Sure I’ve done my fair share of writing about the state of the #3 bus route on Main Street. Sure I’ve ranted and raved, I’ve stomped my feet in tangents of tangents. I’ve bitched and I’ve moaned, but through it all I’ve managed to take a deep breath and just walk instead.
But, you know, when I see the following at 11am on a Sunday, it all has a way of rushing back in a hell-storm of anger and frustration.
Floored By Bill 44
I was raised in a loving and structured environment that was founded on the ideals of exploration and education. Aunts, uncles, and my mother have all found themselves as prominent players within the educational infrastructure of Alberta. Each of them have toiled to not only achieve the positions in which they now hold, but time and time again, have also struggled to somehow complete their jobs on a daily basis under the ever-increasing set of standards, requirements, and obligations that have been enforced upon them on a daily basis.
I’ve always imagined being an elementary student in one of the schools in which my mother has held a position. I imagined her to be the type of hard-assed educator that expects nothing less than excellence from every one of her students. I’ve imagined the students grumbling under their breath when they discover that they’ve landed in Mrs. Ellestad’s section in the upcoming year, knowing that she will be pushing them harder than the other teachers in school and knowing that they aren’t in for as free of a ride as some of the other teachers might have allowed. It’s only until years down the road that these same students will realize the diligence, courage, and persistence that such educators have instilled in them at such an early age.
And as much of a hard-ass as my mother has always been, pushing her offspring and students to achieve everything that she knows they can, she’s always allowed for the sort of clarity and open-minded thought that this world not only allows for, but also has come to expect.
So when I started hearing the whispers of Bill 44 coming through the news feeds, I immediately thought of the effect that it would have on my family’s employment. And to hear of Bill 44’s approval this morning, has not only brought a sense of fear to me for the future of education in Alberta, but also despair about the potential of educators in our country to do the best job possible preparing future generations of young folk for the diverse world in which they are a part of.
My mother returned to school in the early 90’s, a time in which the economics of Alberta were not feeling so gracious towards a hard working couple with two young children. It was a time in which my self-employed father struggled to not only keep food on the table, but also to keep his wife in University. But through it all she emerged at the top of her class with optimism towards her change of vocation and a bright outlook on the influence that she could have toward a group of young Canadians that would be at the forefront of a bright new future for our progressive nation.
Since that time I have seen my mother struggle and succeed in her position as an educator. I have come home many late nights to find her sleeping amongst a pile of half-graded papers. I have seen her spend long sunny weekends inside developing lesson plans, while still balancing all the work that goes into raising a family. We have learned so much from each other, her strength and diligence has given me the courage to grow into the independent, intelligent gay man that I’ve become, and I’ve hated to see the pressure that she has felt from parents, superiors, and her province when it has come to what she is allowed to say and do. I have seen my mother retreat into her position, prepared to more comfortably act as a pawn of her government, than the dynamic, creative, and loving individual that she is.
I have always believed that some of the most important education that I have received in my lifetime has come to me through my family. And although I was lucky enough to be a member of a family that embraced and supported diversity, we were never without our faults. My mother and I struggled through the worst of my teen-angst, but slowly we learned to come to terms with the fact that neither of us were without our faults. But for all that my family provided me, it was my environment that taught me to not trust the first thing that you hear. I ask myself now where I would be if I hadn’t had an extraneous network of strong educators to help me expand and open my mind. Before I even came out as a gay man to my parents, I had a strong back bone of support that not only came from my peers, but also from the most incredible set of educators that the Calgary Separate School system could have provided me. Not once did any of them fear that they might have been overstepping their bounds by providing me with the independent adult thought that I so needed at the time.
We are all a part of a network of incredible connections. We grumble when we are pushed harder than we would prefer. More than once I’ve grumbled at a professor whose workload has prevented me from partying as hard as I would like, but I’ve always emerged at the end of the term with a greater understanding of the course material and the world around me. If we allow our education system to be dictated completely by the diverse set of family values that permeate our lives, how are any of our educators ever going to feel free to take a risk, to push their students to question the world around them, or to cultivate the attitudes of acceptance that our world demands?
And perhaps this is why I find Bill 44 so insulting to Alberta and Canada as a whole. To see a province of teachers once again be restricted in the ways in which they are allowed to operate, not only takes a blow to me personally because of my mother, but also because I pride myself on the free and progressive society that I continue to believe I reside in.
It’s easy to sit back and relax out here in B.C. and consider ourselves unscathed. It’s easy to look to our eastern neighbors and scoff at the silly conservative structure that they continue to reinforce themselves within. It’s easy to think that we have it better without their snow and their structure. But are we really?? Are we really so immune from the attitudes that reside in the places outside of B.C.??
I guess I can only hope that we are. And I guess that I can only hope that the youth of Alberta who are most in need of an open-mind and an open-ear find what they are looking for in places outside of the school system, because their teachers may no longer be able to provide for them what they need.
So to every educator who ever forced me to push my limits, to every educator who ever threatened to fail me, and to every educator who ever provided me with a fresh outlook on the world around me, this one is for you.
And to my mother…
The most hard-assed educator of all.
So for some reason when I registered for classes this semester, I thought it would be a brilliant idea to take a night class, along with my already full morning schedule. So even after leaving campus to have a 2 hour lunch with a friend, and studying my ass off in the library for a couple of hours, I still have time to sit around for an hour in this over-heated dilapidated campus.
Shit dude!
Most who know me would agree that I’m a fairly patient person, at least when it’s my temper that’s concerned. I’m by no means a saint, in fact I’ve been known to rage in the comfort of my own home on numerous occasions. It’s in my dealings with others face-to-face where I seem to shine. I’ve on occasion had red wine spilled on me, had soup dumped in my lap, and had on many an occasion the most socially challenged person to deal with over the most trivial of transaction. And everytime, I feel as though I’ve demonstrated a copious amount of courtesy and restraint.
That’s not to say that I don’t have a little freak out once I’ve left the room, but in the face of common human differences and errors, I think I do a damn good job of treating my customer service technicians with the best of my behaviour.
That was until today.
It was reconfirmed to me today why I left TD Bank so many years ago. As a member of their institution for most of my life, there simply came a day when I realized that paying $18 a month for a simple chequing account was not for me. I stayed on as a Visa holder and to this day haven’t had to deal with any of their frustrating and useless customer service representatives.
Impersonality is, perhaps, one of the hardest hurdles to breach in big corporations, but you’d think that when you are dealing with people’s cash–their savings and their livlihoods–you would put the customer relationship at some sort of paramount level. You’d think as one of Canada’s largest financial institutions that they would have a certain degree of foresight. You would think that after this many years of experience that they could see the value of a customer relationship for what it is. Apparently this is far from the truth.
So after an hour on the phone (a large degree of that on hold), a disconnection, a redial (by me), more hold time, an an eventual response that entailed “We cannot help you access the internet, you’ll have to go to your nearest branch with two pieces of id,” I lost my cool.
The poor fellow on the other side of the wire, who has no doubt been given no empowerment in his position, and simply has to redirect people from one place to the next, was unfortunately the victim. An ex-partner of mine once worked in a call-center, and would certainly agreed that I had indeed “escalated,” rather, the point at which the customer reaches a level of such frustration and anger that the operator has no choice but to transfer them to the next in command. Unfortunately, I didn’t give the fellow the chance, and simply hung up the phone.
And for a moment it felt good. It was refreshing and cleansing to get that off my plate. I managed to squeeze a couple more obscenities into my day. I managed to give the operator another story to tell their spouse when they returned home that evening,
“God I hate this job, this one guy today, fuck was he pissed…”
I managed to do all these things while I should have been quietly sitting and studying.
All this, while at the same time completing absolutely nothing. Not one thing was accomplished and the only person who benefited from my phone call in the first place was my cell phone provider, who no doubt appreciates my generous use of my day time minutes.
God Damn It!!
Waking up yesterday morning, I realized that I’ve been much too gracious to my liver.
Clearly it’s been almost a month since I spent all morning and early afternoon in bed. Clearly it’s been almost a month since I set out for my first coffee of the day in the early evening. But this was the entirety of my Sunday: setting out late and returning home early to spend the evening in pajamas on the couch, popping Advil’s and drinking water.
Speaking of clarity, I believe that it became crystal clear to me and a couple of friends, that I am at my absolute judgiest when I still have vodka coursing through my hung-over veins at 2:00 on a Sunday afternoon.
So, as many a weekend has tended to play out over the years, I’ve once again gone from Gene Kelly on Friday night, to Oscar the Grouch on Sunday.
But it is in this judgiest of judgey moods that some of the most ridiculous and hilarious things seem to escape my brain. And so I’m forced to wonder once again, where creativity comes from? I’m forced to wonder when I became such an asshole?
And I’m not ashamed, I’m just critical, exceptionally so at times. And its caused me to make exceptional friends and extraordinary enemies as I’ve gone about my days. It’s caused me creative inspiration and the courage to take a step in what I feel is the right direction and really stick to it. It’s caused me time and time again to take a look at my life and ask myself “what the fuck, Trevor?”
And maybe some day I’ll change, but for now, if you come into the coffee shop at 2:00 on Sunday afternoon with a frizzy pony tail on your head, and a face so made up your skin looks more like the epidermis of a tuber, then I just might call you a “turnip”.
All in the comfort of my close-minded little bubble that is.
Karma really is a bitch.
After writing a little piece a couple of months ago about a fellow student in one of my classes reaking of mothballs, the gods have decided to impart their judgement and it isn’t kind. In fact, it’s suffocating.
You see I live 2 floors above a rather “trashy” little family.
Stinky Stanky Mothball Me. I guess flies wouldn't be attracted to the smell of moth ball fumes, but it's more a demonstration of my artistic abilities. Stare in awe.
They leave their laundry in the machines for days, literally. They litter the lawn with their children’s toys, claiming ownership over an apparently communal space. And they yell and scream at their children and each other at all times of the day and night. But this last action of theirs is beyond forgivable, and fucking ridiculous.
After seeing a cockroach in their apartment, they have decided to put mothballs into the heat vents. The same vents that run through the entire house, and that all of us share. Awesome. So now, my little home at the top of the stairs reaks of mothballs, reaks.
The air is thick with the stuff, so much that it’s been giving Meghan and I headaches. And now in math class, I’m no longer haunted by the smell of mothballs following me, I am the one bringing the haunt.
The front row of Math 1118 at Langara is now completely saturated by the odor of an impromptu mothball posse.
Now when I get out of the swimming pool my towel smells, my retardedly expensive jackets smells, and my bed smells: all of it moth balls. I’ve even convinced myself twice now that people have moved seats on the bus because of the way I smell.
And to top it all off, apparently this little family two floors down is unreachable. Great.
Hilariously shitty picture... Alludes to my bleak prospects
I’m not sure I really understand how it can be so expensive to live in this city. Granted there are things that we are privy to here beneath these mountains, and beside this sea: the grace and grandeur of everything that is Vancouver. And I am a proponent for the expenses. I wouldn’t have my life anywhere else. But all that aside, although I understand economics and finance, I don’t fully grasp our city’s current situation.
I’m struggling to remember as I paw through ads on craigslist, whether or not the search was similar last year. Meghan and I found a place in six days, and easily within what was then our price range too. Granted, things have changed financially for the two of us, as we’ve both returned to school. But I assumed, apparently in my naivety that this year would be some how easier with the impending financial downfall of western society.
Apparently the end of the economy is having very little noticeable effect on the state of rental housing.
So now I suppose my task is simple. I ask myself what I am willing to forgo to make this transition as easy as possible, and as gently on my psyche. I have eliminated certain possibilities, namely the reality of living in the west end… sob. I have comes to terms with the simple fact that we need to stay in mt. pleasant. But my concern extends beyond these simple realizations, for even mt. pleasant seems to be beyond the limits of my student loan, and my subtle income. It seems the city itself is trying to force me to retreat to the suburbs (gasp).
Funnily enough, I thought I already lived in the burbs.
So what to do? Keep my fingers crossed and hope that one of these few ads will actually respond to the emails that I have sent to them, or the messages on their machines? Do I fall into despair entirely, drowning myself in filthy used textbooks, and stubby pencils that my big hands can no longer hope to manipulate? Do I keep my head held high and just ignore the impending doomsday?
Or do I actually consider living beyond 16th and Main? Do I allow myself to consider venturing into the land of quiet streets?
Do I actually consider, retreating further away into the arm pits and jockstraps of the city?
After waiting nearly 45 minutes for the bus, I only have time to sit here and wait for the soup to boil before rushing off to work. So in pure frustration I cast letters on the screen, and they are directed solely at you TransLink.
I love this city, I really do.
I have a lot of criticisms and frustrations about certain aspects and certain corners; the dark smelly alleys of the beast that is Vancouver you could say. But more and more, transit is beginning to drive me to points of utter insanity. With the schedule that I keep, and the tasks that fill up my to-do lists, I really don’t ask for much:
All these things I have completely. I am fulfilled on a daily basis about the good in my life and the joy that all my extraneous influences bring to the table. The inspiration I receive from the music, the words, and the people of my life fills me.
But when something stands in the way of these things, I have a tendency to rage. So when I’m stuck at a bus stop for 45 minutes, and I know that I could be reading that book beside the claw-foot, be with my friends, or be having a little dance somewhere, everything goes pear-shaped.
So fuck you transit! I don’t know where your buses magically disappear, or if someone just decided to take a break, but figure the shit out! I’m sure I know very little about the delicate workings of a transit system of our size, but dammit! I really don’t give two shits. This boys got things to do and places to be, and for Christ’s sake, my soup is burning!
When the word “hatred” is spoken of in the gay community it is all too often thought of as being directed from some misunderstanding bigot on the side of the road, than from one of our own. All too often it seems we become so wrapped up in our own self-indulgent pride, that we completely lose track of the fact that we are as capable of evil as the world around us. Unfortunately I was witness to this hatred tonight. So even with exams looming at eight in the morning, I can’t help but bring these once shaken fingers to the keyboard. I ask a lot from my nailess pinkie to type at such speeds and with such emotional inspiration.
But with this digit’s full support, I now divulge, daring not to digress as per usual.
Until recently, I had thought it possible that I was the cause of permanent heart break. I assumed in vain that I was capable of causing immense anguish just at the act of leaving a person and that this had caused hearts across the globe to have shattered. I know… yeah right!, you must be thinking. But these thoughts came not from my own self conceit, hardly, I’ve managed to conjure up these thoughts from the selfish ways in which I have left every partner to date. These thoughts came from all the distant break-up notes and ambivalent conversations of what should have been over a decade of exploration and beautiful connection. These thoughts came from the fact that I have walked away from every love I’ve ever had, and the guilt that lives in me because of it.
So when the greatest love of my life, this once all too-full cup and I started reconnecting after two years of complete silence, I soon realized that it was possible to mend even the greatest heart break. Perhaps time has greater skills with tape and glue than we think, perhaps she’s a potter or a sculpter and she can take the moldy clay of old loves and mold them into something small and shapeless. A shapeless form that can learn how to grow up and be ’something’ again.
Surprise, surprise, my digits escape me, they cause me to wander. Wandering back to me and to the troubles I’ve seen, these didgets, it seems, think less of the full picture. So I take it to this, loud and clear, and succinctly as I can possibly manage, I take us right back to the beginning:
Hate has been had tonight, from a heart much more fragile than the too-full cup it seems.
Hate has been passed on in the guise of love. Hate is wearing a shroud of deceit, and I feel for my too-full cup. It seems I never destroyed you after all, and we’re lucky to have not gone to such lengths to humiliate each other.
Someone thought it possible tonight to pass a note to a man. Someone thought it possible to tear apart thoughts that were written by fingers, translated from toes that walked soils and sands alike. Someone brought hate to a man that brought more spiritual balance and love to my life then I have ever known. And we’re over, yeah sure, and perhaps we’ve moved to something greater, us being alone that is. In many ways it was his over abundance of love that drove me nuts and perhaps this spiritual vessel of him was too full for me to balance without wanting to leave it for someone else to carry;
I’ve often been found to rather dance, than try and balance something for somebody else.
But regardless, I loved him and left him. I turned my back on him and I walked away, and sure there was fuel and burning, and red in the eyes, but not this, not this hate.
And I’m sure that you’ll read the words that the too-full cup wrote you tonight… I’m sure that you’ll see behind all the capital letters that you screamed at him, that told him to die, that there’s something else hiding there. Perhaps the grammatical catastrophes on the page will always keep the truth from your eyes?? But maybe, just maybe, you’ll actually realize sometime in the future what you really put out into the world tonight.
…
Someone thought it possible tonight to carry on as though his heart was broken.
Someone thought that by using words and pictures that could ruin a person, he in fact would…
Something tells me, that this someone tried to spill an all too-full cup tonight.
Except this cup has got a lot more liquid left inside of him than you thought, and his balance is damn well better than you or I.
As Vancouverites surround themselves with blankets, family, and food, my poor little flight to San Franscisco surrounds itself with more and more cancellations. Yet, still amongst all these foresaken flights mine blinks On Time on the computer screen in my bedroom.
Early to bed, I awoke early this morning to a bleak Vancouver landscape. Homes and streets layered like that appetizer your aunt brings to the Christmas feast every year. Except, unlike your aunt’s dish, this layered treat has been dug into, stepped through, and has actually been enjoyed by the odd deranged individual.
So here I wait, for the cab that I fear may never come. Here I sit repeatedly refreshing the departures page of the Vancouver International Airport’s website, just hoping that one way or another I will make it all the way to Phoenix before next Tuesday.
Recent Comments