Diaspora Dialogues

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Dhawal Selarka

DD Mentorship Diary

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I remember how excited I was to learn that I had gained entrance into the Diaspora Dialogue’s Youth Mentorship program and at the idea of a professional published writer looking at and critiquing my work. That excitement gave way to nervousness and persistent thoughts of: “What if he/she thinks that my work is terrible? ” After submitting my poem for the first pass, I imagined receiving an email that said: “Are you serious? ”

It’s safe to say that this was not the type of response I received from my mentor, Lauren Kirshner.

Instead, her response to the email in which I sent my poem was enthusiastic, and thought-provoking. She said plenty of nice things about my poem (which got me blushing), as well as numerous points about what I could do to perhaps improve it. Through every pass, she gave me fantastic advice and got me to look at my poem through angles I had never considered, and provided examples of other poetry to reinforce her points.

At 20, I’m young and my writing is still developing, but the opportunity to work with a professional writer on my piece has helped me grow as a writer, and given me a set of skills that I may have taken years to come by. For all of this (and the experience itself) I am very thankful to my mentor Lauren, and Diaspora Dialogues.

Growing Up in the Suburbs of Toronto

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Growing up in the suburbs
of Toronto
my earliest memory was taking the transit
downtown

I remember begging my parents
for a window seat
on the bus,
a small hand 
against the dirt-ridden pane
catching my fading reflection
staring back
street lights
being blinded by the sun

I remember the elevator up
the C.N. Tower
My heart 
against my chest
and parents’ smiles,
and standing
on the glass floor
looking down
at people tinier than me 
walk by.

I remember being scared,
of something
I didn’t understand.
I remember the ferry rides
to Centre Island
waves in the lake 
smaller than me,
slipping under the boat
me rocking the boat,
rocking the lake.

I remember the Eaton Centre,
as it swallowed me whole,
and how it surprised me to see,
all the legs
their feet
and their shoes
sandals
and slippers 
and I remember looking up,
through the glass ceiling,
(as the sun’s rays cascaded through and through)
at birds that sailed 
on a higher plane.

I remember the cold water of Lake Ontario,
and swimming out,
while my parents got in only shin-deep
and stood
the size of my thumb.
I remember beads of water,
some easing off my face
others resting
and the waves 
cradling me to 
and from shore.

I remember the stars—
little bulbs that God switched
off
when the sun
came up—
and I remember the moon,
still made of cheese.

I remember flashes
of the subway
(and eyes closing)
and the bus
(and eyes closing)
my feet moving
my mind frozen
(and eyes closing)
being wrapped under the blanket,
the cold comfort of the pillows
(and eyes closing.)

Today, I remember everything
as it moves to my peripheral
(eyes closing)
and I rush

like after busses at their stops and trains at their stations
to write it down
(eyes closing)
because tomorrow’s a new day
and tomorrow
I might forget.

Eyes closed.
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