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.