Diaspora Dialogues

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TOK

Sides

by

She was very pretty, the girl. Pity how thin her lips were. That was Tara’s first impression. The door to the basement opened and for a moment, the dull racket of the party yawned alive. The girl was the first to leave and she did so passing not three feet from Tara’s chair without so much as nodding her head. Tara was sitting in the TV room with a book in her lap, waiting for her son’s party guests to leave so that she could confirm they weren’t inebriated. As for the state of this girl, Tara couldn’t tell—she’d passed by too quickly. By the time Tara closed her book and put down her reading glasses, the chime at the front door had made its tinkle. The girl was gone.

Tara forced her bare feet into a pair of runners, flattening out the backs with her heels. The girl was already halfway up the block, hugging herself although the night was sticky and warm. In the yellow light of the streetlamp, Tara noticed some redness on the backs of her legs. A rash?

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

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.

Heels

by

Stephanie struggled to shove her feet into red stilettos outside the cheap-looking door she’d just closed. As her foot found its nook, toes reassuringly squeezed by reinforced satin, she thought she could hear the man on the other side of the door, just barely audible: “Fucking squaw bitch.”

She expected a lot of things from the man she just left, but she was thinking more along the lines of an exasperated sigh, maybe even something whipped fast and hard at the door. Instead he had chosen the most violent option he had. She wasn’t expecting that.

There had been nothing to suggest such a reaction when she was in the room with him. Only twenty minutes earlier she had woken up there, still-damp flannel sheets clinging to her body. She could smell him right away. Dried sweat and morning breath, alcohol, stale cigarettes. A scent that could belong to anyone—high-end businessman, cheap cheesy salesman, university professor, grease-fisted plumber. Pieces of their night were still in her head. Fleeting flashes of bare skin, demeaning expressions forgivable only when grunted during sex, all woven into a night that was slipping from her even as she examined the fragments.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 6. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Annie and Freda

by

Freda blows back into town on a Sunday. Annie is facing away from the counter when the door opens, her sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in a batch of chilled coffee mix. She’s concentrating on stirring steadily, with enough force to dissolve the sugar but not enough to take it over the edge. Annie doesn’t like making messes.

“Hey pretty lady!” Freda drops her heavy backpack with a thump and slides onto the vinyl barstool directly behind Annie. “Still doing favours for the management? ”

“Freda.” Annie says it before she turns, taking a second to stifle the smile that’s spreading across her face. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” Freda reaches into the bin of biscotti, ignoring the tongs. She pops a chunk into her mouth and grins at Annie while she chews. “Here I am.”

Annie turns and leans against the counter, arms folded, eyebrow raised. She watches Freda for a while before breaking the silence. “So? ”

“So what? ” Freda bites off another chunk. “So it was fun, and now I’m back. Mind if I crash for a while? ”

“Of course not. Are you back for good? ”

“Maybe.” Freda widens her eyes and shrugs, as if the idea is new to her.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 6. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Toronto locations referenced in this piece

“They’re too drunk to bike home, but they do it anyway. On the way back, Annie’s front tire goes flat. They turn off the main road and come to a stop at a dead-end street overlooking the valley in Riverdale . . . ” —Riverdale

“What seemed like silence before is now truly silence, the city on pause, the city holding its breath. Above her, from the back roof of a lowrise fronting on College Street, a sound emerges like the shaking of a jar of rice . . . ” —College Street

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