only of herself, particularly at times of extreme distress and emotion. I contemplate whether my presence is actually of any comfort to Connie. If I ran out to get a coffee would she even notice?
“I have to work in the morning. Early.” I try to emphasize the word “early.” I get up and hope that I can make my way to the door without any objections from Connie.
“Don’t go.” Connie says, as she continues to sob. I try to avoid the balls of tissue strewn across her living room floor.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Toronto locations referenced in this piece
“We join the lineup for taxis. ‘So where are you going? ’ I ask her. I shock myself. A sudden burst of boldness. ‘Home,’ she pauses. ‘I live in the west end. In Parkdale.’ . . . ” —Parkdale
“There are only close to a hundred Chinese restaurants in Chinatown and I am tempted to make a sarcastic comment. For my own sake, I hold my tongue . . . ” —Chinatown