And You Thought Grade One Was Tough

If you’d asked me where I’d be now 15 years ago, I wouldn’t have guessed here. I live in an even snowier city than I was raised in, where half the people speak French and a new face pulls me out of bed every day. Not the life I imagined, especially that last part. I’m not sure exactly what I expected to happen, but in my kid-mind, I thought in extremes--either I’d be fully independent (able to shower myself, dress, and by proxy walk) or I’d be dead. Either way, life was sure to have its way with me.
The second guess at my future goes as far back as my memory does. I can remember being in my junior kindergarten class with my light purple lunch pail and a piece of blank paper on the L-shaped table in front of me. Knots wrapped around knots in my stomach as the teacher called out instructions in her beautiful sing-song voice. She was telling us to fold the paper in all sorts of different ways, her hands making dainty creases with the paper until it became an airplane. Though I don’t remember the story behind why we were making an airplane, I know that it was tied to being good children of God (My JK year was spent at a private Christian school connected directly to our church).
“And after you’re finished folding, you can wash your hands for lunch,” She said in her kind-but-firm voice. I stared down at my page, with all it’s shaky creases in all the wrong places. I tried to start over. flattening the lines of my mistakes with an all too gentle hand.
Why couldn’t I do this?
I looked around the room. On my side of the L, most of the kids had already had their planes checked and refined by Ms. Coates, and were heading to the sink. I made a new fold, pushing down extra hard in hopes that the paper would do what the teacher was asking of us. But again my hands shook in a way that wasn’t welcome.
Tears started to form as the slowest kid in the class headed for the sink.
I was the new slowest. Or just a newly realized slowest.
“Don’t worry,” Ms. Coates said, “sometimes you just need a little more time.” She smiled sweetly, and then took the page, pulling a new one out of nowhere. “Here,” She put her hand on top of my small one and made all the right creases, all the while acting like she hadn’t said all of these instructions 5 minutes ago.
Ms. Coates felt like my saviour. And I was grateful. But I also felt a strange, muted sense of loss. I still don’t know how to fold a paper airplane.
School continued on with more of the same, with only my age and grade changing. At 10, when people would ask what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said that I wanted to be a bus driver and work for Sears. Most of the adults cackled and would inform me that school bus drivers didn’t make much money. In truth, I knew I couldn’t hold money easily and that I wouldn’t likely learn to drive a car or a bus. I thought this was a silly question though, so I gave it a silly answer, and people seemed to like it. I really couldn’t picture me doing anything when I grew up. The adult me that grew up to drive a bus and works in retail is able bodied and has perfect, unfrizzy hair. But no one ever asks about her.
By the time high-school came, I decided I could try writing for real. It was the opposite of my nemesis math, so it seemed fitting. When I informed my dad of my new plan, he said, “But writers don’t make much money.”When I asked what I should do instead, he said I should try many things and then decide. He left the conversation before I got to ask what I should try.
I’m old for a young person now, and still don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I’ve applied for school again and look for jobs daily that I think can manage. But every time I read that “some errands are required” with receptionist positions or “must be able to multitask,” I can’t help but think of that ruined piece of paper, with all its ugly creases. And wish I’d become a computer programmer.

Screw Valentine's, Feb 15th is All the Rage

I have always, always hated Valentine's Day. In fact, I remember being a little kid staring at this mickey-mouse cupid poster my mother had festively plastered on my bedroom door, despising heart-immersed Mickey. I wanted to flip his arrow over and make him stab himself. Then maybe he would understand how much v-day sucks.
My sociopathic daydreams didn't last forever though, because soon enough I discovered that the day after Valentine's made the horrible Hallmark holiday worth living through. And being that this wonderfully underrated post-holiday holiday is upon us, I thought I'd share why you should hold off on swallowing bleach (until at least the 16th). Here we go:


1. All the candy goes on sale--I know the same can be said of Christmas and Easter and Halloween and Thanksgiving turkeies, but Feb 15th is the only time when you can feel like a well loved bargainer, in stead of just your average joe cheapskate. I take the time to specifically bulk up on candy hearts which say "Be mine" and "Always and forever". Boys may come and go, but those preservative-infused hearts are virtually indestructible.

2. Everybody gets dumped-- And boy does misery love company. Around Valentine's, I often wish I was some sort of security agent, so I could watch people hold hands and make out in elevators on their way to work. And then watch the same people fight and cry and throw diamond rings at each other on Feb 15th. Because I'm sick like that.

3. Things turn into Easter--All the eye-sore hearts come down to be replaced with gentle pastel easter eggs and Cadberry boxes. No one cares that you don't have a boyfriend to bring you rosepedals and/or that lingerie you've been hiding in the back of LaSenza for 5 months. You don't have to lie about being busy on Valentine's--where busy means chocolate truffles, The Horse Whisperer and a box of tissues because Robert Redford never gets the girl--because it's Feb 15. You're free. Now go buy yourself a Marshmallow Caramel chocolate egg or a Kindle Surprise and pretend it's for your nephew.

So next year, when the calender has only 28 days in Feb, don't sleep through the 14th, because time is limited. And you know you have a whole lot of awesome waiting for you on the 15th. Might as well make the best out of one of the worst holidays--the very worst of course, being Family Day.

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Why the Grammys Sucked This Year

Come Grammy time, some people sit in front of their wide flat screens with a big bottle of Merlot and an even bigger dress, in hopes of catching some Grammy glam spirit. Personally, I have never been over the moon about an event that rewards already famous singers with a sprinkle of extra attention, and a cherry of private limos, red carpet, and continually unprecedented luxury.
Despite my apathy towards the Grammys, I make a point of watching every year, mostly so I have some go-to topic of conversation when my usual fallback of "How bout that weather?" fails. After this year's event though, I'm proud to say that my ice-breaker topic has gained momentum, because the Grammy's were thoroughly disappointing.
Rather than watching the three-hour event, I've provided you with some Cliff Notes as to why the Grammys were more sub-par than usual. Feel free to use entire sentences when your friends are yammering on about how great everyone looked.

1. Sad,sad songs-- I'm pretty sure those poofy-dressed Grammy-heads I previously described had layers of mascara streaming down their cheeks about half way into the show. Kelly Clarkson's tribute performance of The Tennessee Waltz was beautifully reminiscent, and wonderfully tragic, but also horribly depressing. I don't know about you, but when I watch the Grammys, I usually have super secret hopes that I'll be temporarily swept away into the land of luxury and charm (even if I do think the whole premise of the show is redundant). I definitely couldn't do that with Kelly Clarkson in her funeral black dress cry-singing about some waltz I've never heard of and a time when she felt like a natural woman.
To add insult to injury, Rihanna then busted out a new single Stay, joined by Mikky Ekko, whom I just heard about tonight. Much like Clarkson's song, Rihanna's song had a beautifully tragic sound to it, though it differed from Kelly's in its dark undertones. Again, I was unable to escape into Grammy-land, instead being reminded of the beautiful dysfunction love can bring. No Grammy-get away for me.

2. LL Cool J--I don't really feel the need to elaborate much on this one. He sang a song called "Whaddup" with Travis Barker and captain 99 Bitches. The word "Whaddup" was scrolled across the back-drop over head for most of the performance, in case audiences couldn't make out what was being said. This was considerate of the Grammy Producers, since both Jay-Z and Mr. J were shouting the lyrics, made inaudible by Travis Barker's crazy drum playing and the fact that "Whaddup" is not an actual word, nor intelligent slang. And that classy act was the Grammys final performance. It was clearly meant as a satiric statement about the state of music today. That's my story and I'm running with it.

3. Chris Brown- He's at the bottom of the list because that exactly where he belongs on the celebrity totem pole. In fact, he shouldn't be on the totem pole, but the fact that he is shows how nonchalant the public eye is about abusive douchebags. Apparently everyone's forgotten --and by proxy forgave-- even though Brown is still being violent and losing his temper. Let's not forget, the guy also sports a tattoo of a beaten woman with a striking resemblance to Rihanna, unabashedly. When he is questioned about his previous treatment of his on-again-off-again girlfriend--whom he beat up-- he usually states, "Everybody makes mistakes. But I'm here to talk about my album."
He gives no "I'm sincerely sorry." No tears. No explanation (probably because any attempt at explaining such an atrocity would make him look worse, as it should.). Just blatant signs of zero-remorse and an abundance of some old-time narcissism. Yeah, let's promote the dude further. He seems like he totally deserves it.
I could go on forever about all the millions of implications that Chris Brown being at the Grammys bring, but I'm really busy puking in my mouth over it. The most significant point is that it covey's America's complete lack of awareness and conviction surrounding abuse and people with abusive personalities. Very disheartening.
So, there it is, the reasons why the Grammys this year left a sour taste in my mouth. Better luck next year. Who knows, maybe Rihanna or Kelly will come out with a bubble-gum hit, LL cool J will finally give up the gig and Chris Brown will move to a solitary island.

Stranger Danger

Ever since I can remember, people have stared at me. It’s no wonder: I’m quite cute really, with hair curly enough to open a wine bottle, and I’m small enough to fit into people’s pockets. Oh, and I’m in a wheelchair. So there’s that.
Sometimes little kids point. This warms my heart. A small boy takes his finger out of the treasure hunt happening in his nose to inquire about my machinery. How cute.
What’s not-so-cute is when adults think being in a wheelchair is a green light for chatting up a storm. Eons ago, when I was employed, there was a woman on my bus that put the seat up for me, so that I could back into the wheelchair space. She smiled gleefully, and I nodded, thanking her.
“Oh you’re certainly welcome,” She added, “I love helping disabled people. Everyone should have equal rights.” She smiled again and raised her voice just enough so that the teenagers blaring their headphones at the back of the bus could hear.
She seemed to mean well,even if a little too well, so I nodded again in agreement and deviated my eyes, sipping my coffee mindlessly.
“Some people just don’t understand,” she continued. “They don’t know how hard it is to be disabled”
“Oh, it’s not--” I stopped short. I wasn’t going to change her mind on this 5 minute bus ride.
I guess, in other people’s minds, being in a wheelchair automatically means I’m all-ears for disability. Just like how all gay people are out and proud and waiting to talk about it 24/7. Oh wait.
Last summer, a friend and I were going to meet up with some mutual friends downtown. We both use wheelchairs, and were waiting to cross the street when a guy about 20 interrupted our conversation. “Excuse me, Ladies” he said, “You seem to be having a lot of fun tonight,” I gave my friend a confused he’s-a-creep look and didn’t respond. “I’m not trying to be rude, but I just find it amazing that neither of you are angry considering your situation” My friend and I laughed. I wish more people knew that when you preface a sentence with “I’m not trying to be rude” to a visible minority, with intent of asking them--a perfect stranger--about their "point of difference", you are being rude.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem talking about my disability or disability issues (I have a blog about it, for godsake). What’s problematic is the mistaken assumption that visible disability is an invitation for discussion with any joe blow. It’s not. If you want to know what its like to be disabled, and you don’t have any friends with physical disabilities to ask, use your imagination. Or Google it. Or better yet, try a wheelchair challenge.

When Two Wheelies Hang-Out

A couple years ago,my then-boyfriend and I were scooting around Loblaws on a vicious mission to be successful, full-grown, healthy-eating twenty-somethings. In the thin mac-and-cheese aisle, a woman in her early 50s did a double-take of our side-by-side wheelchairs, caught my eye with her staring and said, “Oh, how cute!”
I’m ridiculously used to this infantile, ignorant reaction when people

see two people in wheelchairs in close proximity. I’ve had best friends in wheelchairs since my second year in university, and I’ve since graduated, so I've pretty much heard it all. Other versions of this awkward proclamation include:

“Awe, isn’t that nice” Is what nice? You think it’s nice that both of us have trouble reaching the top-of-the shelf 2% milk?
And,
“No racing, you two.” Fuck. How did he know my plan? Now I have to leave the pads I was gonna shoplift while racing out of here. Talk about buzzkill.
And of course, my personal, though much over-used favorite:
“Woah, it’s a party in here.” Party? Where? Oh right. Wherever there’s two people in wheelchairs it’s a party. Because we’re that cool, obviously.

Some people in wheelchairs let these uncomfortable reactions rain on their wheelie parade. And they’ve got damn good reason.But me, if I didn’t laugh at it, I’d bawl my eyes out. In the middle of the store. Fall out of my chair into the fetal position. The whole nine-yards.
So I laugh, and say something equally ridiculous like, “I know I’m cute, thank-you” with a big, cheesy smile. It’s the closest I come to “fuck-you.”
Because really, it is intensely patronizing and non-sensical. If you’re lacking perspective on this, just picture a person approaching a bi-racial couple and saying “Don’t you go making too many beautiful mixed-raced babies, you two.” They’d get punched in the face. Or purse-slapped, maybe spit on. Or all three.
Maybe next time I’m out with my friend, and a spectacularly ignorant comment comes my way, I’ll smile my cheesiest and back into them. Yes?

Hysterectomy Hysteria in India: The Booming Scam

For those of you who don’t know, there’s this awful new batch of doctors in India who are scamming women. Their method? Taking their uterus out unnecessarily.
Yes, you heard right. These “doctors” run private practices within low-income Indian communities, and sustain a high customer base because of the collapse of the Indian health care system. Many times a day, a woman with especially harsh menstrual cramps or a treatable bladder infection visit these doctors because the public hospital is not an option, only to be told they need to have an emergency hysterectomy.

As for these fraudulent health care professionals, they make about $200 per unneeded surgery. And when they’re in a hurry because they’ve got other falsely toxic baby making organs to remove, they simply cut along the Sharpie line and then close up, uterus still in place.

Evil at its Finest
BBC recently interviewed one of the many women sucked into this money-making plot, stating that the woman was “rushed to surgery” without even a chance to discuss the matter with her husband or get a second opinion. The article glazes over the fact that the women wasn’t sure of her own age. If you ask me, this is a trademark of a very vulnerable population, without access to public record or other concrete information. BBC claims the woman guestimates her age to be 25.
Which leads me to another disgusting point: majority of the women submitted to have the sham operation are under 40. Last I knew, most hysterectomies, (excluding situations where cancer and terminal illnesses are actually had) were performed upwards of 45. You know, when they are actually required. BBC points this out, noting that many of the hysterectomies done in these private clinics are not always needed.
I wonder if personal financial gain is the only motive, or whether it is, perhaps, also a method of population control. The women that have the operation are often on India’s version of social assistance, recieving roughly $550 per month. With the public hospitals not being able to meet their needs, maybe someone Up Top is hoping these women won’t reproduce and continue to harvest a poorer population.

Something About a Black Kettle
When Jill McGivering, BBC Reporter, asked one doctor about the surgeries and accusations that these women were being rushed into unnecessary operations, he looked up and said, “Oh, those women aren’t telling the truth. Unlike other clinics in the area, mine is ethical.”
This doctor is clearly ethical. Everyone knows that when a group of women have come forward to claim they have all been part of your scam, the right thing to do is just call them all liars. The Ethics Board would totally agree. No need to check in with the women,or to gather proof or anything. Just go back to work. You have a scam surgery to do at 3:00 and you have to be focused to make a fake incision.

To point out the obvious, this a tragic, tragic situation. A systematic abuse of women who are simply seeking medical treatment and instead get looped into a con. Even more sad is to think that it is only one of many. How do we stop these people?