Fine

Fine

Feature Piece

My chest starts to tighten.

My breathing is getting quicker and quicker.

My head is throbbing.

What is happening? What is going on?

I try and just watch the movie.

I can't.

What the hell is going on.

My chest is rising and falling at a rapid pace as I try desperately to focus on Bilbo Baggins fending for his life on the big screen in front of me. The obnoxiously loud surround sound doesn't help as my head pounds with each crack of the cliff falling into no where. The hundred people or so in this packed theatre are all gazing on in wonder and I feel like I'm going to be sick. All over the couple in front of me.

My hands are sweaty.

My stomach is in knots.

I can't feel my arms. I can't feel my arms anymore. I can't feel my arms.

What the hell is happening to me?

My mum takes my dead arm and she hauls me out of the theatre as I try, clumsily, to stay on two feet as the numbness is spreading through my hips and to my knees. It actually feels like someone is pouring hot water all over me.We leave the theatre room and make our way to the closest bathroom as I clutch onto the wall in sobs. My left hand is holding my stomach and I hunch over the railing bawling my eyes out, gasping for air repeating, “it feels like the accident, it feels like the accident, it feels like the accident” over and over and over.

* * *

It was a dark and rainy night in November. I offered to drive Cally, Erica, and two of Erica's friends to Moncton that night to help them out and save a little on gas myself. It all started out fine enough talking about classes and relationships and listening to various top 40 and country hits. Someone joked about my driving and I assured them all I just got winter tires put on that day and had never been in an accident – knock on wood – we laughed.

We joked and laughed and talked about anything that came to mind. Like a road trip clipped from a movie. I was in the middle of explaining an adorable story about my boyfriend when – SLAM. Before I knew it I was breaking hard and cranking the wheel to the left. I knew we were going to hydroplane but there was no other choice.

Oh my god.

What the fuck.

What do I do.

Don't hit the gas.

Don't hit the break.

Watch out for the guard rail – oh my god the ditch.

We were spinning and spinning in circles in the middle of the highway on a dark and rainy november night and oncoming vehicles approached at equally rapid speeds. We spun around and around and I could see what might happen as if it was already happening.

My stomach is in knots.

I can't feel my arms.

Just hold onto the wheel.

Try to get control.

What the hell do I do.

All I could picture was my driver's ed teacher sitting on that little desk teaching us the lesson on hydroplaning.

Don't pump the brake.

No, do pump the brake.

Wait, no, pump the gas.

Pump the break and the gas.

DON'T TOUCH A THING.

I couldn't believe what was happening. None of us saw it coming. Just like none of us saw the vehicle from behind us barely miss us screeching passed like double-oh-seven to the right of the vehicle. I think it was the right. I have no idea which way was which.

I cranked the wheel the other way and we started spinning again when I finally felt the ground underneath the tires. SCREEEECH. I put the brake to the floor and the whole car stopped in a jolt. It was a split second of relief until I looked to the right and we were horizontal in the middle of the highway, with no lights on, and two cars bee lining it at the girls.

The gas won't go. The gas won't work. Oh my shit!

Turn it off, turn it on, gas. Nothing.

Turn it off, turn it on, gas. Nothing.

Turn it off, turn it on, giver gas and GO. Finally.

We pulled off to the side of the highway just in time to miss three cars driving by and what felt like unbelievable speeds. My body almost gave out entirely as I looked at the girls, “What the actual fuck just happened.” I could finally hear again – I could see straight and the pounding headache and throbbing ear drums had calmed the hell down.

Cally looked pale as a ghost. I felt sick to my stomach. I know she wanted to cry. I wanted to cry. But I couldn't. I couldn't even process what happened. What could have happened. What did happen?

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT CAR DOING” I was so livid, “HOW ARE YOU THAT IGNORANT!” Erica chimed in, “Who just pulls onto a highway from a dead stop and doesn't even look to see if a car was coming!” “Well shit, yeah! Like, Okay, going to pull out here without a light, without notice, with a fucking transport truck in the other lane, what the hell was I supposed to do?!”

Cally just sat there and stared. It broke my heart. I have known this girl for years and I could have just killed her. That's when all of it sunk in. I could have killed all of them. I could have killed four people and myself. Killed them. Dead. All of us. On the side of a highway in a bloody massacre. Gone.

We didn't T-bone the idiot who pulled out in front of us

We didn't rear-end a transport truck going 100 km/h

We didn't hit the guard rail, we didn't hit the ditch

We didn't hit the oncoming vehicles

We didn't roll the car

We didn't cause an accident

We didn't get hurt.

Physically.

* * *

My mum looks at me as I curl up on the bathroom floor at a theatre in Toronto. We all just came out for an innocent family movie night over the holiday break and no one expected me to freak out. But it did. Just like the accident. I'm still hyperventilating as my mum hands me a wet paper towel for my face and tells me over and over and over to take a deep breath. “Take a deep breath, Lissa, just in,” as she moves her hands along with the air in her belly, “and out.”

My head is numb.

My arms are weak.

My stomach feels sick.

My heart is pounding.

But I can hear straight again.

I can see again and the pounding headache and throbbing ears have calmed down.

“It just feels like I'm in the car again, and we're spinning around and around and I don't have control over what's going to happen. I can't do anything and I put them in danger. I could have killed them, mum.”

She puts her arms around me, “but you didn't. You had to make a decision and you made the right one, there's nothing you could've done differently and you're all fine.”

Fine.

Define, fine.

Physically, sure. But the left over emotional impact that little what if has is scarring. Just scarring.

It's happened several times. Several movie theatres. Several movie nights. All putting me right back in the drivers seat and feeling like I'm about to die and take four lives with me. Knowing that I had the ability to rip Cally, or anyone for that matter, out of her family's life for good and there would be no changing it. That's a shitty feeling.

Breathe, take a deep breath. I can hear my mum in my ear every time my chest starts to tighten and my breathing gets quicker and quicker. Take a deep breath. You're fine. 

Why so serious?

I get it. In this day and age it's all about efficiency. If something doesn't optimize every second passed then it's time to shake it up and try something new. I get it. Innovation and reform are both positive things, and as a young PR professional I respect the two greatly, I do. And perhaps I will be shooting myself in the foot a few years from now when I read back on this and even dared to question the two – yet, here I am and boldly stating that the idea of getting rid of summer vacation because times have changed is boo-hockey.

I am willing to bet that school children still get the same glimmer in their eyes as we all did as they day dream about long, sunny, summer days staring out the windows of enclosed classrooms. I bet they still count down to the second the last bell rings at the end of June as they burst out the doors with countless days of adventuring to come. Grasping their report cards and rushing to the nearest corner store with a special deal on for all the kids out of school for the summer.

 That was one of my most vivid memories... There was a Green Gables Convenience store right across the street from Claude D. Taylor Elementary School that, every year, would give free slushies to every student that came in with a report card. Jamie's mum was the store owner and her sweet smile never faded even as long as that line got stretching down Trites road. But it wasn't about efficiency, it wasn't about profitability – it was about the spirit of summer and celebrating a break.

Have we lost that feeling? Have we forgotten what it is like to be kids? Have we really become so self-centred that the idea of having a full time babysitter is more important than the excitement and energy kids get from being wild and free? The best way to learn has always been, and will always be, exploring. There is no time any of us will argue was better for that than summer vacation.

Summer is more than just an age-old tradition. Sure, it isn't the majority of folks going home to help farm the crops (let's not generalize though and assume that doesn't still happen), but there are other forms of work that need doing. They are right, times have changed. We may not all need the months off to help harvest the crop but there is a lot of work that does need to get done in those months. Students need to work now in order to save money and pay for further education – unless this reform is also going to include tuition cuts? Because let's be clear:

A) no one is going to hire someone for three weeks four times a year
B) with students being intensively working from dawn until dusk in the classroom they would really need those couple week breaks for their own sanity, and
C) if profitability and efficiency are still big priorities for education than I don't think tuition is going anywhere but UP.

Sure, elementary school children aren't using the summer vacation to make money but the majority of elder students rely on those summer months to fund their post-secondary education and reduce the astronomical amount of debt they'll graduate college or university with. So what are the elementary school children doing, well, learning! That’s right. Imagine – learning that doesn’t take place in the classroom?! My god, a novel concept! There is a wealth of learning that happens outside the classroom and especially on summer vacation. It is when young children are able to explore and focus on not just academic growth but personal development as well.

Students need time to recharge and balance their mental health. Summer vacation has always been integral to that concept. Why are we trying to push adult schedules on our children? Who is arrogant enough, or ignorant enough, to believe that a child has the same ability to cope and manage a full time schedule at that such a young age just because it works better for our schedules as adults? Our young people's education shouldn't be based on the convenience of the parents it should be based on the best growth plan possible. That includes good mental health and school/life balance.

The young formative years during K-12 are not just for learning curriculum. They are for learning about ourselves, about the world, about our communities, about work experience, about time management, about exploring, about meeting new people. If we are so eager to reform education then it won't be a new schedule that does it. That notion is boo-hockey. It will take a serious examination of what skills children should be learning in these influential years at school and how we as a community can support them within the structure that still permits growth, exploration, and valuable time available for work experience.

Rattled

It is a little sickening that there is actually legislation in place that is realistically forcing people to forgo environmentally friendly farming practices in order to keep prices cheap for mass production. Does that really make sense? So cheap production, then, is far more important than our environment and local economic strength? I'm not sure that is how Canada is going to become a sustainable country either economically or environmentally.

What's worse, I think, is that we aren't supporting or encouraging innovative and ultimately more efficient ways of farming. Don't get me wrong I can fully understand not wanting to escalate prices and particularly for such necessities as eggs and milk. I recognize that for a lot of reasons the supply-management system will work. For example, farmers don't have to worry about marketing, searching for customers, or losing out on business because of competitive pricing. However true this may be for some it is not the case for all.

Those who are faming with innovative techniques and producing a higher quality of product should be able to continue to do so and not be penalized because of the restrictions for mass production. They already are doing their own ways of marketing through farmers markets and small business trading. These farmers are producing a different product and they shouldn't be constricted by regulations that have little relevance to their styles. They aren't benefiting from the system in place and it shouldn't stop them from making something that is in demand.

If we restrict innovation and efficient, sustainable practices we are telling the world we don't value progressive thinking or environmentally friendly businesses. Is that the Nova Scotia we want to be proud of? The Canada we want to be a part of? I can't say it is.  

Dressing the Dreaded Drumsticks

I reeaally do not want to do this. I really, really don't. I hate it. That's why I haven't gone in over two years. That's why I wear sweat pants or dresses – ultimately to avoid this. I HATE this. It always ends up the same way – feeling fat, bloated, disgusting, annoyed, frustrated, gross and judged.

It may be fun for someone else, and you may be reading this and trivializing my “uncomfortable thing” but I don't even care. I actually hate this so much and it sends me right back to the first time I looked at myself in jeans. I was nine years old and hated the look of my legs. Drumstick legs I called them then. I have never felt great about my body – ever – and if there is one thing that epitomizes discomfort it is forcing myself to go jean shopping.

Yes, Jean Shopping. I hate nothing more than the whole process from the overattentive retail workers to the number scaling and forcibly staring at myself in a mirror picking out every single flaw.

I come from a long line of short-legged, big-bootied, wide-hipped women and the gruelling process of selecting the largest size available and having to look at myself in the mirror makes me physically sick. I really don't want to follow through with this and I keep trying to find something else I could do by tomorrow that I would be more comfortable being uncomfortable with. But I'll suck it up – sort-of, I spent the first 30 minutes at the mall looking at anything BUT jeans and buying anything that wouldn't require me to wear jeans with it.

Store #1...

Super Skinny, Super Skinny, Super Skinny – all the damn jeans are labelled super skinny. As if all of this is getting in any of that. My stomach actually sank as I looked at the sizes – the last time I did this I was 20 lbs heavier and just looking at the shelves of jeans makes me feel each and every pound coming back around my already thick and jiggly thighs. Groossss. I hate this. I reluctantly grab three pairs of jeans and head towards what resembles more of a leery cave than a fitting room.

The twig employee weighing in at about 100 pounds at five foot even gives me a room and assures me she's right there if I need anything – I do need something but it's not for you to hover over me, thanks. WHY DO THESE CHANGE ROOMS NOT HAVE MIRRORS. Now I have to open the damn door to look at something that makes me cringe to just think about. Actually, no, jokes on me. I can't even zip up the damn jeans enough... at least I don't have to subject myself to the critical reflection for now.

Now if only I can give the clothes back without the twig girl asking me how I made out with them.

SWEET JUSTICE SHE'S NOT THERE. I can just slide the tag on the desk and put the jeans away. I make my way over to the daunting shelves yet again and who do I meet there but the twiggy herself. She asks me if I'm looking for anything in particular today. It's like all the thoughts I was trying to keep locked up in order to keep composure just came flooding out in word vomit, “Well actually, I'm taking a writing class and we have an assignment where we have to do something uncomfortable and then write about, and I hate nothing more than jean shopping so I guess I'm just here trying on jeans.” She just looked at me like I may as well have told her my entire life story, “Uhh okay..” I wanted to take it all back, “Or the less awkward response – my sister's birthday is coming up and I have no jeans to wear.”

I couldn't even believe that I just told her that. What the hell. She looks at me up and down and asks for my size. I told her anything above a 30, “I've got a big bootie and wide hips” I said as if I had to defend my response. She skeptically got me the jeans and told me how cute I would look in this new pair with little rips and tears in it.

Barf. I literally would rather be doing anything else. Are you kidding me? Fine. So I go to the cave yet again while she asks me – twice – how I am making out and insists I come out and show her. ARE WE BEST FRIENDS IN THE FIFTH GRADE, GIRL. Let me have some space – PLEASE.

Sure enough, the 29s fit but were way too long. “Oh wow, you do have a big butt” she chimes in as she looks me up and down over and over. “Yeah. Hips don't lie” I responded begrudgingly. Oh my god, get me out of here. I feel like my legs are on an atrocious display and to be honest the jeans were not even that cute.

Leaving the store was a pretty dead on symbol of bittersweet. I was so relieved to be out of there but knew I had to go into more stores and repeat the same process.

Store #2

Could you have more nosey and overattentive sales people, really? The worst part is I already feel so incredibly uncomfortable looking at the jeans and then thinking about trying them on, and then actually trying them on but then add the attention from the retail clerks and it just makes me even more sick to my stomach. Why am I even doing this.

She sets me up with SEVEN pairs of jeans. Four of which I can hardly squeeze my leg into let alone zip them up. The other three just accentuated the drumstick-like shape of my leg. As if the term “super skinny” doesn't make me uncomfortable enough they literally cling to my legs and show my thick thighs and scraggly ankles. “Girls with legs like mine don't wear jeans like these,” I want to tell her but don't.

She asked me three times how I was doing in the change room as I politely try to tell her it just isn't really my style. “Oh but you'll totally get used to them,” she states matter of factly, “They're all I wear now.” K COOL GOOD FOR YOU.

I handed back the mountainous pile of jeans to the newest attendee looking after the change rooms, “Oh, not even one fit, huh?” “Nope, not today – thanks!” and with that I was gone.

At this point I can't even tell you how many stores I've gone in to and how many people have come up to me asking about my size and style and what I'm looking for. I am soooo sick of this. It's draining to repeat the same conversations over and over and each time the tone of my voice gets more quick and short. By the near end of the gruelling hour I'm not saying a thing about jeans – “no, just browsing. Thanks.”

I feel fat, bloated, disgusting, annoyed, frustrated, gross and judged. I can feel the extra weight around me, I can feel my lunch expanding inside my stomach, I feel like I need to shower, I feel so on edge with every conversation just wanting to GET OUT. God, I am frustrated! Nothing is worth this. Why am I even doing it the first place. One of the worst parts is the judging eyes of the employees. It's like they're looking at me knowing their clothes won't fit me and they think that I think I'm skinny enough to wear them. Clearly not the case.

I'll make a last ditch effort in hopes of maybe having some success after such a disgusting day. American Eagle – I have never gone in this store in my life but it's the only one left. What they lack in size variety they make up in style though. I tried on a couple pairs of jeans, all too long, but at least they didn't make me cringe to look at in the mirror. The fitting room clerk asks me how they fit, and with my exasperated “too long, but that happens” she smiled and said “just one second”.

Another worker came over and had checked out back for a short length pair of the same jeans, “try these on” she says.

I pull the last pair of jeans on for the day over my legs and they zip up nicely. The length was a bit long but perfect if I ever wear heels and they didn't cling to my drumstick-like legs. They were actually, comfortable. This was certainly a welcomed feeling after a day of loathing every second spent in and out of fitting rooms.

I can't say that because of these new jeans it was a rewarding experience though, because subjecting myself to mega hit to the self-esteem and the judging eyes of others will always strike discomfort into my heart. I can tell you, though, that I now happily won't have to go jean shopping again for at least another two years.  

Listen, Stats.

Melissa: I would actually rather shove forks in my eyes than do this stats class right now.

Hillary: Seriously, like, let's be clear here – not into that at all.

Melissa: I am legitimately soooo done with it – SO DONE.

Hillary: I don't even know how you're doing it right now. I refuuuuse to have math be any part of my life right now.

Melissa: I don't even know. I just, don't. I can't do it. I am actually a giant moron when it comes to math. I get to a point where I think I'm fine and then BAM – NOPE. Fail. Big ole 18% on an assignment.

Hillary: Nooo, you didn't?!

Melissa: I couldn't finish it!! My stupid internet kept cutting out on me, I don't understand what the hell a residual plot is, and I have seven other assignments due! I CAN'T HANDLE THIS SHIT!

Hillary: Girl, I know. Beeeen there. I got you. But in the big scheme of things – one assignment? Not even a big deal.

Melissa: Seriously though.. it is worth a miniscule zero point two five percent of the course and my sanity is worth far more than that.

Hillary: And the safety of your eyes slash ability to see I'd say.  

Dear Diane Howard,

Dear Diane Howard,

I was so glad to meet you this past weekend at the Veterans dinner at the legion in Enfield. I haven't met anyone in a long time that shares the same memories as I do coming over from the war so many years ago. The stories you told of the long trip on the ship were uncanny to those I cherish from my own journey over.

When you spoke of meeting your husband over seas in England and wanting to come home with him to Canada it reminded me of my departed Harald. Although we have lost our loved ones in this world – I know we both carry them in our hearts. I keep my picture of my wedding day in my clutch just as you do. I couldn't help but see you at the legion showing everyone Johnathon's handsome smile. He must have had a generous heart just like yours.

I could tell from your friendly, bubbly personality – even at our spring chicken age of 87 – that you still have just as much life in you now as you did as a nurse in the 40s. No wonder he fell for you! I know that your bright personality is going to make a great impact on our committee for next year's events at the legion. I really want to thank you for volunteering your sewing and knitting efforts for the upcoming fundraiser! I adored the pictures of your grandchildren wearing the scarves and mittens you made for them at Christmas time. I know they'll be a hit!

It is incredible to think about how much we have all changed from those days long ago. I couldn't imagine back then what the world would look like today but I am so glad to meet people who share strong values of community and friendship. You are a sweet and gentle soul, Diane, and I am so happy to call you a new friend!

Warm regards,

Janet Williams

Easier said than done

We might be able to sit here and carry on a conversation with each other about the weather, about homework, about weekend plans or about our favourite music, but she can't. We might be able to sit down and focus on a task or project for class, but she can't. We might be able to go downtown or out to dinner with friends, but she can't do that. Not right now at least.

She doesn't care about the weather, about homework, about plans, or about music. She can't focus on a task because she doesn't have any motivation to do it. She doesn't have the energy to get herself dressed or plaster on a smile to go act in front of her friends. She doesn't feel anything anymore. It's so easy for us to say, “Just do it”, like we're all spokespeople for Nike. But she can't. The physical and mental processes that need to happen in order to pick up a pencil is just too much.

Right now everything is just – emotionless. It doesn't matter if something is due and her school year is on the line. The pressure of wasting another 2500 dollars doesn't make her able to do it any faster. And it doesn't matter if going out sounds like fun in theory and it certainly doesn't matter if the sun is shining and its a beautiful day outside. It doesn't change anything.

No matter what needs to be done or should be done there's only one thought going through her head: What's worth living for?

At the end of the day she doesn't care about homework or the weather because she doesn't even know what she wants to be alive for. The sun doesn't make a difference. A night out won't make a difference. What's happening on the weekend won't make a difference and being told to “just do it” doesn't make it easier or even worth doing.

Going to bed convincing herself that there might be something worth living for tomorrow is the only thing that gets her through the night... That tiny, little, slight glimmer of hope over the distant horizon.  

Still My House

I drive passed my house every time I go back to my hometown. It's still my house. It looks just the same: white siding, brick base, red shutters, red garage door, and a big red door. There are still cracks in the doorstep and a place ready for a garden off the walk-way. There are two big lumps on the uneven driveway and a small, black lamp-post on the edge of the yard by the road that no one ever notices until you point it out.

Nothing's changed since I left.

If only I could walk through the front door one more time. I bet it would look the same. The awful faux-tile of the entrance way hasn't been changed in the 40 some years the house has been there – “Why would we change it?” Dad always said, “It's as good as new!” The closet doors to the left are just as old as the tile on the floor. Dark, horizontal panels that never quite hid your eyes in a game of hide-and-go-seek. That's where my parents coats and shoes went. The kids closet, as we called it, was in behind the back wall of the entrance way, beside the door to the garage and the door to the back yard. It was always spilling out with snow suits and rubber boots, umbrellas and all the gear we needed to play in our big back yard.

You can see the big tree in the back yard from the back door by the kids closet too. All the neighbourhood kids would come over and swing on the huge, thick rope we had attached to the lowest branch (which happened to be about 12 feet off the ground easily). The old wooden door probably still whistles in the wind keeping the new occupiers awake late at night. The garage door always gave a cold and musty draft, especially on the coldest nights of the winter.

I'd love to see what's changed since I left. If I could only pull into the driveway, turn off my car, and walk up the doorsteps like I had done all my life. I'd jiggle the key in the big red door and walk inside like nothing had changed. Not even the hangings on the wall.  

Driving home the lesson

My father spent a great deal of time on the road with the job he had when I was a little girl. He worked out of a small office with a core group of drillers in Dieppe, New Brunswick. Often he would go on site visits around the province or meet with clients throughout Atlantic Canada. Occasionally my sister, two years my senior, and I would go with him for the ride.

Looking back on these adventures now I realize it was likely to take our energy off my mother's hands and give her time to breathe. Raising four kids within a five year range is no simple task and they really did make it a team effort; especially when it came to teaching us lessons. My father was always more of the talker than Mum. My dad had a way with stories... the little glimmer in his eye before he told the hook-line. He would look at you in excited anticipation to see if you knew where the joke or lesson was heading. He has a song or a story for everything. It was rare to hear the same story more than once; except for one particular tale that we heard almost every time we buckled into the car.

My father is also a man of safety. Having worked on the drill sites and travelling the big rigs he had seen a lot over the years. Without fail, on a beautiful, sunny, summer day we would get into the company truck and roll down the windows. Driving 120 km/h down the highway it was so tempting to stick our arms out the window and have our tiny hands ride the wave of air as we pierced through it at what felt like race-car speeds. But, every time we would sneakily try to stick our arms out the window we heard the same thing...

“Hey!” He would almost shout. “Get your arm back inside the truck,” he would say this as his arm swung at us like it would make us that much more inclined to oblige. “You know, I was working with a man one time and he was always in the trucks. He was on the road between jobs weekly and had a nasty habit of leaving his arm out the window.” My father would tell us, every time, as if it was the first time. “Now this guy was just riding along in the passenger seat one day with his arm flailing about and --” This is the part that he would always clap his hands together and our eyes would widen. “Tore right off,” he would say in disbelief. “A bulldozer blade zipped right passed and tore his arm right off.”

At a young age the very idea was gory and traumatic enough to visualize, let alone anticipate actually happening, that I would keep my appendages securely in the vehicle. The scare tactic was a good one and every time I heard the tale I would shrink back in my seat thinking how horrible that must have been for my dad's co-worker. Looking out on the beautiful, sunny, summer day I could hardly imagine something so horrific.

To this day, when the window is rolled down low and the fresh air billows through the open space, my arms will hardly travel outside the window, staying safely behind the side mirrors. If it happens to creep out passed the safety of the mirror my heart has a little panic and I instantly envision the sad fate of my father's coworker.

Lesson learned, Dad.  

Miss RA

It's 11:15 on a Thursday night in residence and I'm lying in my marginally stiff yet welcoming bed. Complete with one plush, comfy pillow, and some others that usually end up being thrown on the floor throughout the night, I try to find comfort in my otherwise restless state. The day has already seemed like an extended version of an 18 hour documentary on the importance of flossing, and there is still a long way to go before it's over.

I try to find my bearings as I count down the minutes until I can peacefully rest my head in slumber.

Yeah, right. Like that will be happening tonight. I'm already on edge. Text messages, emails, phone calls, updates, meetings, projects, committees, it's been a non-stop, no breathing, flyin' by the seat of your pants kind of day. And to top it off – my skin is sticky from the misty, salt-water-fog air of Halifax and with how my hair reacts to the humidity – I'm not feeling all that cute.

Close my eyes.

Switch positions.

Put the hair up.

Flick on the TV.

Close the blinds.

Hair down.

Change the channel.

The remote control falls on the floor and thats enough for me to not care and leave it on whatever channel has landed on. My mind starts to wander.

Work tomorrow at 8 AM.

Co-op assignment due at 4 PM.

Speech due by midnight.

That project for work needs to be finished.

I've got to plan a programming event.

That last one didn't go so well...

What am I doing wrong?

When am I going to have time to do that?

Shoot, I didn't have a meeting yet for the charity day committee...

When is that again?

No, not. Yes. The same day as the fundraiser for work.

brrrring, rinnnggg. brrrring, rinnnggg.

Just what I need, Assisi front desk.

“Hello”, I say with my most chipper voice

“Hi Melissa, sorry to bother you but we've got a noise complaint. Could you check out 7^th floor please?”, says Noelle.

“Sure thing, thanks!”, masking my state of frustration and lack of patience.

I grab my master keys for the building, throw on my “housing” sweater, grab the “duty binder” and head out my room. Closing the door behind me as I look begrudgingly at the duty calendar.

“Thursday: Melissa”

Thursdays are the worst day to be on duty, especially when you have co-op the next morning. Thursday nights are when residence students like to party, fresh off a “long week” of classes, ready for the weekend. It also means staying awake until 1:00 AM in order to do a final “round” of the building. Such is the role of a Residence Assistant at the Mount.

I walk down the yellow-lit hallway toward the back staircase, in haste. I can feel my frustration boiling inside me. My face is getting red, my steps are getting quicker and more prominent. I keep telling myself, “Oh they have picked the wrong night.” I swing open the door to the 7^th floor and shake my head. Biting my tongue to remain calm I scan the situation ahead of me...

#1 tell the four people using a cot as a couch in the hall it get up and get off

#2 tell the guests they need to show their passes.

#3 tell the people in the hall they need to get in a room and step away from the fire extinguisher, fast.

#4 chuck the bottles.

#5 deal with the obnoxious boy who's testing his luck.

“Are you all residence students?”, I ask, albeit with a little bit of volume in my voice. Two girls piped up on the couch that they were guests. I asked them to show me their passes to which they obliged.

“And you?” I say to the preppy, scrawny boy standing in front of me, beer can in hand.

“Ahh, yeah, no I live here.” he says to me with a relatively straight face.

“Oh, do you?” I questioned as I had never seen this guy before a day in my life. Working on campus as an RA for two years has enabled me to have a keen memory for faces and his was not in the history books, “In Assisi? Really?”

“Yeah?” He replies, with a hint of bad attitude.

I can feel my whole chest heat as my patience is quickly draining. “What's your name?” my right eyebrow lifts as it always does when I know I'm right.

“Ahh...John”, he says back to me like he had forgotten what he'd been called for his 19 year old life.

“And where do you live, 'John'”, I shoot back to him.

“Um, third floor” he says as he looks slightly to the left.

“Room?” I know I've got him now. I know everyone who lives on that floor.

“301” he says. Not knowing that that is Geneiva's room, the RA of 3^rd floor.

“Oh yeah?”, I smile in confidence, “And who's your RA?” I ask, knowing that everyone on campus knows who their RA is and where they are located.

“Oh, I don't know who my RA is, I don't care about that, how would I know?” he snobbishly replies.

That's not how things work here at the Mount. We are a small school with a small residence community and everyone knows who their RA is in the building.

“Listen, I have a list of everyone on campus in this binder. But I don't need that to know there isn't a 'John' on third floor, and definitely not living in the RA's room. Now you can tell me who's guest you are, or you can get out of the building.” Perhaps on another night I would have been more laid back, joked around a bit, and ultimately came to the same conclusion. But tonight I have no patience and I never take kindly to being lied to. In fact, that is the one thing in the world I hate most. It's the idea that that person thinks they are clever enough, and I am stupid enough, that I will believe anything they say.

I gather up the students that hadn't been signed into the building, a procedure that we have in order to ensure safety in residence, and brought them to the elevator. “John” apparently wasn't finished with his attitude as he sauntered in after making everyone wait. Someone asks if we are going to move, to which he replies, “Well Miss RA here is making all of us wait.”

“Excuse me?” my eyes widen, lips tightened, and head cocked to look down on him, “Do you have a problem with me doing my job?”

“What, all I said was we're ready to go.” His demeanour changed from being the big bulldog to a quivering poodle.

“That's not what you said and the issue is your attitude. I don't have a problem throwing you right out of the building if you want to keep it up.”

Now I'm furious. The audacity he has to be so rude. It didn't matter what he said now. He lied, he was disrespectful, and he was arrogant. If I've inherited one thing from my mother it's that I'll never forget when people try to make a fool out of me and they'll know it.

We get to the front desk where Noelle looks at me and the elevator full of half stumbling baboons and shakes her head, “what have we got here?”

“We need some guest passes please,” I say tensely. She can read the frustration on my face – not like I'm trying to hide it.

The guests all sigh as they have to take time away from their drinking to do the mundane procedure of showing their ID and filling out the book. 'John' approaches the desk with ID in hand and shows it to me, “Oh, Aiden not John, hmm, look at that.” I say as I write his name down and give a knowing look to Noelle behind the desk. I told them all that their passes aren't for overnight and therefore they have to be out of the building by 1:00, “And I will be around to check.”

They all looked at each other and with their shaking heads and went back on up to resume their party while I am left fuming at the front desk. In disbelief as I can't remember the last time someone bold face lied to me.

I'm nearly jumping I have so much adrenaline. Half-way contemplating why I ever took this job in the first place: I was mad. I couldn't stop myself from fuming, “Can you BELIEVE the AUDACITY!?” I exclaim in disbelief myself.

While I approach my room there are a million thoughts going through my head. Replaying the situation, word by word, analyzing what I did. I knew my stress was elevated from earlier and likely created a more hostile attitude on my end of the conversation. But I was just in what I said and how I reacted. Rules are rules. Respect is respect. Perchance it wasn't aligned with my typical bubbly, laid-back attitude, but every moment I replay how I, “Miss RA”, handled the situation I wasn't disappointed.

I walk back into my room, pillows on the floor and lay my head down yet again in my stiff yet welcoming bed. Now to add to the to-do list: Write a report of the night's events.

Here's hoping for a peaceful night of slumber.

2:15 AM: brrrring, rinnnggg. brrrring, rinnnggg.

*names have been altered in order to maintain the confidentiality of those involved  

Somebody Else

Travelling down the outstretched highway I gazed out my window into the windows of cars passing by. A man, alone, with a perplexed look on his face. A man and woman with a couple of kids, laughing. A group of older teens bopping their heads to music I couldn't hear. And a woman, wiping her face from streaming tears, as we pass yet another vehicle on our long way home.

At seven years old the 18 hour road trips from New Brunswick to Ontario were a common event for our family. The long drive provided many pensive moments for me, though; contemplating the universe and the dynamics of people. My favourite thing to think about was that to everybody else I was just “somebody else”. Every person had their own world in which I didn't exist and therefore to them I was just “somebody”. Every person is living every single moment at the same time as me, but in their own life. Consumed in their personal thoughts, challenges, accomplishments, and families every person that passed us in every vehicle had a story and life of their own that I had no idea about. Shaping, creating, growing, learning, teaching, losing, and/or winning in the emotional roller-coaster that is their existence. Just as I sat there gazing out the window, someone else has their own life just like I do but to them I am just “somebody else”.

“Are they thinking about this too?” I pondered to myself, “what is their biggest problem right now? What are they thinking about? How do they think about things?” as every new face came into sight. I kept quiet with my thoughts while creating stories and imagining what is is they could possibly be experiencing right then. Fantasizing about what it might be like to be in their minds just for a moment to see what makes them act the way they act. Fascinated by this idea at age seven it only began to grow, evolve, and interest me more and more - integrating itself into more daily situations like how I create connections and relationships.

As I grew up and developed the concept never left me and I carry it forward with who I am today. Knowing that we each have an individual set of experiences that have shaped us and taught us the lessons that we later turn in to actions. I focus heavily on “why” we do things which has created how I analyze situations, how I approach people, and how I listen to others. I haven't lived the thoughts, challenges, and accomplishments of any other person. Yet, having this mindset causes me to remove myself, as best I can, from how I think and try to place myself in another's accumulated experiences.

And each human on earth has their own world and we'll never know what it is like to see it from another's perspective. But I always try, as best as I can, to note that as “somebody else” they are living a different life and if I can understand to my utmost ability what “somebody else” is going through, then I will have a clearer perception of a greater reality.  

These Reflections

This blog is a compound of reflections. A space for thoughts, for exploring, for learning, for teaching, and most of all - for growing. As I write I develop. I learn more about myself and my style as I write each line of every assignment, short story, letter, and article. There are concepts and theories just waiting to be explored and when I put a pen to paper (or fingers to a keyboard) they can come alive. There are feelings unidentified, there are plans to be made, and there are moments to create. When I write I develop; not only as a writer, but as a person.