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Posts from the ‘Family’ Category

Wonder by R.J. Palacio

Wonder By -R.J. Palacio

Wonder is one of those books that appeals to my sensibilities. It’s the story of a boy named Auggie, who was born with a craniofacial deformity, and the struggles that he faces from a shallow and superficial world, determined to shun and ridicule him.

After being home schooled for years, Auggie is about to start the fifth grade. He has had over 27 surgeries to correct his facial appearance, so that people won’t avert their eyes upon seeing him. He wants a shot at being normal, even though his face has made him quite the opposite in the minds of those who hold strong to conformity.

Facial disfigurements can’t be easy, especially in this world. We place a gross amount of attention and effort on our physical appearances, and yet, by doing so have the opposite effect. We don’t value our looks. We just find details that we need to change.

Wonder is narrated by multiple individuals in the story, including Auggie himself. This is a great technique derived by the author, because it expands Auggie’s story, by providing insight from those close to him, reminding readers that there’s more than one person affected by Auggies arrival at school. Wonder is a heartbreaking yet uplifting story about living well, and with love, despite challenges.

Rest assured that it’s not a grim story, and there is plenty of kindness served up by the characters within the story. Near the end of the book is a line that perfectly articulates the mood of this narrative: “I think there should be a rule that everyone in the world should get a standing ovation at least once in their lives.”

On a side note:

You know I have a lot of girlfriends, and a month doesn’t go by when I don’t receive an email announcing that one of them is pregnant. It’s always presented as this great thing, like how exciting that they’re going to bring another human being into the world, but I can’t help but feel sorry for them.

I mean, they’re going to try to raise a child to be a functional adult, and I don’t know many functional adults! Think about how ultimately egotistical and arrogant it is to believe that you have the skills to do that. But I digress.

I am always confused by their attitude about parenting. First, they’re always far too idealistic about the whole thing. They have this belief that their baby will be born… well… healthy. Based on everything that we know about the risks involved, and the prevalence of certain conditions like autism, I would be happier for them if they mildly considered that their child could be diagnosed with any of these myriad of complex conditions.

The other day I was reading a lot about intersex babies, and how parents are devastated upon learning that their child was born with both reproductive organs. To adhere to social norms, the doctors give the parents a choice: raise the baby as a girl or a boy. Pink or blue. But research clearly indicates that being intersex is natural and not an affliction. There are even specific species on this planet that can change their sex overnight.

I would think that if my child was born with both sex organs, I would raise them with this knowledge, and be honest with them about how special they are. I wouldn’t shame them.

Of course I would be concerned about the cruelty ignorant and judgmental people could and would inflict, but I would hope to balance threats by providing my child with as much love, support and comfort that I can. After all, they’re normal, and if someone has a problem with it because it’s outside their frame of reference or understanding, well that’s their problem.

Anyway, my point is that if I were to have children, biologically, which I don’t plan on doing, I would be open to the possibility that they might not be “normal” in the eyes of the world.

Wow, that was a little off-track, I guess the only way I can circle back is by recognizing how supportive Auggie’s parents ultimately are, and that indeed the only thing the world needs more of is tolerance.

God I’m preachy, trust me it annoys me too.

Remembering my family dog, Dusty

Dusty

Dusty II on my childhood bed in Brampton

When I was 5-years-old my family rented a home in Rexdale, a neighbourhood in Toronto, and as part of our kin we had a dog, a shih tzu named Dusty.

One day Dusty was mauled by a German Shepherd and died. I wasn’t there to witness the horrible event, but my dad rushed our poor mangled family pet to the vet (a rhyme!), where he remained, never to return to our humble abode.

My dad explained that he surrendered Dusty to the animal hospital, who happily adopted him. I somehow knew that was code for “the emergency bill to save his life was too expensive, and so Dusty was mercifully sent to doggy heaven.” In fairness, I’m sure that my dad would have paid anything to save that dog if it was possible.

Well, a year later my parents bought their first house in Brampton, and that’s where I lived until I went to university.

Okay, I’m just going to lay it out there for all of you: Brampton was a hell hole. It’s not exactly where I would choose to raise my family, but it was cheap, there were good Catholic schools that I loathed as much as living in Brampton,  and we were somewhat safe. That’s if you forgive that time our next-door neighbours were robbed from top to bottom, but that’s a story for another blog post.

Eventually, my parents decided that it was time for us to buy a new dog, to replace Dusty, and we did, a shih tzu, named, errr…. Dusty. Maybe my dad thought this would erase our memory of Dusty I, and it sort of worked, but it was odd, to say the least.

Dusty II was a loyal addition to our family and we loved him dearly. We demonstrated our affection by feeding him… a lot! Throughout his life, Dusty II was always somewhat obese, and looking back it was cruel that we fed him so much. But it was always so cute to see how excited he would get at the word “cookie” and of course, as soon as you mentioned it, you had to give it to him. Dusty II could sit, lie down, roll over and give paw on command, which is something I later found to be impossible with another breed of dog. But I digress.

I especially adored Dusty, he was probably my best friend, and I’m not ashamed to confess that. When my whole family went to Italy one summer I was gutted that I would be apart from him for so long, but I managed and I remember when we collected him from the dog-sitters, how tremendously happy he was to be reunited with us. As we drove up to our house he was bursting with joy; perhaps he felt he would never see us again when we unceremoniously abandoned him for a month with complete strangers.

For all their faults my parents were loving dog owners, but Dusty made it easy for all of us to love him. He was well-behaved, never barked and his favourite past-time was sleeping. Win-win-win!

Whenever he got super happy he would excitedly run around the house in circles and then stop, panting and staring at us, as if to ask, “Are you proud of me?”

Dusty was deathly afraid of the vacuum cleaner because once I mistook his tail for part of the carpet. I was mortified that I had just traumatized my beautiful baby, but like all dogs, he instantly forgave me. But not the vacuum.

In later years Dusty got thinner, and I moved away to attend university. I would come home every now and again and notice that he was even thinner and that he wasn’t eating his cookies like he used to.

One night my father found him, alone in the corner of the laundry room. This was unusual for Dusty, because he loved my father very much and was always by his side in the family room sleeping on a pillow.

My father spent most of the evening making Dusty comfortable and trying not to disturb him. He was clearly dying, and wanted to spare his family, the ones he loved the most in the whole world, from the trauma of having to witness his demise. Over night he lay on the ground in the laundry room, while my father stroked his once shiny fur.  Dusty courageously held on to life, either afraid of disappointing us, or desperate to stay with his loving family.  The next day at the vet my parents and brothers learned that he was riddled with cancer.

The decision was made to spare him any further pain, and he was euthanized that day. He was 14.

I never said goodbye to Dusty and I still think of him often. I remember his chubby body, his cute round squishy face, and how much I used to love kissing the little brown spot on his otherwise primarily black nose.

I still feel guilty that I wasn’t around more during the last years of his life. I was selfish, a teenager, just wanting to be away from home, free to discover new friends, and new experiences. I forgot how loyal and loving he was to me, during a time when I was isolated and abandoned by my peers.  With Dusty I was never a loser, never a nerd. I was… gulp… cool.

After he died, Dusty was cremated. When I came home that very day, unaware that he had passed, I immediately called for him when I entered the house. Usually, at that stage of his life, he would saunter over to welcome me back, but this time he was nowhere to be seen. I thought it odd that I couldn’t find his food and water dishes, and as I continued my useless search to find him, my mother appeared and told me what had happened.

Understandably I cried. Embarrassingly. An ugly cry. I stood in the foyer of my family home and crumbled in agony. He was my dog, my friend, the only thing that mattered to me. How could it be that he was just gone? You mean, I’ll never see him again?

Nothing seemed the same after he passed away, and even our house missed him. He was a beautiful dog, and his peaceful presence was hard to ignore. His energy was always a positive influence on all of us.

There are still nights when I dream about him. I know it sounds cheesy, but I hope that he’s alive somewhere, and that I’ll be reunited with him again one day. He was a special little guy, and he brought so much love and light to our family.

A few weeks ago my friend Alisha reminded me of a quote that says, “Be the person your dog thinks you are.” I hope I made Dusty proud.

I love you Dusty. Wherever you are.

My faults are my strength ( a draft )

Hey everyone, this is an argument that I’m working with, so this is a rough draft. I’m hoping to improve it as time goes by, but right now I wanted to put my thoughts down and share it with others for their opinions, criticisms and experiences. So keep in mind that it’s a little disjointed and all over the place at the moment. There’s a lot of recurring themes in my essays, including the lack of human compassion I’m unfortunate enough to witness daily. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how unhappy so many of my peers are, and how they’ve kind of accepted this as a rule. A lot of their misery is influenced by their occupations, and toxic work environments. I want to explore this a little more to understand our motivations, and inability to recognize our own faults. I’m currently working on a book that tackles a lot of this subject matter, so I’m just trying to work shop it and get it out there for people to read. I’m trying to expand on a lot of the sentences, and delve deeper into the psychology of the experiences I’ve written about here. Thanks.

You know I grew up in a family that didn’t have a lot of expectations for me. My parents didn’t want me to go to university and would have been pleased if I worked as a produce clerk at Fortino’s. I applied to the universities of Guelph, York, McMaster and Nipissing as a means to escape my dysfunctional home. At the time my older brother was a maniac, heavily into drugs and my parents coped with this by becoming hysterical at any mild infraction me or my brothers committed. I just wanted out, to be on my own, away from them.

When I was finally accepted to all four of my choices a lot of my classmates teased me because I was seriously considering attending Nipissing University in North Bay, Ontario. Those who were going to McGill and Queen’s looked down on me, like I was less a person because of where I was leaning to spend my future. I have to sheepishly admit, that they had an effect on my decision and I eventually chose to go to Guelph, but even that was met with snide comments.

When I made my choice my father warned me, “Don’t go to university and think that you’re better than any of us.” That was it. He didn’t tell me that he was proud of me, didn’t offer to help pay for my tuition, he just warned me not to get too big for my britches.

Now keep in mind that my brother was in and out of rehab my whole life. Still is in fact. He just can’t get his life together, and during my last two years of high school, when I was trying to achieve good grades to get into university I had to wake up each morning at 5 a.m. to take him to work, which was 30 minutes away (an hour to and back), because he had a suspended driver’s licence from a drinking and driving charge. It was not his first offence, and I was responsible for driving him around; wherever he wanted to go, I had to be of service. After school I had to drive all the way to Milton to pick him up from work and drive him home, so the entire journey cost me two hours of my day. After I would go to work where I was investing almost 40 hours a week at the IGA in the Shopper’s World mall, in addition to attending school. My dad made it clear to me that he was not going to pay for my university, or my rent while living away from home, so I had to pay my own way. This kind of confused me because my parents always bragged to dinner guests that they were upper middle class.

My whole life, my parents took very little interest in my schooling, they didn’t really care what grades I got, and didn’t appear to notice how emotionally exhausted I was from trekking my sociopathic brother all over the place. They didn’t cultivate my creativity, or take any notice that I was a skilled writer. In fact, neither did my teachers. Many of them thought I was pretty dumb, and they treated me like I was clueless all the time. In fact, one teacher told me that I had this perpetual look on my face, like I had no idea what anyone was talking about. I thought I was being observational, but I guess I just looked stupid!

My home life simply sucked. I was bullied at school for being gay and one day I made the mistake of telling my mother about my ordeal who screamed and hollered that they were making fun of me because I walked and talked like a gay person. Clearly I wasn’t getting any sympathy from her. My misery was my own fault for being too gay! Now I don’t blame her, she was simply doing the best that she could, and I’m sure she meant well, it just came across as terribly prejudiced. So as you can see, there was little salvation. I turned inward, nose in a book, pen to paper and just tried to get my muddled thoughts down as a means of therapy. When you’re in hell you kind of just keep going, and it became so normal to me that I didn’t recognize how truly horrible my life was.

To this day my parents have no idea what the difference is between an undergraduate and graduate degree. They still have no idea what I majored in, and they don’t really care. In a way I respect that, at least they don’t pretend to care, which to me, is so much worse.

For whatever reason I always annoyed my family. They were angry over my vocabulary, mocking my education, like it wasn’t supposed to be taken seriously at all. They would yell, “Why do you have to use so many big words?” I wasn’t speaking in a way that was any different from the way I normally spoke. I have always had a very good command of the English language. As a child I read a lot, but even that was grounds for ridicule by my family, who would complain that I was “off in my fantasy land.”

Because of these early experiences, even before I started my first year in university, I had to come to terms with other people’s opinions about how I was choosing to live my life. I just seemed to be disappointing everyone, and impressing no one. It didn’t matter that I was the FIRST person in my family to attend higher education, or that I was smart, and somewhat ambitious. That was seen as a flaw to my family. To my friends, I was seen as a simpleton, not reaching high enough by choosing more prestigious universities.

I remember that near the end of my first year of university I took the steps to transfer to McGill. But after a while I thought differently, and learned to accept my choices, and that the only way to live my life, was to be happy with the decisions I made. After all, it was my life, and I shouldn’t be living it for anyone else but myself. It didn’t matter how much I tried to make people be proud of me, they just didn’t seem to care. So I learned to be proud of myself. That was enough.

But I didn’t always remember this piece of self-advice. During university I started to date Keith and met his family who were nice, and have always been super kind to me. But I could tell that they didn’t approve of me right away.

I got it, I was most definitely a strange character. I was confused, and my childhood was looming over me, and I was embarrassed by it. I have two older siblings who are a mess, my parents are hysterical, and my two younger brothers don’t really care very much for me. Here I was, trying to be accepted by another family, a more sane, emotionally mature family.

Well you can imagine that the more I tried to be loved, the more it worked against me. Even Keith’s friends were terrible to me. They were an exclusive group, and no matter how hard I tried to be accepted by them, to be included, they were determined to make me feel like an outsider. Well it worked. They were successful.

The fringe is where I have always belonged. At a barbecue one night I thought I was finally making progress with some of them, that they were beginning to embrace me a little more, but then one of them uttered to the other, “Do you think Shawn and Keith are going to fuck tonight?” Shawn was a friend from university and Keith had spent much of the night talking to him. I’m not the jealous type, and didn’t think there was any budding sexual attraction between them.

Now keep in mind that when this friend presented this insensitive question, Keith and I had been an item for three years. It was clear how little they valued our relationship, how little they thought of and valued me. The disappointment on my face was painfully obvious and they immediately understood what they had done, but they didn’t apologize, they just pretended the incident never happened. I had nowhere to escape, so I went to Keith’s car and cried. I just sobbed.

It was a difficult reality to accept. I was alone.

Now I’m focusing on a lot of negative past experiences here, but there is a reason, and I will try to tie them together.

The main message from these stories is that there are a lot of people in this world who can’t get past their own egos, their own smug attitudes, or their own arrogance to be kind to others. They see the world through their own lenses, and they’re intolerant of those who have their own world-view.

That’s what families are like. I’m certain if I accepted my parents limited expectations of me I would have a closer relationship with them. I understand fully that if I didn’t openly talk about my family troubles, and pretended that my life was a kin to the The Cosby Show, we’d all be happy as can be.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about these moments in my life, wondering if the universe has placed these obstacles in front of me as offerings to learn something about myself.

I’m definitely a humble person, because I’ve never been really embraced by anyone, or any group of people. I’ve had no choice, my life is far from perfect, and I’ve experienced a lot of hardship. But I don’t feel sorry for myself, though it may appear in this post that I do, I am aware how lucky I have been.

Of course, it always helps to have the support of the people you love, but the reality is that in my formative years I didn’t have that. So I had to support myself, and be proud of my own accomplishments.

[Okay so here is how I'm trying to tie this in... Not sure how it's going to go, but I want to transition to toxic work environments and how embracing our flaws can lead to personal growth, fulfillment and relationship building. We'll see. It's possible that these exist as separate ideas all together.]

Here goes. I have a lot of personal flaws and I will relay some of them to you here in this post.

I’m cantankerous, pessimistic, stubborn, moody, cynical, prone to snap judgments and obnoxiously loud. I hold grudges, find it difficult to forgive insensitive people and I am confrontational. I feel angry at things I feel are unjust and can’t shut my mouth when I feel someone has done someone else wrong. I have little problem with conflict, and voice my opinion without thinking about the consequences they might have on the people around me. I’m argumentative, and will sometimes lie to make a point, or to win a debate. I can be manipulative, cold and calculating. Sometimes I dream too big, and I am disappointed when that dream isn’t realized, primarily because I lacked motivation to put in any concrete effort to make it happen in the first place. I can by hypocritical and I contradict myself a lot. Sometimes I will antagonize a friend, or a frenemy just to see them squirm and I know exactly how to annoy people I don’t like, and relish the chance to do so. I ramble, talk too quickly and I am arrogant. Rarely do I find someone who is my intellectual superior, but realize that my ego is much bigger than my capacity. I can be vain, and egotistical. I have disdain for phoniness and can’t tolerate fake people, much like Holden Caulfied.

So why am I revealing all of this to you? Well I’ll tell you.

Too often in my life I have encountered colleagues, peers, or strangers who are unaware of their own faults. They seem to live in this fairy tale land where they are good, and everyone else is bad. They don’t take any accountability or responsibility for their actions and believe that everyone else is out to get them. They’re right. You’re wrong.

I’m willing to admit that maybe they aren’t so clueless, but they certainly don’t attempt to look at their own faults, their own demons, and by doing so, work on fixing them, or at least analyze why they are the way that they are.

Individuals behave badly because they are ultimately afraid. It’s fear that drives their lives, and influences them to commit desperate acts against their family, friends and colleagues.

Because of their inability to look inward and focus on self-improvement, they negatively impact the lives of the people around them, creating hostile, unfriendly environments based on their deep insecurities that compel them to behave so thoughtlessly.

The CFO at my last job was a tyrannical bully. He used intimidation methods to get his way, and could be heard yelling at staff and concerning him with matters that were not his business. At one point he complained about me to HR because I forgot my key to get into work.

It didn’t take long before he began to target me. I usually arrive early to work, before most of my colleagues, and he noticed this, knocking on my office door to berate me about something that was a figment of his imagination. Now, I know from my childhood that the only way to deal with a bully is to confront them head on, so I challenged him immediately. And because I recognized that he was attempting to manipulate me when there were no witnesses I lodged an official complaint with HR.

This didn’t do much to assuage my concerns, as many people had complained about this person and his behaviour was accepted by the executives. But I wanted to send the message that even though he was desperately trying to bully me, I wasn’t afraid of him.

After my complaint, he refused to speak to me, and I took a lot of joy in smiling at him while we passed each other in the corridor. His childlike mentality, his clear lack of self-awareness, told me all I needed to know about his character. Instead of apologizing, or trying to rectify the situation, he chose to ignore me completely. What a wonderful environment he was fostering. He was an example of a sad person. He enjoyed treating people terribly, and I thought what a pitiful little man he was, to find happiness in making other people miserable.

But here’s the thing: Most of my friends have similar experiences at work and it leaves me wondering why bad behaviour is often ignored, and those who fight against it are treated like they are the ones who are the problem.

What does it say about our fear? We’re so clearly afraid of losing our jobs that we refuse to speak up against injustices committed by our superiors. I for one don’t have a problem speaking up, because I am not tied to my job. It doesn’t determine my value, or my worth. What makes me enjoy my life is ensuring that I surround myself with people who are kind, decent and determined to make the world a better place for everyone in it. I will not accept anything less.

One just has to look at organized religion to see how such behaviour can effect the world.

I quote Julia Sweeney: “Stephen Hawking came out and said that his theory that Black Holes obliterate anything that falls into them, probably his biggest contribution to science, the theory that his fame and reputation is based on, may not be right. Wouldn’t it be great if the Pope could do the same thing? If he came out and said, “Oh my, I’ve just discovered what science shows us about our humble but spectacular place in the universe, and I have to say: it is thrilling and mind-boggling beyond all imaginings! It makes the Bible so puny and uninspired, and certainly less poetic, by comparison. I’m terribly sorry. I sincerely misunderstood so much. I almost wish there were a God so I could be punished for all the suffering I have obliviously caused in the world. But since there will be no cosmic punishment for me, I will spend what time I have left working in a family planning clinic in Latin America. Good day.”

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our society focused on self-improvement with the goal of actually benefiting others? If we could admit that perhaps the way we conduct ourselves isn’t as enlightened as it could be? That perhaps we’re shit heads most of the time, and apologize for it. But not just apologize, work to ensure that we behave more benevolently?

Instead, we spend so much of our time thinking about our own pleasures; our motivations are to benefit our own lives. To get something, to attain some material object, or to satisfy our salivating egos.

In my life I have had some pretty terrible bosses. Bullies in heels, thoughtless individuals who care only about their life, and to hell with anyone else. To these people, everyone else exists as a means to an end. It’s almost too much to ask them where they get their motivation to behave the way that they do.

I list my faults at the beginning of this post because I acknowledge that I’m not perfect. Recognizing my flaws is an important step in addressing them, so that I can help build relationships, rather than allowing my insecurities to dismantle them. If I behave in a way that is unfair, I can identify that error, and work on correcting it.

I never want to be that kind of person who walks around thinking that everyone else is the problem. Usually when there is conflict the truth lies somewhere in between and both parties need to take a look at themselves and heal the fractured relationship.

Egos create a lot of unhappiness.

La mia famiglia

On plane

On a plane. Who would know all these years later that I would be deathly afraid of flying?

While sorting through old photographs I came across these images from my childhood. Since last night I’ve been overcome with a tinge of nostalgia, so it was fitting that I would find these photographs depicting my impressionable youth. I didn’t have an easy go of it as a kid, and I had a lot of rage that I had to work through before I became the person I am today. Some would say I still harbour that anger; they may be right. I can’t believe that there was a time I was this young, and seemingly happy. You would be surprised to learn that I don’t have any contact with my immediate family, and haven’t seen any of them in over five years. Trust me, it’s for the best. Photographs can be deceptively deceiving. Is that redundant? For what it’s worth, I learned to loathe bullies. That makes me grateful. I used to have flaming red hair, but as I’ve aged it’s darkened considerably and of course, fallen out!

Church 2

The time I used to go to church

Franco Dining Room

It’s very clear in this photo that I was born gay

My brothers

These are my brothers. I’m on the right.

My brothers 2

In Italy. That’s me in the back.

The children of a lesser God

Cariló

They were only children. Tonight I’m sitting alone in my bed and I can’t help but think about the many parents in Connecticut who will never get the chance to hug or kiss their child again. This morning must have seemed unlike any other morning; a family woke up, got dressed and started their day, business as usual. And then, as they went about their lives, the phone rang.

It’s simply tragic, and words can’t describe the pain of losing a child. There probably isn’t a heartache more penetrating. It just leaves a hole, gaping for everyone to see.

The approaching holiday seems subdued now. Almost as though to embrace the warmth of family and friends seems gaudy, like flaunting wealth on a pauper.

I suppose the only lesson from such a tragedy is to hold tight each and everyday like it was our last. Seems trite I know, but how many of us have thought about what our lives would be like if we lost someone we so deeply loved and cared about? It’s almost too unimaginable to fathom a reality without the people we hold so close to our hearts.

That’s why in light of the horror, we can go home tonight and tell our spouses, our children, our parents, our siblings, our friends, just how much we love them.

I love you.

Guilty of first degree cuteness

Cute

Cute

Cuter

Cuter

Ummmm…. it’s been two weeks since I’ve posted a picture of Maude. Happy to report that she has been seizure free for five months now. However, because she’s so spoiled, she’s more stubborn than ever.

Weekly photo challenge: Reflections

Blue Heron on Balsam Lake

The above photo was taken three summers ago after we had all eaten dinner. We were inside the cottage when one of us recognized a blue heron sitting on the dock reflecting pensively across Balsam Lake.

The sun was beginning to set after a long day, and there stood this beautiful creature. She looked so peaceful. Perhaps she was reflecting on her day, or maybe even her life. Maybe she was a mother, taking a moment for herself before returning to her brood.

Now when I look at this picture my own reflections present themselves to me. Every summer I spend a considerable amount of my leisure time by the water enjoying the tranquil sounds emanating from the lake. My favourite part about cottage life is when the rain swoops down to clean the toxins from the air and nourish the grass back to vitality. The sound of heavy rain drops on the roof — while I close my eyes ready for sleep, dreaming of the approaching day — are comforting memories.

I suppose my dreams and memories are no more valuable than those of the blue heron. After all, we both awake each day and try our best to survive. We both have emotions, and crave affection. We both reflect, and remember fondly on times now past, and wait with bated breath for what the future holds.

Reflection, when we’re open to it, brings harmony.

Sunday in Toronto

Train tracks

Today is Remembrance Day. The morning got off to an unusual start when I found a dog sitting patiently on his own in High Park waiting for his parents. Clearly they had become separated and I spent several minutes trying to reunite them, which I did successfully with some help, of course.

Then as I was walking on Roncesvalles a car full of men shouted that I was a faggot. How did they know? I gave them a prolonged middle finger salute and felt ashamed after. I shouldn’t have allowed them to hold a negative space in my head, even if it was only for a few seconds. In retrospect the next time something like that happens to me I’ll smile and wave.

Still it’s a shame that these men derived sadistic pleasure by insulting a stranger from the safety of their moving vehicle. Cowards full of hate. Makes me sad that they might be fathers and husbands.

It’s been a wonderfully warm winter day in Toronto. I managed to make it to a church in time to hear the bell tower chime and pay my silent respects to our soldiers. You know my great grandfather fought in both world wars and I lost family to the Nazis.

On that sad note, here are some photographs from my day.

Dundas St. West

Dundas St. West 2

Gladstone Hotel

Gladstone Hotel 2

Hostel

Ossington

Queen St. West

Queen St. West 2

Streetcar

Toronto Streetcar

Starbuck in Roncy

Dundas St. West graffiti

Roncy

Roncy 5

Street in Toronto

Door

Toronto Church

Happy Thanksgiving 2012

My Thanksgiving dinner. That’s faux turkey. Scrumptious.

Today is Thanksgiving here in Canada. A day to reflect on the past year and to give thanks to the many blessings we have received throughout it. I think that sometimes I spend more time complaining, and it’s on a day like this where I feel the most foolish, only because it becomes obvious how I take for granted the life that I have been fortunate to have been given.

We definitely don’t choose our parents. Many of us have to make the best with what we’re given. I don’t have a relationship with my immediate or even extended family; I am who I am in spite of them, and that’s what I am most grateful for: Somehow the universe gave me a brain that I use.

My life could have turned out very different. I could still be living in fear, denying who I am. For so long I was without a self-esteem. It’s been a long and arduous journey of self-discovery but I believe that I have made it through to the other side and I am a better person for it.

I don’t know where I got the courage, or the resilience. There were times that I didn’t think I was going to make it and wallowed in self-pity, but that was only natural. For a long time I was surrounded by individuals who tried to make me feel less than, who excluded me to make themselves feel superior.

The universe has given me many challenges. From birth I have been consistently presented with damaged individuals who lack compassion or empathy for everyone but themselves. I haven’t coped as well as I could have. I always wonder why that is, what life did I live before that indicated this was a problem I was meant to solve?

What I have learned is that you can’t control how other people perceive the world. You can only control how you live, react and cope to stressful people and situations.

So on Thanksgiving I would like to thank all those troubled people who have tried to tear others down to make themselves feel big and important. I thank you because you have demonstrated to me what not to be. You have shown me that tolerance far outweighs bitterness and anger.

Life is about moving forward and brightening your surroundings, not living under a dark cloud of gloom and despair. I’m thankful that I eventually figured this out, because I could have easily become one of those entitled people who felt that the world owed him everything.

On Thanksgiving I come to understand that personal growth is the ultimate goal.

Why it’s important to be self-aware

This car has stepped into its grace

Have you ever had that feeling that a friend, family member, acquaintance or colleague has a grievance against you? Rather than confronting you in a calm and rational manner to resolve the issue they choose to talk to other people about the disagreement, often inventing events to suit their position.

Communication is key in establishing healthy relationships, platonic or otherwise. It’s odd then that so many of us are terrible at conveying our feelings to someone whom we might have an issue with.

I spend little time fretting over what other people say about me when I’m not there to defend myself. However, I’m not going to say that there isn’t a part of me that is a little bothered that so many of us are incapable of resolving differences.

When I was 23 perhaps I was more interested in playing games and being spiteful, but at 33 I’ve grown into what I believe to be a capable and responsible adult who establishes healthy and progressive relationships.

Disagreements are a part of life and they’re going to happen. It’s how we cope with them that determines the strength of our character.

As I get older I’m realizing how little self-awareness other people have. If we can’t be introspective and be honest about our flaws how can we have compassion and empathy for each other? I can’t imagine going about my day negatively impacting people’s live and not feel at least a tinge of guilt about it. By confronting our inadequacies we can work at improving them, and by doing so we strengthen our relationships with the people we interact with on a daily basis.

I’m not trying to say that I’m a terribly self-aware person myself. I think I’m better at it then most people, and I take a moment each day to reflect on what I could do to improve tomorrow.

I’ve told this story before but I will tell it again for those who haven’t heard it. Elementary school for a gay kid was pretty rough and I was mercilessly bullied. There were days when I feared going to school. By grade eight I was an outcast and often ate my lunches alone. According to my classmates I was androgynous, sexless, an “it”.

One day a new student arrived and we became bosom buddies, but predictably my classmates decided to make him their new target. Somehow I reasoned that if I joined them, I had a chance at climbing the social ladder, and so one day one of the bullies influenced me into putting a “reject” sign on the new kid’s back. I was so desperate to be accepted by these jerks that I did it, and my new friend was so embarrassed that he didn’t return to school for a whole week.

Understandably he never spoke to me again, and I have lived with the shame of that incident my whole life. It did nothing to improve my rank in the social order, and I went back to being a “faggot” soon after. I’m not proud of what I did, and I never even apologized to him, that’s how much of a coward I was at the time. But what it did teach me is that treating him the way that I did only made me feel worse. No matter how much I was bullied, I always felt better being nice.

Most people would simply continue fighting mean-spirited people by being mean-spirited themselves. But those people often lack the skills to be leaders in their own lives, and are worthy of as much compassion as the rest of us, even though they often take kindness for granted.

A self-aware person will always look at a conflict and think about how they could have improved the outcome. That’s testament to a well-adjusted person, but some can argue the opposite.

What the hell am I talking about? I hope you got something out of this stream-of-consciousness.

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