Diaspora Dialogues

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excerpt

Faithlessly Yours

by

There is an honesty to this impulse, which is what made me fall in love with Cass at the start, makes him one of the best writers I know. But at the same time other people have to clean up Cass’s messes and sentences and, for a long time, that person was me.

Maybe I believe that by putting together the pieces of Cass I can show him that entropy is failure: death is inevitable but a failure. But Cass has always liked it best this way, rushing toward it. The music so loud you can’t hear the words; the velvet cake I spent three hours making from scratch smeared like feces on his palms and fingers as he shoves handfuls of it into his mouth; teeth sore and clanging against the bottom of an empty glass; sex slow and deliberate, and especially best in the morning, best when you wake and don’t know who you are yet.

Maybe Cass is right: entropy, dying, is truth, after all, the only certain one; without the broken fragments there is no unity.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Centennial Year

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Road hockey. Peter saw it transpire and was admittedly not that surprised by his father’s reaction. The neighbourhood kid—one of these red-headed Anglos whose parents resented the Greeks and Italians who lived in most of the homes now—had taken a wrist shot that sailed well past the net and struck Theodoros in the back of the head. And Theodoros had then lashed out at the boy, using the hard slap that Peter and his siblings knew well.

It was the centennial year, his father explained afterwards, and what better way to celebrate it than to have the country’s newest immigrants smack the worthless offspring of these Anglo barbarians who had come before them. Of course, Theodoros’s attitude changed when he realized that he would have to explain himself at the police station.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Chasing Snowflakes

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A moment such as that one clings like a snowflake to your sleeve. You admire its intricate beauty as it quietly melts away into a memory. It’s these thoughts that sit on my shoulders, as I pace the city tonight. With every step I take along Carlton Street, those days seem a life time ago. All that surrounds me is a damp weight of night air. An air filled with complacent specks of moisture that refuse to crystallize. I fear the chances of seeing another perfect Christmas has whipped past me like a bitter winter’s wind, as this year it finds me alone, for the first time.

It seems tradition has become antiquated. I can see the evidence in the buildings around me. Behind the shadow of tarnished streetlights, Maple Leaf Gardens fades into the background. Its geometric brickwork is lonely without its iconic marquee. The blue and white banners have been pulled down as this once great landmark waits for its new grocery store awning.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Dear Professor L

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Dear Professor L,

Right now it is 1:41 in the morning, and I was just about to go to bed. When I lay down, a thought came to me about you and your warm words this afternoon. I am worried I could not say the answer to your question. It was not because what you asked was too personal. It was because I was too astonished by your generosity and did not know the proper way to answer and express my thankfulness. Nobody has ever told me that, or offered to help me before, and I learned from you today that asking for help may not be a bad thing after all.

My parents always told me that I was the reason why they came to Canada. To give me a better education, and a life that they could not afford when they were young. But after standing beside them, watching the pain they suffer, I am not quite sure if I am worth their time and sacrifice. Recently, I was at a hospital with my mom, who had surgery. I cannot forget how desperate I was, how I looked for someone to talk to and lean on. Sometimes I even wonder if I will ever be good enough for them. I feel guilty for making them give up their life and family in Korea to come here. I am exhausted because of the things in life that are so questionable and vague. A lot of feelings cross my mind and I can’t get them to equalize.

I hope I am not making you uncomfortable with my story. Please tell me if at all, if you feel awkward or disturbed. Although I hope you do not.

Sincerely,

Jennie

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

The Son-in-Law

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“No,” said Taseen. “They’re all lovely people but I’m not letting you and Ami arrange a marriage for me. I am perfectly capable of choosing whom I will spend my life with. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, if you’d let me finish. I’ve met someone.”

Rizwan folded his paper and sat there silent, his hands slowly gripping the arms of his chair in suspense. His wife set aside her knitting. They stared at their daughter, not knowing what to say.

“Well, as long as he has Muslim values,” he said, like a burst of hot air after the long silence.

“He’s not a Muslim,” said Taseen.

The sides of Rizwan’s lips curled and his flesh began to produce an odd jaundice, as blood abandoned his face and rushed down to his stomach. “What does this non—Muslim do for a living? ” he said in a quavering voice.

“He’s an artist.”

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
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