Breathing Room #SOL2021

I was wrong. I thought that taking a day and a half away from school work this weekend would help me catch my breath, help me focus and choose. I have struggled with many decisions this month, though lately, it has worsened. And, this struggle hasn’t just been choices about the content of grade 12 Social Justice and Equity class in this last week of this last year of high school for my students. I have struggled with my role as a leader or facilitator in the virtual room as we wrestle with hard conversations. Should I spend more time on Islamophobia? What about the atrocities of the Residential Schools? What message am I sending by not addressing Palestine this week? It’s Pride month and we haven’t talked about homelessness. What social justice issue am I neglecting for my own comfort, to avoid the conflict among students?

This class is virtual, online learning, leaving me unable to read the emotional response of digital icons, unable to gain the knowledge through movement, the shifting in chairs, the heavy breaths in and out – but maybe that’s just an excuse that I’m telling myself. Still, I do know that I have been purposeful in managing each conversation with intensive listening, following up with those who voice concerns, and intervening when meetings spiral into religious debates verging on combative over collaborative discourse. I feel the urgency of every – single – choice – now, in this moment, with this graduating class.

I had hoped for some room to breathe on Saturday, so I worked in my garden waiting for nature’s guidance. I thought, “maybe there, in that open space, I will find a way to breathe and then all the issues would find the right amount of air”. Of course, I was wrong. Every step on the green grass outside my house was a reminder of my freedom to walk on a land that is legally called my “home”, in a place where there will be no knee on the neck of my son, on a sidewalk where there is no risk of hatred or death by car.

I am still shallow breathing this morning, anxiety and indecision sending my shoulders up and slightly forward. Noticing my breathing reminds me that there was once asbestos in the walls of this classroom that I am standing in, and maybe it’s been “removed”, and I remember having been assured that the air is “safe” in this century old building. There was a time when asbestos kept us safe, but now we know better – lessons learned from the lungs of workers who took their last breath. I open the classroom windows each day anyway, not because I don’t trust these assurances, but because the air from the tree-lined street is always sweeter smelling. Flying visitors enter because there are no screens on these windows, so wasps and moths join me in this space. I’ve mastered a technique, both paper and air, sending them to freedom with a gentle breath, blowing them somewhere safer.

In the moments of thinking and writing here and now, I’m clearly avoiding a choice, avoiding responsibility and making the choice to step away from the difficult lessons while I notice my surroundings and breathe the air in my white-middle-class-Canadian-freedom. And then I hear Tobi’s voice reminding me to press ahead. I’m trying to make the lessons fit when, really, the lessons are hard and uncomfortable. I should never be comfortable in what I have chosen until I can see each student has moved into a society that defends all human rights. My classroom once contained the poison which resulted in breathing problems, lung cancer, asbestosis, mesothelioma; those previous generations of students learned in this space breathing in air they felt was “safe”; they moved into the world after leaving this building with the possibility of poison in their bodies.

As an educator, I feel the push to breathe life into the walls of whatever learning space there is – physical or virtual – to open the windows, the doors, to unleash the natural genius, break down the injustice for the privileged who walk with me in this centuries old building. I was definitely wrong. But not for the reasons that I initially thought. I was wrong to think that my work and my life are separate ventures parcelled discretely for processing. Breathing is necessary all of the time.

Loose Ends #SOL2021

Everything feels stormy.

So, I’m going to try to breathe into this feeling and to breathe out into the summer, full and lushness, never striving to be green and growing. And it seems that everyone I know also feels this similarly untethered lurking anxiety, this sense that stuff needs to get done, yet we don’t quite know where to begin or how to begin, but we really, really want it to be done. We are done, and we want it to end.

Everytime I begin a task, I am yanked (usually by myself) in another direction and then I’m left with a dozen sticky notes with curling edges and smudged pencilled letters fading after salad dressing has touched the dry porous paper at the bottom of my lunch bag. I’m not very efficient in my physical file management, in my creative idea or problem solving management, so the sticky notes are ready when a thought arrives. I grab them nearly unconscious as I intend to transfer these notes to the agenda, or the journal, or well, one of the four or five colour coded journals that I now have begun, nearly finished, tried to label and keep separate for the many different roles that I play. But, it hasn’t worked. The journals aren’t separated by my role or the club or the plan. My thoughts are not organized in these journals. Instead, notes spread from one journal to the next like salad dressing staining each task with some taste of a thought from another time or place. It’s all blown apart now, each club coming to a close, each class nearing an end.

Still, I’ve learned to imagine my “file management system” using the image of leaves caught in a gust of wind, cycling and swirling around me. The ideas are there, hovering, but not always landing simultaneously. Sometimes, I wait, other times, I can pull them from the vortex and connect them to an important conversation. Often, I imagine that the ideas are not my own, but ones generated among us, and I just help to bring them into a space or a conversation. Even though I’ve had enough experience to know that there is probably a more efficient way for me to learn and lead and teach, I’ve allowed this way of working to flow because pushing against it feels like I am working against the weather. I also wonder if the carefully organized binders of lessons, or if the planned march to completion leaves enough room for spontaneity, for that gust of wind like breath that sends me down some path of curiosity in search of meaning and solution. I’ve always feared and loved the wind.

In fact, my father is a sailor. It all began when he joined the Navy, floating on a minesweeper that travelled the Mediterranean, and then, he decided to construct his own craft, a sail boat he built when I was six. That small craft built by hand in my garage, called a Penguin, then inspired another wooden vessel, a Fireball, when I was ten. We sailed every summer on the tempest that is Georgian Bay. My parents forced me into the boat sensing my fear each time I struggled into the life preserver, and sat me squarely up front in charge of the jib, the small sail beside the main sail. I was tasked with reading the wind, knowing when to pull the line of rope in, and when to let the line of rope out. Each tug and release was an attempt to catch it. When gusts hit and we were about to be tossed overboard, I would let out the rope, slacken the jib so it was not resisting, and the boat would level floating along the choppy waves as we zigzagged our way to Blueberry or Pancake Island (one named for the bushes that we would raid and the other named for the rock formations). With fear and love, I learned to use the wind to guide us safely to shore.

Maybe this year is ending with unpredictable weather and that is what is leaving me at loose ends. Maybe I’ll just pay attention to the wind.

Just Brushing My Teeth #SOL2021

On Sunday morning, I was brushing my teeth when my phone vibrated, then illuminated, and cast a light from the bathroom counter upwards towards my face in the mirror. Glancing down I noticed that Chris Cluff had invited me to a conversation on Twitter in a new application called “Spaces”. Confused but curious, I tried to continue my weekend routine of slow focused everyday activities; I was brushing my teeth and trying just to brush my teeth.

But, curiosity already had me in its grips, so before finishing, I clicked to open this virtual speaking space, my mouth full of foaming paste. I heard the voice of Chris gently speaking, noting names of people joining, then Pamala Agawa laughed asking “what the heck is this?” and I instantly relaxed again. Pam has a way of doing that to an audience; she puts you at ease and simultaneously makes you listen even when it’s a difficult message. Will Gourley then spoke and I remembered hearing him on VoicEd Radio. Past associations were coalescing comfortably in this auditory space where Beth Lyons listened. Chris spoke again noting the names of others entering, some unfamiliar, and then calling out “Mel”, not quite me as I’m frequently known, but me nonetheless. I spat into the sink and unmuted the mic.

“I couldn’t speak because I was just brushing my teeth.”

I heard some laughter and friendly banter about teeth brushing as an important goal to accomplish in a day and then silently blushing I excused myself to go walk the dog all the while feeling this friendly space had quizzically broken some writing impasse for me. Chris predicted blog posts about “Poking the Bear”, “Got my teeth brushed” and “What’s in Cluff’s coffee this morning?” Yet, this surprising moment of distraction, of a curiosity seized, gave me a comforting sense of abandonment. I realized that I could just write about brushing my teeth, without worrying about the incredibly tense conversations generated by my Social Justice and Equity class, the negotiations with parents who object to the content of the course, or the students deep in the practice of social justice online. I realized that even the everyday banal events have meaning and significance.

About ten years ago when my children were younger and we were moving through daily tasks at breakneck speed, I was brushing my teeth, furiously moving the bristles back and forth, unconsciously aware of my fierce grip and staccato movements in and out of my mouth, moving and doing but only thinking of the long list of “not done” and “to do”, forcing this everyday task to a hurried conclusion when abruptly the brush slipped below my teeth and I stabbed the hard plastic tip firmly into my lower gums with such force that they split horizontally below the line of teeth. Blood began flowing and I began slowing. What followed were a series of trips to the dentist, the oral surgeon, spaced out over a month which were periodic reminders on the cost of my inattention, the cost of my senseless fury which I saw in the shocked faces of professionals who heard my story.

I was just brushing my teeth.

But, actually, I wasn’t. I was already imaginatively several hours ahead in the day, in a classroom with students, and in the office photocopying, and planning difficult conversations, and trying to remember what events were scheduled for the evening with my family. I was at the end of the day preparing before it had even begun. And, this self-inflicted oral wound became a necessity for pausing and moving with attention in each task; this delicate tissue holding bone in place was severed and in need of repair. I had been absent from the everyday.

Absences have been accumulating about me as I listen to students struggle, family members struggle. Recently, friends mentioned my silence where usually I’m outspoken, or at least blogging, texting or Tweeting; absence where usually I’m present. It’s been several weeks, several Tuesdays, where writing feels impossible, but for some reason this spontaneous momentary gathering of voices released this story and I remembered why everyday I slow down to brush my teeth.

Windows #SOL

It is Spring, the day is warm, and there are ladders leaning against houses in my neighbourhood. Some are long, doubled extension ladders, and some are the everyday common stepladder found in the suburban vastness at most Canadian Tire stores. Each time I see a ladder next to a window, I’m reminded of the year that my daughter was very young, and glancing over his shoulder to see her braided ponytails, my husband was launched sideways to the ground by the buckling of a step ladder leg. He was cleaning the windows between two houses and our neighbour called out to get him to look. Truth be told, he was standing on the step part, right at the top, where the words, do not stand here, are engraved in the aluminum. But, fortunately, there was soft grass below which absorbed the five foot free fall of a perpendicular human frame and the commensurate expulsion of air. Though we laugh at this memory of window cleaning, he still feels the permanent shift in his back, and I worry that he never quite regained his balance – he approaches ladders with a new kind of hesitation.

We walk on this particular sunny Spring day to move out of doors and to look out at windows to see new growth in the neighbourhood. It is warm enough for window washing and this activity has brought out many with buckets and suds. I see a small child who blows bubbles across the brownish green grass, then stand to see two round and damp mud stains on his pants. Glancing up at his father, he looks for a solution finding none, so he bends over his chubby belly and blows on his knees hoping to move the stain as he did the bubbles. I imagine his father employing this learning and blowing on the windows as his sponge moves from bucket to window dripping. My reverie is broken by the whirring of a pressure washer and the clunk of the engine in the machine.

Today, I am standing in my classroom lit with brilliant sunshine, liquid gold light streaming in, and we (half of my grade 12 class and me) are masked up and looking out to the street and houses below. We see neighbours on lawns using rakes, dogs on the ends of leashes urging their walkers forward with outstretched arms, and people moving in and out of doors. I say to them, “This window is expansive but the view is limited at the same time; it is framed and faces a particular direction. What limited information can we know through this window? What or who is missing?” The students look and we begin the discussion about this metaphor of windows as a way of seeing the world. I remind them that television and our computer screens are windows on the world, limited versions of places we have never been, people we have never met.

We are looking back at the course now, our last few days together. I hope they will stay curious and full of doubt in their own understanding of the world, hoping always in that way of “radical hope” for all of us.

Doing hard things 31/31 #SOL

This has been very, very hard for so many of us. And, I know that I have put myself in situations without considering just how difficult they might be. But, this. This March has been really, really hard. The hardest by far.

It’s been the kind of hard when you lie down at night, and stare at the ceiling without a sense that you will sleep. The kind where you wonder if you’ll be able to ignore the thoughts in your head, the fears for your family. You wonder if you’ll just toss all night, race into work the next day to teach, and then mark, and then teach, and then mark without a day between one week and the weekend. They are really the same – the beginning and the end blur into an amorphous period of time – morning, night, morning, night.

It’s been the kind of hard where you notice your neck near the base of your skull is so tense it’s hard to turn and look left or right and then you notice a stye developing near the corner of your eye, a little flutter of the heart, and you wonder about your body responding when your brain refuses. You see your students dropping, missing, falling, and you kick into another gear, restore the composure to be there – for them – lift them up – the adult in the room, ready to help, all the while pushing that pain somewhere else into the future – the summer, maybe, when it can be owned. For now, it is unacknowledged and I refuse to go there.

It’s been the kind of hard where your heart squeezes and you learn how to secretly release a whiff of suffering travelling on air moving up the throat, expelling enough of a gasp through the mouth to release just a bit of the grief without displaying tears. I’ve actually become an expert and masks are helpful. Besides, only one other person here, in this school, knows about what is really hard for me right now, so when they ask, I just smile, and mention something light or funny to keep me from dipping below the surface of functioning.

It’s been the kind of hard where writing about another world, another experience, another person was the best kind of therapy. Yes, writing here was hard, harder than last year, and really hard this March. But it did give me a place to create another world, to imagine other experiences, and to delight in colours, in chords, and in collaboration. Thanks to everyone who read, and most of all, thanks to Tobi and Amanda who help me consistently do hard things.

Delight in Hues 30/31 #SOL

Most mornings my classroom is bursting with pale yellow light brightening the ancient plaster walls, the blackboards dominating wallspace next to turquoise papered bulletin boards. A butterfly border frames the blackness where posters stay vertical with magnetic force and where no chalk is residue, the missing marks of another way in the world.

Two overflowing ferns speak across the room, one at the front, the other at the back, sending secret messages on air, purifying it from their soulbound pots, reminding me that earth is a floor below. Water spills over the pot’s edge to the ancient warn wood desk, the unfinished surface, a warm tan which echoes the history of this place.

Students arrive near 9 am moving in smudges of colour through the halls, a pink backpack, a decalled skateboard, some camo tights, with smiles that cannot be hidden revealed in the eyes. She came for tea before class, and we talked about family stories, the ones known or known only in part – our grandparents and parents. She told me that her great grandfather, Fred Taylor, painted the art which adorns my paperback version of Michael Ondaatje’s novel, In the Skin of a Lion. I remembered the story and the artist, Caravaggio, who used light and shadow – chiaroscuro – a colourful memory of research done with my youngest son who loves art and tries, never succeeding, to understand it.

With a purposeful turn to the windows, I delight in moving blues and whites of sky which whisper the return of greens. Although, I am not a successful gardener, green is my dominant hue; it is my source of energy, both internally and externally. It is in my iris, in the memories of my youth on grassy carpets meant for cartwheels, and leafy trees meant for hide and seek. It is my favourite meal in leaves of kale and florets of broccoli, vegetables that once made me scrunch up my face in an “eww”.

But green is such a hopeful hue,

so green will always live,

along with light,

in all the spaces,

where I am,

and always spread delight.

Place 29/31 #SOL

(I wrote alongside my students today, and they responded to this prompt – slow down time and describe a place which is vivid in your memory.)

The summer wind blows the tall sharp sweetgrass clinging to the white sandy mounds. Swirls of miniscule stones strike my legs like a multitude of beads, and the clatter of poplar leaves makes it nearly impossible to hear those already on the beach ahead of me. The lake, white-capped by the strong gusts, swells and bodies flow up and down with the waves.

My eyes water as I squint to block the glaring rays of afternoon sun high in the sky. Vagues shrieks of children and the sound of splashing water travels on gusts of air. Once we crest the small sand dune, we see a vacant spot on the warm sand welcoming a towel and umbrella. I am in blues and whites and greens of nature, and my nose consumes the scents of sunscreen, wind, and water. This is my place of rest.

Coalescence 28/31 #SOL

I just read a student essay about David Guterson’s novel, Snow Falling on Cedars and I am enthralled by her close reading of the novel, her insight into his purpose as she states, “that time and memory are part of the same nebulous, all-encompassing fog that is anchored in geography and is as palpable as snow.” I wrote about this idea of memory and place in my post, “Mapping” and iterates with Chris Cluff’s gorgeous poem, “Maps”.

Later on, I read Debby Irving’s book, Waking Up White and Finding Myself in the Story of Race after I was reflecting on a heated discussion with students from the Diverse Student Union, thinking about the work white teachers need to do to create the necessary sense of belonging at the school. One chapter arrested me: “Everyone is Different; Everyone Belongs”. Irving explains the thinking of inclusive principal, Joe Petner, whose vision extended to every child with every ability. He proposed a fundamental understanding that there is no “normal” and the article that I had read with students about Unilever removing the product label “normal” from it’s products merged with the audiobook version which was being narrated to me. And yet a third iteration of “normal” came to me while reading the remarkable new book, The Black Friend; On Being a Better White Person by Frederick Joseph.

I need to do another post on this book because his use of auditory conventions (fast forward, rewind, pause, stop) within the print text is innovative, engaging, and overall just brilliant.

But, back to where this all comes together; after listening to the our students, another teacher challenged me on the fact that I did research and came to the conclusion that we might lack the cultural competency to understand the situation. It’s still rather raw and fresh and nebulous in my memory so rather than map out any details that I am have brought from that past to the now, I’m going to fuse the threads of this situation and braid the temporal thoughts with belonging and normalcy. In Joseph’s book he writes about white people saying, “That’s Black, or that’s Asian, – that’s not normal.” (Joseph 91) He goes on to explain the importance and value of difference. “Over the years, my favorite things about people become the ways in which they are nothing like me…I’m asking you to protect one another and learn from one another. I’m asking you to turn ‘different’ into the new normal, and tell others to do the same.” I read these lines to my students.

Thinking sometimes needs other sparks from the universe; we begin with an idea which gets added to by others, and then we hold the concept coalescing in our head, pulling in little atoms of thought and language from out there, as if we are in communion. There is no map, no normal, only disparate threads of difference which coalesce in something unified and wholly full, fully whole.

Journals 27/31 #SOL

I used to write when I was young and I remember carrying this sporadic practice into university. I shared my short stories with roomates; and then I shared poems with my professor. I remember the day quite vividly; a summer course and we were walking down the interlocking pathway between buildings, the sun warm and the air clean and sweet smelling. His assessment was startling. Not that he wasn’t giving me what I asked for so much as the fact that I was not ready for his brutal takedown. He read, then responded, and I stopped writing.

After the birth of my daughter, I started writing again, documenting a journey to a foreign place in myself and although I have that journal saved, I have not read it since. I recognize the outside cover knowing what it stands for. I’m not ready to read that writing, to return to that place in time through such a tangible form – not yet, anyway. In those years, when I had written enough and found my way in this new role, I stopped writing.

Now as a teacher of reading and writing I am startled by my own failures in writing. Looking back now, at some of the formulaic writing that have I taught, I am saddened. So many lost opportunities in the past twenty plus years and I wonder how many students in my classes stopped writing.

Nonetheless, instead of letting regret turn to despair, I am taking writing seriously on the rest of this journey.

Essay Transitions 26/31 #SOL


this is hard and frustrating and intellectually exhausting

what you are doing now is foundational,

transferring mind to page –

thoughts to words –

a mess

wrestled for sharing.


this shape so seemingly firm and rigid

as flexible

and bend with the form

to make it fit your vision.

Connect you to us and

after each example that enlightens


bringing a microscope to the mind and

invite the artist within

to speak

to add beauty

and insight

to this chore,




Mapping 25/31 #SOL

We greeted one another in the hallway this morning a few minutes before the students of Cohort A would be entering the building. Through medical masks he joked about his elderly mother losing her memory. He phones her daily and is sometimes challenged to find conversational topics. With care and generosity, he plans each call. On this past weekend, he and his partner had walked his old neighbourhood, the street where his family home still stood, the street where he purchased his first house, and he planned to tell his mother what had changed and what was the same.

“But what about our house? Is it the same?”

“Well, they’ve added a third floor.”

“Where is it? In the backyard?”

“No. I said it’s another level, a third level of the house.”

“But where is it?”

I listened to his story and kept looking for evidence of memory loss, but couldn’t locate it. I wondered if this conversation between mother and son had little to do with memory and more to do with mapping. She had moved, migrated from a home she knew, and the description couldn’t be mapped in her mind.

We parted, the masked students began entering, taking seats six feet apart, opening laptops and phones. At the start of every class, we all read for twenty minutes, a moment of communal indulgence in any book; hopefully a book they love with no other purpose than love. I sometimes share lovely lines or beautiful wisdom offered by the book that I’m reading, and today, I picked up where I had left off in a remarkable collection of memoirs called, A Map is Only One Story: Twenty Writers on Immigration, Family, and the Meaning of Home. Each essay, each story in this small book transports me to some other world and I sit spellbound at the front of the classroom imagining the motions necessary to depart and arrive in some other place on a map. To find a home and sense of belonging in the unfamiliar.

I’ve always felt the value in slowing down the rush to consume the action of a story, in taking time to situate it in place. I used to assign the making of maps for novels and short stories where setting played a symbolic or significant role. I wanted them to imagine these places. But then the internet came. Maps from stories appeared online which they downloaded and handed in making this assignment completely meaningless.

I wonder now. If someone gives you a map of your home, do you really understand your place? Or perhaps, instead we make our own, mapping the journey, remembering the past as something fixed in the mental map of our minds.

Lines 24/31 #SOL2021

A colleague calls me to talk, the second time in two days, and we are on the line for a long time. Concerns are expressed about the a group of racialized students and white allies whom I supervise.

I’m on the line for another hour tonight, about the same time as last night, listening mostly. Words begin to blur and merge and spread across my face and I feel my eyes close; my ears filter out this language for fear they may infect my heart which beats wildly in my chest now rising and falling faster than one would expect for someone who is stationary. I own my error in judgement, failing to forewarn this colleague, and I apologize. That was my omission.

I hear words like “the tone” and “losing allies” and “damaging mistake”. But then I hear “crossed the line” and I am propelled to write this down. Only these words – on a lime green sticky note which sits at my computer glaring and asserting its presence and persistence for several weeks.

It is late and I fear that I will not sleep with elevated emotions and blood pulsing in my ears, so I fix my usual turmeric milk before bed, a symbolic and hopefully homeopathic ritual meant to address inflammation. But, it doesn’t work. I lie awake feeling the adrenaline still moving for some time afterwards and wake again later mid-sleep, shifting position repeatedly, trying to find comfort despite my partner’s position, always close by and warm.

The next morning, I reach back into the corners of auditory memory trying to retrieve lines of dialogue from the conversation, but I am lost in sense without substance. I wonder if maybe I just blacked out in those moments, maybe the phone line went dead, or maybe I was too consumed in an emotionally defensive posture that I was unable to hear accurately. I try to retrieve some semblance of language.

My husband sits beside me at the kitchen island, our usual breakfast routine on weekdays.

“They are angry that I supported the students and feel they crossed a line.”

He looks up from scrolling Twitter. “Who drew the line?”

I startle at this seemingly simple question and regain my centre feeling a sense of balance suddenly seeing clearly. In that moment the fog of emotion fades and the lines meaningfully merge.

Speaking in Public 23/31 #SOL

Speaking in public used to paralyze me. Of course, this is really quite strange when I think about being a teacher and I essentially speak in public every day. But, back then, I would physically seize up as a wave of panic hit my entire body causing a fascist coup of form. It took control and there was nothing my mind could do.

This one particular pivotal moment established a cascade of similar moments which abated but which surfaced for some time. Until they didn’t anymore.

I used to work for a provincial government agency and I was one of a few female managers attending a seminar on leadership; I think I was the youngest, too. I was a fairly recent undergraduate with an English and geography major who’d risen through the ranks to a role in management. I had a broad background having studied the Sciences before switching to the Humanities. But, I had no skill in politics or diplomacy. I had no role models nor mentors. And although the memory of the actual event is vivid only in sense, the content and facts of the situation are just murky memories.

“We are all navigating an external world — but only through the prism of our own minds, our own subjective experience… The majesty of the universe is only ever conjured up in the mind.”

I am centre stage, imprisoned by high backed Black leather chairs around an oversized faux mahogany boardroom table. Someone has just reminded me of a recent event back in the main office, one in which I was publically undermined by a male colleague. ( Insert flashback to my youth, when my feminist mother was trying to point out how patriarchy works, and I missed the lesson.) I am completely naive, probably more so than the average young woman (Insert self blame here for resisting mother’s lessons.) All eyes fix on me and wait for an explanation. I feel it rushing fast, my blood filling my face and through hyperventilating words, I push out a heaving explanation too incomprehensible.

I name it, outloud, thinking this will pass. “I know that I’m not being clear.”

I wait for the breath to come, for someone to drop the airbag from the ceiling of the cabin. I see their eyes widen, mouths drop a little. I did not think of this at the time, but no facilitator steps in, no colleague steps up. Instead, around the large table, all sit as bystanders to the body-snatching with no attempted to aid the suffocating.

The response is tattooed inside me, always just beneath the skin. It was awful and it’s still there under the surface whenever I feel my emotions rise in a group leadership meeting.

How can we talk? 21/31 #SOL

This question, a staccato in my head, reverberates as I fumble through my hybrid teaching wanting to connect the “at home students” with the “in school students”. I am still revising the plans once formulated in August, practiced and revised again with one class, then another, revision upon revision, now with a fourth and a fifth class. I keep hoping how we talk in virtual meetings will mirror how we talk in person. But, the disembodied sounds from boxes in a grid flows very differently, and I don’t think it has anything to do with cameras off or cameras on. Both are only nearings or approximations of what is human discourse.

Yet, how can we not really talk at “moments like this”? That necessary talk is doubly hard and doubly necessary.

Nonetheless, some gathered last week as a group of diverse students to address the hate crime in Georgia, the shooting of Asian women, and the growing recognition of Anti-Asian hate crimes in Canada. They were open and vulnerable, supportive and inclusive, but this is emotional work in spaces not built for human sharing of pain. While the shooting happened in what feels remote, the US, the reports from Canada are up close, and in person. We have a problem with Anti-Asian racism, but how can we talk?

Back in class, I share the lesson using the guidance and wisdom of Teaching Tolerance and a resource from the Toronto District School Board; but it’s not enough. I know it. The students know it.

So, I pull myself together, and reflect on the situation. Even though I’m the one doing most of the talking in the classroom right now, it has to be better than silence. In that breath, my question transforms. How can we not talk about something so important?

Irritation 19/31 #SOL

(Another writing alongside my students today.)

My eyes are making life difficult.

I notice the messages they are sending, but why are they so angry and on the verge of spilling tears? Each morning, I reach for the Visine, soothe them sometimes with drops for dry eyes, bathe them with warm water and then cold water, but there is still no change, no relief. Each visit to the mirror finds me examining the maps appearing in the white region, rivers of red veins, spidering out in all directions, but clustered near the tear duct, where debris settles into a cavernous space. The lids have formed a coalition with gravity and I exercise them lifting with my mouth, widening both in tandem.

This morning my right eye started acting up deciding to march to a different beat. It seemed to pixelate and I remembered a colleague telling me this is an ocular migraine – a rogue defender of the oculus realm. I couldn’t follow the words on the page, my most favourite time of the day, and I couldn’t find peace with this rebellion taking place.

Listening seems to be a path towards some truce in “this moment” – so many moments that I realize the irritation is the signal. I tell myself, “read the maps in your eyes, listen to the swelling resistance – these parts seeking sovereignty and wanting no part in this grinding pace.”

Myth 18/31 #SOL

(Today’s writing prompt asked for an “origin story” or a myth and this is what I wrote alongside my students.)

Melanie was born in the darkest of nights at the cusp of daylight. She sprang as stream of white light from green soil crusted with leaves and damp shoots of ferns, mosses, and lichen, and her voice pierced the air like an arrow shot from her mouth landing in the belly of her water-mother. Wounded, her mother sank to the bottom of a large lake where she lay screaming to her daughter who did not hear for many years. Instead, Melanie looked to the forest and fauna for guidance where the trees became her keepers and the birds became her siblings. There she wandered and kept records of their appearances drawing them and learning their names. 

In time the trees transformed and she knew that she needed a new home, so she set out on a journey of discovery. She visited strange worlds with mosques and delicious food – chai offered in every doorway – then swam down rivers with damaged manatees before she heard her water-mother’s voice calling her home.

Water-Mother | 2016 | Natalie Field Photography
Water Mother by Natalie Field Photography:

When I was eight 17/31 #SOL

“What happens if we stick to being the truest version of ourselves…” Luvvie Ajayi Jones

I am eight years old, my legs stretched out above me, my back firmly on the floor, near the sofa where my mother sits properly, legs crossed, reading. I am gangly, confident, and wild. My older brother sits in a chair across the living room, on the other side of a wide window facing the courtyard of our street, a console radio with a record player beneath it. I am soaking in the beams of sunlight gushing through the large window touching the carpeted floor. He is expressing doubt about something and I somehow realize his words are meant for me.

“But, I love me!” I declare, and my mothers speaks warnings against myself with prompting to be “ladylike” and although she never uses the words explicitly, I understand the language – show deference, be small, and quiet, and delicate – all the words, including “ladylike”, which I am not.

There is a photograph from that summer, my legs stretched out in front of me on the soft beach sand, my back curled slightly forward with both hands clutching a peach. My belly is folded, protruding over my bikini and my face heavily freckled with my waist length hair tied back in a pony tail. I am squinting against the sun, or against this photographic intrusion on my being, an interruption of my enjoyment of the beach and of the peach dripping down my layers of flesh around my middle.

A guidance counselor calls me in for a “conversation” in grade 10. She wants to know how I’m doing and if anything has changed in my life. I’d never met this person before and I am frozen in place, in the pleather chair across from her desk. I am not sure what to say, reassure her that everything is fine, but I think afterwards, “perhaps my weight loss prompted this, or maybe my role play in drama class was perhaps a bit too convincing”.

I look back to the living room scene, my inability to remember if this was a weekend or weekday, what season (though I think it might have been fall because I was wearing tights), but do remember the vivid feeling of startling surprise and revelation that I should think differently about me. If only I could be as I was when I was eight.

What we hear 16/31 #SOL

George took my 95 year old father to have his hearing checked and his hearing aids updated yesterday. For some time now, it has been customary to repeat any and all things spoken to my father, and part of me suspects that this is not about his hearing at all – this is about processing. I imagine his brain saying, just say ‘pardon’ everytime anyone says anything and this will give me time to think.

I got home and my husband reported the diagnosis – he has only 30% hearing on one side, so there is no point in using a hearing aid in that one ear. It won’t help. The other ear will be outfitted with the latest model of Bluetooth technology which my father automatically assumed would allow him to connect to the landline phone that we maintain, mainly for him. (Note to self: buy a Bluetooth landline phone if they make them.)

George drove him to the hearing clinic and they waited, in the car, in masks, outside the building. He called the receptionist to announce their arrival.

“Syd White is here for his spa treatment.”

She snort chuckled, and asked George if he would be coming into the building with my father.

“No. I’ll just shove him through the entrance.”

She laughed – out loud this time – recognizing the humour in caregiving as our bodies fail and we need help with everyday tasks. Some might hear this as cruelty rather than humour, but she works with the hard of hearing and likely understands how long term care requires a sense of levity in the everyday.

My father has lived with us for the past 27 years. He was the primary cook and childminder in the beginning, and now, we are slowly assuming the many roles he fiercely clung to . He gave up his license and stopped driving this year. He just started to allow us to prepare his supper, most days. He walks at least twice a day and works out on a rowing machine and Bowflex elliptical taking great pride in his physical health. But, the shattered steel-encased femur, a consequence of the car striking him on his bike at 84 years old, is causing him some difficulty now, and his hands shake enough to send his knife flying to the floor when he carries his dinner plate and cutlery from the kitchen to the dining table.

George stays at home caring for our disabled daughter, and now, for my elderly father. I love coming home and hearing about their day, the small stories about trips to the store, other dogs in the neighbourhood, which birds are showing up now that spring is cresting, and deeply appreciate listening to the stories.

Musical Influences 15/31 #SOL

Noa Daniel asked me about it, Tobi lives it, and Amanda inspired it.

It’s no secret that music has a powerful effect on the classroom and when I allow students choice with music, I feel like I get to know them better. Music has been playing in the background for most of my life and it’s only now making a more conscious appearance in my thinking and teaching. Music really has defined my experiences, my memories, and it has now come into the foreground of my mind.

To explain the three influences mentioned above, Noa Daniel had me as a guest on her P3 Podcast where educators share three songs that define them. Tobi’s partner is a cellist in the National Arts Centre orchestra and she manages the stage (and yes, she is also a full-time teacher – don’t ask me how she does it, I’m sure she has a twin sister or she doesn’t sleep), and Amanda found an incredible interactive article in the New York Times called “25 Songs That Matter Now“. She used it with her class and claims that the students, “LOVED it”. These three have been musical influences on me, although I think they don’t actually write or perform it.

Nonetheless, today I asked students about music, about reviews of music, and I am encouraged by what they had to say.

The conversation started with Ana mentioning the content of the songs that were selected. “Most of them have an important social message that’s necessary to talk about now.” And Tarek pointed out that a few of the songs were circulated widely because of TikTok. Angus focused in the reviews themselves and made lists of the types of metaphors in the musical reviews noting that one compared the music to art and the act of drawing, another used the language of war, and the third was personified as if the music performed an action. Ciaran followed this by explaining that the metaphors, the imagery, and the heavily connotative language allows the reader to connect while Anna noted the reviews self-consciousness in the connections they made to the music.

And then I asked what surprised them; “Cats” they said. They were surprised that a song from what they deemed “a bad musical” had the honour of a song “that mattered”. They wondered about this choice so I reminded them to consider the publication as a whole, and it’s cultural or geographical location as a potential clue. James made the connection instantly saying, “Broadway”, and the significance of context, reviewer, and content was made.

This free flowing discovery of meaning allowed me to point out the ever flowing negotiation with a text, the triumvirate of author, text, and reader. I had to dance with the lesson never quite knowing but allowing the music to flow and trust those who helped me find it. Thanks Noa, Tobi, and Amanda for being my musical muses.