Diaspora Dialogues

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Book 3

To Toronto

by 

I must love you quietly, embarrassed
by your unwieldy desolate sprawl, your cold heart
and shameless lack of fashion sense; deliberately love
what you have cobbled together so carelessly on gridded
streets predictable as a sitcom, the 1980s
a garish tattoo on your nether regions.
(Had you been born beautiful, a sultry New Orleans,
gamine Paris or majestic Damascus; were you known
for romance or elegance, or like Montreal were praised
for joie de vivre . . .
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Toronto locations referenced in this piece

“I, at least, am yours, have spent a lifetime learning to know you, skittish mongrel, ambitious tart: I stow my heart in Kensington Market . . . ” —Kensington Ave.

“ . . . beneath the Danforth Bridge, hoping time will treat you kindly and my devotion be not worthless . . . ” —Danforth Bridge

“Eastern Avenue will become a berm, an artificial hill to guard new downtown condos from the Don River’s floods every 150 years . . . ” —Don River

Rock Dove

by

“Miss? ” His hand closes on my forearm. “You got time to help an old man? ”

It takes me a second to see it—his eyes are useless.

“Miss? ”

How can he tell I’m not a missus, a ma’am? Can they smell that deep?

He gives my arm a squeeze. “Hey.”

“Sure,” I say, a little too loudly. “Sure thing.”

The IGA is nothing special. The produce section is better than some—the local Greek widows see to that, shaking bunches of rapini, squeezing garlic bulbs in their fists. The place is Greek-run, but the staff is pretty much a mixed bag. The women behind the deli counter all sound like they come from Russia, or else one of those countries it swallowed and spat back out. They’re mostly older, but there’s one about my age, a skinny brunette whose name tag reads Tatiana. Her face makes me think of the Virgin. Not the dough-faced blonde, the black-haired Madonna with the mouth. When she holds up a slice of ham for my okay, I nod no matter what.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Mo

by

Mo cannot take Fridays off. As a result he finds himself praying in the eastbound streetcar on his way to work. He assumes the appropriate position—as if holding the Qu’ran in hand—and enters a meditative state of worship, mumbling to himself at points where he usually sings when in the privacy of his own room. Mo makes time for prayer five times throughout the day, which isn’t difficult since he is assistant manager at his uncle’s restaurant and his uncle is a somewhat religious man himself. The plan, explained as such by Uncle Iqbal involves 1) gaining experience with Canadian clientele, which will enable him to speak English more fluently, 2) practising the most recent accounting software and techniques, and 3) giving Mo Canadian work experience. “Very, very necessary,” insisted Uncle. “It was bad enough when I first came; you might as well have come straight from the tea plantation! But these days don’t you dare grow a beard. You know what happened to Yusuf. Uncle paused, looked thoughtful. “We’ll just keep calling you Mo.”

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

The Only Detail that Matters

by

In our fifth roadside motel room Alice is standing in front of the mirror examining her face carefully. She is wearing nothing more than a pair of white knee socks with a tiny lavender bow stitched just above the back of each slender cotton calf.

While she studies herself her tailless grey and white rescue cat named Olive circles the perimeter of her ankles methodically. Alice stops applying mascara for a moment and leans down to scratch the animal’s eager brow with her free hand.

The cat is not travelling well. We both knew this would be the case but Alice insisted and I relented. This particular motel manager said no pets, but Alice managed to charm him just like she charmed the rest of them.

The rest of them. All of them. Me.

I have been in love with Alice and her ever-changing pair of knee socks for six days and two hours now. I have known her for four months and two weeks. I will not tell her that I am in love with her for another six and a half months, and by then it will be far too late.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 3. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Toronto locations referenced in this piece

“Tom got down on one knee in front of me at the Lahore Tikka House on Gerrard before I’d finished my chicken tikka masala, and as I looked down at that sweet dopey face I knew there was no possible answer but yes . . . ” —Lahore Tikka House

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