Diaspora Dialogues

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Shorthand

The Meeting

by

The old professor was camping with the bearded professor in the abandoned playground miles away from the highway. One was chewing a candy apple while the other sat on a table staring up at the night sky.

“Did you know that space is opaque? ” he asked the other.

The old professor carefully chewed on his words as he ate his apple.

“No,” came his blunt reply.

“Neither did I,” said the younger man, scratching his thick red beard. “Until today.”

The old man nodded.

“Why do you have that table? ” He asked as he took another bite of the bright green apple. Some of its juice was already slowly rolling down his chin. He loved green apples. They were one of nature’s sacred gifts and also a forbidden fruit. He loved the word “forbidden.” His spine tingled every time he heard the word spoken. Anything forbidden was forbidden for a reason and therefore he had to be the one to commit the act of treason, curious of the result. Zeus hadn’t struck him with lightening yet so maybe the fruit wasn’t really forbidden or the god had just given up. He probably had better things to do than worry about professors consuming apples.

While he was chewing on his thoughts, however, the younger professor was looking at him quite strangely. His eyebrows were raised and his lips were sealed, but his bright green eyes, the same colour as the apple, showed confusion.

“What? ” blurted the wise man as pieces of chewed apple flew out of his mouth and splattered onto the bearded man’s face.

“Nothing,” the confused professor replied. He really didn’t want to say what a quack he thought the old man was. But the old man had noticed his stares.

“I’m a professor of philosophy,” he replied. “I think a lot.”

“I don’t,” mentioned red beard. “I teach sixteenth-century history. All I have is facts and knowledge. I don’t think, I know.”

Night like Velvet

by

The night is black velvet, devoid of anything but the stars and her; it wraps around her, a dark cloak fashioned of the very sky.

She trembles, a shiver that begins in her neck and traverses the path to her toes, despite the fact that layer upon suffocating layer of cotton sits between her skin and the cool surroundings. However, she knows that the ice in the air isn’t the sole culprit to her discomfort. There are many other spiteful mechanisms at work here: anticipation, exhaustion, dread. It could be a number of them; a sick combination of catalysts, working in the same direction, propelling her down the frost-laden street.

Tears were no longer an option—she’d left them behind on her pillowcase, and had not a single droplet to spare, now. The only remnants of their existence are the tracks through the dirt on her face, which she leaves as a reminder. Though she has no chance of catching a glimpse of herself—the ice is the only remotely reflective surface here, and it leaves her likeness distorted, eyes bulging and jaw protruding—she can feel their presence on her cheeks, acidic and foreign.

Hours ago, when she had still been weak—fragile as a sheet of glass—uncertainty stabbed from every faucet of herself.

That is all gone now.

She isn’t weak anymore. The fragility has disappeared. If she was made of glass before, she is now fashioned entirely from stone. Her resolve is firm and cold as steel—durable, unbreakable—reinforced by every teardrop she’d lost. Thinking had led to hesitation earlier, so she now quiets her thoughts, and focuses on the motion of one foot in front of another.

Left and right. Left, and right.

The streetlamps are now small, golden pinpricks of light behind her back—her destination lies in the far reaches of the town—and only darkness remains ahead of her. It occurs to her—a lilting whisper tucked in some remote fold of her mind—that she should be apprehensive. She knows well enough that this neighbourhood holds countless sorts of criminals and other maliciousness. This thought, as the others were, is disregarded. Thinking leads to trouble. Leads to turning around . . . going home.

Just keep walking.

New snow commences it‘s long and silent journey, falling silently upon her shoulders and soaking them until a dank chill reaches her collarbone. Her boots provide the only soundtrack to her solemn procession forward; sombre crunching of snow beneath them. Crunchcrunchcrunch.

Confronted as she is by the total and absolute blackness—to her left, her right, surrounding her. Mind-numbing detachment begins to settle in her bones; a subtle disconnect that threatens to leave her stranded in her own thoughts. She begins to feel that she isn’t walking at all. With no visible points of reference, it’s impossible to tell if she’s moving at all. She entertains a ridiculous fear that seems more real by the moment: what if she never reaches her destination? What if she remains in this darkness, with no way out?

Panic begins to flare, and she squelches it as soon as possible. Find the house, she tells herself, and you’ll forget this darkness even existed. Finally, she does.

The house is directly in front of her. It had begun as a small, glowing iota in the distance, among a cluster of others, and was now a large, off-white square, a few steps away from her. She steps quietly up the two stone steps, as she has many times before, and knocks on the door.

Once, twice, three times.

He answers just as she is about to knock again.

She didn’t think she would cry, but she realizes now that wetness is sliding down her cheek, gathering on her chin.

He isn’t angry until the plane of light from the doorway slides onto her face, and when he becomes angry, he’s furious. His lip curls up as if the very sight of her is disgusting and revolting in a thousand ways she’d never thought possible. His teeth are yellow beneath the angry line of his upper lip, and she can’t believe she never noticed that before. His chest expands in a livid intake of breath—to yell at her, she thinks—but it’s released explosively when he recognizes the item grasped in her pale hands. With morbid delight, she watches the transformation of emotion on his face between blinks as if it were a macabre stop motion film: Confusion. Understanding. Panic.

He’s frozen.

After a short moment of well-earned victory, she raises the gun. Presses the barrel of it close to his face. Then, spares an endless second in which she simply looks at him. His eyes—those mean, ugly irises which used to view her with overt disgust . . . now the pupils dilate with fear.

He is crying now, begging.

No. Oh, god, please don’t shoot. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Sorry? The word is ridiculous and alien. Sorry for what? There were a multitude of things the sentiment could refer to: Sorry that he broke her heart? Sorry for the years of physical, mental, and total abuse? Sorry that she used to lock herself in the bathroom when he came home, or he’d slap her silly?

She decides that, though there are many instances he could be apologizing for, he isn’t.

He is on his knees. The deciding factor is this second. This would fix it. This would fix all the hurt. All she needs to do is

Pull.

The.

Trigger.

She tries. She can’t. She still loves him. She wants to hate him. Wants to hate his guts for all the tears, the heartache, the bruises he’s caused her. She’s not strong enough . . . probably never will be. She was a fool to think that she could do it, that she was made of something stronger than him. She was always a creature of glass, and always will be.

The barrel of the gun is lowering—relief flashing through his face—when something is revealed by the slipping fabric of her coat: a circular burn, puckered and ugly from a cigar, placed with careful cruelty upon the delicate skin of her wrist. That’s all she needs to push her over the edge.

Bang.

Little Magic Child

by 

There’s beauty in the world, no need to look too hard

Even in a game of greed, she smiles at the queen on a card

And all the parents watching, smile at the thought

That the grass seems to be better than the presents the child got

They laugh at how little it takes to make her smile

Because they haven’t had the magic, not for awhile

It disappeared when all children’s tales were proved false

And shines for a second with the rapid beating of pulse

When love sinks in, the magic flickers in their hearts

But it’s nothing like the flame inside a child, a real work of art.

Finishing the Road

by

My aerial journey takes me north-west, the highlands unending, the beauty constant, the breeze unwavering. The roads—those man-made veins on the landscape—gradually lessen, shrink and, finally, wither before the elusive region of the Zona Reina is reached. My new destination is there, a land in isolation in a tiny country. It is a place where the spread of wings provides ease of entrance, where vehicles are a rumour and where the collapse of mud-caked shoes into the yielding terrain remind one that advancement is dependent on human energy in the face of a land that inclines toward the uncompromising and defiant.

I, as the bird, can swoop down and penetrate the thick layer of cloud that canopies the village. As I glide, I sense that the Cuchumatán mountains, beyond in the north, enjoy the spectacle of an insignificant quetzal almost reaching their imperious heights and nod in approval as I descend and make my way to this hidden territory, unknown even to most Guatemalans, where the foliage is so dense that it immediately swallows any human who passes through.

The valley is low and the hills are a full, emerald green, and they enclose the village with protective attention. There is security in solitude; and, for Lancetillo, where the rest of the world must seem non-existent, much less a dream, each new dawn announces the continuation of permanent respite. If I chirped just once to herald my arrival, it would echo between the hills and ring louder than a church bell. However, I remain silent in my approach and scan the sparse human structures for my perch. I locate the parish. My flights over humanity have caused me to rise up to avoid the arrogance of church steeples; but here, this one demurs and dazzles: a tripartite ascendance in lucid amethyst; three carved wooden totems that are cut to diamonds and lead up to the pointed arrowhead that, tipped with the cross, prepare to be launched and pierce the sky with requited caritas.

In front of me lies the imperfect field, a jagged patchwork of exposed, dried mud and grassy segments both green and moribund. And, for once, my place atop the steeple causes me to look up, for the ceiba tree that is beyond the church steps rises higher, a silent, steady evolution that will continue to grow and humble those earthly inhabitants who would deign to topple nature. Yet, the power that gave us the Earth need not worry, for the people of Lancetillo seek not the restless scaling toward the heavens but rather the peaceful coexistence with the land.

Sparkles of sounds radiate from unknown clefts. I listen to the animated songs of the other birds, the daytime chirp of the crickets, the snort of the spotted pigs as they scour for food, the dissatisfied neigh of a horse as it prepares to be mounted, the muted clicks of the villagers speaking K’ekchi and, further off, in some secret crevice or dirt lane, the glee of playing children and their laughter of forever.

Is this truly a hidden paradise or am I deceived? The constant idyll entices. I feel that there is a niche for me here. (If not, then I shall construct one high up in the ceiba.) The peace elates and, buoys, I let myself drift downward toward the church entrance. Seeing it empty inside, I spin around for prying eyes and, seeing none, swoop inside. Rows of worn wooden benches and whitewashed walls give way to the colours that flourish on the altar: flowers bleed shades from the entire spectrum, demonstrating that eternal life inhabits their very scent and sight, and the space that they enliven. I chance a spot on the pulpit and look outward and admire the twin stained-glass windows over the entrance, the morning light injecting them with such brilliance that the rusty-coloured crosses and blue backdrop appear as if framed directly from the sky.

There are crudely-framed pictures on the walls. These are weathered, black-and-white photographs of Mayan men, unsmiling, evasive in their gaze and hinting at a time not far past where torments rained down upon this otherwise veiled patch of earthly bliss. I do not know their stories, nor even their names, but can guess that these still-life photographic depictions hanging in the church indicate a grandfather lost, a husband disappeared, a brother extinguished or a son vanished before his time. I look again at the pictures and see what is there: grief made evident and never to be forgotten in these austere, visual accountings of man’s attempt to vanquish another, to defile the land on which he lived, to denigrate and eliminate a human life conducted differently and to erase everything connected to it. Yet, however much the link may have been severed, the healing began anew. The land got to work and rose up, cognizant that a branch cut off can be re-grown. The peace of Lancetillo evinced a continuation, a resilience that would sag amid terror, but persists and advances stronger following the attack. Every Sunday, the villagers would shuffle in and out of this church, having borne witness to experienced atrocities and staring at the reminders of those detached branches. And, as long as people remembered and let water mix happily with the land, these men would live on.

Unrelate

by

This is my favourite writing exercise. I learned it from my friend, the great poet Garry Gottfriedson, who in turn, learned it when he mentored under Allen Ginsberg. And once more, though I do not write poetry, I turn to the poets for their inspiration. This can work with short prose pieces as well as poems and is really good at getting you thinking outside of the box and into the heart of the subject:

Pick a topic. Now quick, write every word you can think of that has anything to do with the subject, every adjective, synonym, form and adverb. For example, if your subject is LOVE, then you’d start a list that included:

  • passion
  • caring
  • heart
  • marriage
  • caress
  • etc..etc . . . 

Now, all these words you have written out, they are off-limits. You must write a poem or short piece about LOVE but without using any of the restricted words.

Aboriginal Rights Are Human Rights

by

Dudley George’s friends and relatives should have been celebrating his 43rd birthday with their loved one. Instead, they were among the hundreds of people who turned out for a human rights meeting commemorating the slain activist’s life. George was shot to death by Ontario Provincial Police during a peaceful demonstration in Ipperwash Provincial Park protesting for the protection of Native burial sites located in that park.

The Coalition for a Public Inquiry into Ipperwash under the direction of co-ordinator, Robin Meyers, put together a panel to speak about the human rights issues of Canadian Aboriginal people, the case of Dudley George in particular.

The keynote speaker for the day was Martin Scheinin, a member of the United Nations Human Rights Committee. He was joined by Dudley George’s brother, Sam. Also speaking was Native Women’s Association of Canada president, Marilyn Buffalo.

Scheinin spent most of his time explaining the activities of the UN’s Human Rights Commission, detailing the policies and programs in relation to Aboriginal people and going over its mandate.

Buffalo spoke next with conviction and determination, reminding the men that our society has always been matriarchal and should remain that way. She addressed the general question of why NWAC should be involved in the Dudley George case.

“Dudley has a mother and a grandmother. Dudley has sisters and aunts and nieces who have all been affected by all this.”

She recounted the sad and angry reaction in former Assembly of First Nations chief Ovide Mercredi’s office the day word came of the shooting. She spoke of the helplessness of the people, and of the George family in particular, when the OPP began covering up the events leading up to the death of the unarmed Native man. Buffalo challenged the justice system on it with Native cases.

“What would happen today if Dudley George was a white man, if the shoe was on the other foot?”

She also spoke about the silence surrounding George’s death.

“Nothing has changed from that day. No progress has been made. Why? Because people are afraid.”

Also discussed during her speech was the recent revelation that Aboriginal people were dying at the hands of the police authorities in Saskatchewan who took them to remote areas of the city and made them walk in freezing cold temperatures to find shelter. She discussed, not only the known cases reported in the media as of late, but of all the unsolved murders and disappearances of Native women in urban centres.

“Our sisters’ deaths in urban centres. They are left unresolved.” She told the assembly about a project that is operating out of the Saskatchewan NWAC office called Woman Find, a group trying to obtain the resources and information about missing Native women. She accused the authorities of doing nothing about these cases because of their prejudices.

“Nobody is doing anything about it. Why? Because we are poor, and that is not a crime.”

Buffalo ended her time with a challenge to the audience to go out and volunteer and ask questions, to hold people accountable.

“Aboriginal rights are human rights, ladies and gentleman,” she shouted from the podium.

The last person to speak from the main panel was Sam George, brother of Dudley and primary plaintiff in the wrongful death case against the provincial government. He talked about how difficult the ordeal has been for his family, having no sense of closure or justice since his brother’s murder on Sept. 6, 1995. He said he is not interested in revenge, that the family wants an inquest so recommendations can be made in the hope that no one has to suffer through this kind of tragedy again.

“People often ask me what I want. What I want is just the truth. Their justice system can handle their punishment. That’s not up to me. I just want the truth.”

Mr. George spoke about Ontario Premier Mike Harris’ assertion that no inquest will be conducted as long as there is a court case pending, yet the case itself is still being delayed.

Professor Patricia Monture-Angus, a Mohawk who now lives at the Thunderchild First Nation and teaches at the University of Saskatchewan, was called upon to connect the dots between the deaths of Native people across this country, from the Saskatoon freezings to the slaying of Dudley George. Professor Agnes began by reciting the names of Native men who were convicted and jailed, sentenced to hard labor, for powwow dancing. She then went on to discuss some of the violent acts that have been committed against Aboriginal people in Canada over the past few years, citing that these cases are not isolated incidents, but rather a pattern of behavior within Canada.

“We don’t need any more inquiries. We don’t need any more talk. We don’t need any more statistics. The problem is not what we know. It’s that nobody is doing anything about what we know.”

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