This morning I woke up to a torrent of tweets and news stories about the mass shooting that happened last night on Danforth Rd. here in Toronto. A now (alarmingly) familiar formula was followed which included the deployment of the #TorontoStrong hashtag, the obsessive eagerness to (erroneously) quantify the number of victims in real time, and the rallying cries for unity by politicians and police chiefs. But while all these measures have come to constitute what we may now consider "normal"--a disturbing realization in and of itself--at the heart of this collective grief is a specific kind of mourning reserved for certain spaces (and their populations). This is reflected in euphemistic claims about how "safe" the neighbourhood continues to be, and in comments such as that of Andrea Horwath in city hall this morning:
"This tragedy does not reflect the Danforth, the city, or the province."
There are several ways we can analyze such statements. For example, we can argue about how such incidents do in fact reflect the community, the parts of it that we avert our eyes from. Though it may be too early in this moment, we can look more and more at the bigger picture on mental health and access to guns, for example. Perhaps this sort of public grief is rooted in a self-centred empathy: the
belief that innocent people should not face such untold tragedy represents our anxieties about such tragedy being visited upon us, or those we love. On the other hand, we can commend such a view for challenging the tendency to conflate an individual's actions with their entire neighbourhood, community, family, environment. The issue is that this nuanced discursive approach is only applied to specific narratives and neighbourhoods.
During a time of heightened fear--and fear-mongering--around what has been called "The Summer of The Gun 2.0", there has been no shortage of news covering what is often presented as a spike in gun violence, and the defaulted to "gang violence". Upon landing at the airport a few weeks ago, the first jumbo TV screen I noticed carried story after story about a string of shootings that had occurred while I was gone. Headlines scream alarmist claims like "Toronto homicide rates higher than NYC", and almost every public conversation involves a debate around the need to deploy (and employ) more police.
As ultimate example of the way these tragedies are collectively handled, Community Safety and Corrections Minister Michael Tibollo was recently quoted as saying,
"I went out to Jane and Finch, put on a bulletproof vest...visiting sites that had previously
had bullet-ridden people killed in the middle of the night..."
If the rallying cries to remember that the Danforth community (a.k.a "Greektown") is transcendent of such violent tragedy represents much-needed relativism, then comments and actions such as those of Tibollo represent a negligent essentialization. Rather than share in the grief of a community already affected by unimaginable loss and direct trauma, they are subjected to further stigmatization, even to blame. These environments are to be targeted for strategic intervention, and at the very least, to be handled separately and carefully with gloves--or a bullet-proof vest. It's as though the neighbourhood's inhabitants are deserving of, responsible for, or to be held guilty for the tragedy that unfolds right around them. Not only does this problematic view assume the inherent criminality of some spaces, it is a faulty logic that obscures structural dynamics of inequality that transcend a neighbourhood's boundaries.
Everytime I skim a major publication's coverage, or read what another politician said, it feels like 2005 all over again--the original "Summer of The Gun". As a result of those events and the way they were portrayed, I watched the neighbourhood I grew up in specifically, and the surrounding region (shoutout to Scarborough) become entangled in a targeted intervention that did little more than stigmatize it and solidify all the stereotypes that served as part of the mythology that forms our space(s).
17 July 2018
Guaranteed Basic Income
Free Lunch Sociey trailer
I watched this engaging documentary on my return flight and I've been thinking about its contents ever since. Free Lunch Society explores the idea of a guaranteed basic income: a payment made to individuals that ensures a minimum income level, regardless of employment status. It features discussions among economists, political scientists, sociologists, and other -ists about its advantages and disadvantages. Interspersed in the debates is a collection of archival footage, including Martin Luther's resistance struggle against President L.B.J's "war on poverty".
The film provides a good introduction and presents the idea as a realistic possibility—highlighting different communities that have already experimented with the concept—rather than a romantic radical fantasy. In fact, the Ontario government just finished the first phase of a basic income pilot project in Hamilton, with plans to launch in Brantford, Brant County, Lindsay and Thunder Bay.
bad at comforting
I held my mother as she cried today. I sat next to her on the couch and reached my arms all around, expecting her to brush me away as usual. She didn't, and in those moments her body felt so much smaller than mine. The numbness which I had been cloaking myself with against the all day attacks suddenly cracked. As it slipped away I felt a raw anger pointed at our attacker--the source of mom's tears.
I leaned in and squeezed tighter the harder she sobbed, the more she apologized for what she could've, should've, would've done to put an end to all this. For a second I let myself imagine that I was transferring my numbness, that perhaps in exchange for her pain I could loan her some of my indifference. But in this equation, it was only the misery that had been multiplied.
I've always felt unskilled when it comes to providing comfort in times of grief; I freeze, I get awkward. I either cant't say the right thing or say too much. That in turn makes me feel more guilty. But no matter what, there are few worse feelings than watching your mother fall apart and knowing there's nothing you can do to stop it.
I leaned in and squeezed tighter the harder she sobbed, the more she apologized for what she could've, should've, would've done to put an end to all this. For a second I let myself imagine that I was transferring my numbness, that perhaps in exchange for her pain I could loan her some of my indifference. But in this equation, it was only the misery that had been multiplied.
I've always felt unskilled when it comes to providing comfort in times of grief; I freeze, I get awkward. I either cant't say the right thing or say too much. That in turn makes me feel more guilty. But no matter what, there are few worse feelings than watching your mother fall apart and knowing there's nothing you can do to stop it.
16 July 2018
Dis(tress)patches from the Archives
I have this habit of thinking in third
person.
“As she adjusted some more books on the shelf, the framed picture caught her attention and she wondered how it could ever be that her eyes had once looked so bright and innocent.”
I don’t know when it started, but sometime
during my coming up I began to describe the situations around me as they
unfolded—to myself, in my own head, as a witness.
I think it developed from all the books I
read. I think it developed as a necessary device for a kid who always spent
more time in her head than out.
Now, I think it’s a coping mechanism, or a
subconscious escapism. Either way, it somehow gives me a momentary
disassociation, or perhaps a hyper-association that quickly displaces the me.
“She shut the door behind her and scampered
to her bed, a sense of defeat in each step. The warm damp air of another summer
night flowed through the window and she knew she would somehow have to force
herself to sleep. She lay in the soft lump of her blankets distracted by
thoughts of just how many crickets chirped from below…”
I write this way too. Even when I tell my
stories, sharp memories that still make me feel the way they did when they
happened. Sometimes I wonder if even my tendency to turn my “I”s into “she”s
and “we”s is not a good enough disguise. Its like maybe I don’t know how to belong to a story in
a way that doesn’t betray it. That doesn’t betray me.
“A loud, clunky bang
below suddenly seized the moment, and her eyes darted up from the page. Heart
banging out of her chest, the book fell to the floor as she stood up to throw
herself against the door.”
Truth be told, I don’t
even want to be in the stories.
(2014)
15 July 2018
Talk like an egyptian... Or Walk
"This is Christine, my Egyptian friend!"
It's an introduction I have heard since I was a little girl. Since that age when kids started to get wind of the world outside of their home, school, neighbourhood, city; when they've started to absorb the mythology handed down to them through TV and parents/caregivers. It's the preface that prepares me for the inevitable questions about riding on camels, or the incredulous remarks about the corpses of others (i.e mummies).
"Egypt, I've always wanted to visit," the gentleman declares with a smile.
Ah yes, one of the most common reactions I get, which notifies me right away that the person who has made this claim has clearly never visited--or even spoken to anyone who has.
"...the pyramids, how are they? I've always been amazed by them..."
And I have always been amazed by how unimaginative people's references are as soon as they hear mention of a place they've only ever heard about in mythical ways. I give in, stitching together an equally generic response--replete with cheesy pun--about how no matter how many times you see them, they never get old.
"I've been everywhere--from Sri Lanka to Jordan to Samoa--but Egypt and The Serengeti are still on my list."
At this, my interest returns. Surely someone this well-travelled, with enough familiarity of places the average Canadian snowbird wouldn't normally consider, might have a slightly more nuanced view than that offered by movies like The Mummy.
"Do you speak the language?"--and before I could answer-- "Say something in egyptian!"
I pause and consider my options. It would be so much easier to let this man babble on about the mythical Egypt he has seen in movies, and besides, I'm starting to grow weary. Acting as ambassador to a place I myself am hardly familiar enough with is tiring. Being "the first (second, or third) Egyptian I've ever met!" is diminishing. I don't want to perform the "subaltern stereotype squasher" role into perpetuity. But a huge part of me understands that staying quiet and letting the lazy stereotypes get swapped around is fraught with its own dangers.
***
Earlier, a friend of a friend is delighted to learn that I have just returned from Cairo.
"My mom is going there with a bunch of her friends in a few months. I'm so jealous."
I smile and say something in agreement. I imagine what it would be like if my own mother did things like travel the world with her friends. The idea comforts me, though I know the likelihood of it playing out in reality is slim.
"...Yeah they're going on a whole tour of the area. Jordan, Egypt, Jerusalem..."
The warm thought bubble suddenly bursts and I find myself biting back the urge to launch into a diatribe about the Israeli occupation. I stay quiet, and the shame from that nestles itself into the heart of my conscience, where it resurfaces in this moment of exchange.
***
I am in the middle of correcting this man, of explaining the difference between Egyptian and Arabic, of clarifying that I am not a Muslim and that not all Egyptians are, of debunking his cartoonish version of a vivid place fresh in my memory, when he says it:
"Can you walk like an Egyptian?'
***
It's an introduction I have heard since I was a little girl. Since that age when kids started to get wind of the world outside of their home, school, neighbourhood, city; when they've started to absorb the mythology handed down to them through TV and parents/caregivers. It's the preface that prepares me for the inevitable questions about riding on camels, or the incredulous remarks about the corpses of others (i.e mummies).
"Egypt, I've always wanted to visit," the gentleman declares with a smile.
Ah yes, one of the most common reactions I get, which notifies me right away that the person who has made this claim has clearly never visited--or even spoken to anyone who has.
"...the pyramids, how are they? I've always been amazed by them..."
And I have always been amazed by how unimaginative people's references are as soon as they hear mention of a place they've only ever heard about in mythical ways. I give in, stitching together an equally generic response--replete with cheesy pun--about how no matter how many times you see them, they never get old.
"I've been everywhere--from Sri Lanka to Jordan to Samoa--but Egypt and The Serengeti are still on my list."
At this, my interest returns. Surely someone this well-travelled, with enough familiarity of places the average Canadian snowbird wouldn't normally consider, might have a slightly more nuanced view than that offered by movies like The Mummy.
"Do you speak the language?"--and before I could answer-- "Say something in egyptian!"
I pause and consider my options. It would be so much easier to let this man babble on about the mythical Egypt he has seen in movies, and besides, I'm starting to grow weary. Acting as ambassador to a place I myself am hardly familiar enough with is tiring. Being "the first (second, or third) Egyptian I've ever met!" is diminishing. I don't want to perform the "subaltern stereotype squasher" role into perpetuity. But a huge part of me understands that staying quiet and letting the lazy stereotypes get swapped around is fraught with its own dangers.
***
Earlier, a friend of a friend is delighted to learn that I have just returned from Cairo.
"My mom is going there with a bunch of her friends in a few months. I'm so jealous."
I smile and say something in agreement. I imagine what it would be like if my own mother did things like travel the world with her friends. The idea comforts me, though I know the likelihood of it playing out in reality is slim.
"...Yeah they're going on a whole tour of the area. Jordan, Egypt, Jerusalem..."
The warm thought bubble suddenly bursts and I find myself biting back the urge to launch into a diatribe about the Israeli occupation. I stay quiet, and the shame from that nestles itself into the heart of my conscience, where it resurfaces in this moment of exchange.
***
I am in the middle of correcting this man, of explaining the difference between Egyptian and Arabic, of clarifying that I am not a Muslim and that not all Egyptians are, of debunking his cartoonish version of a vivid place fresh in my memory, when he says it:
"Can you walk like an Egyptian?'
***
14 July 2018
Dis[tress]patches
The uncertainty of it all is the most stressful part.
You could be in the clutches of a deep, comfortable sleep when the terrifying shrieks yank you right back. The screaming is soon accompanied by wailing and for a brief, dizzying moment you wonder if perhaps you haven't awoke at all. Perhaps you have been thrust into a nightmare; except somewhere in your consciousness you recognize this brand of chaos. You try to ignore it at first, try to shut your eyes and even put a pillow over your head. This pathetic attempt at disassociation only makes the swelling combination of foolish curiosity and illogical guilt grow larger. Soon they have taken full control of your body--you are up and reaching for the controls on the tower fan, switching off the liberating gusts of cool air and sonic relief. Now you can make out the ramble more clearly. Curse words are hurled in a staccato, rapid-fire assault at no target in particular. You swallow back a clod of misplaced guilt, the kind that witnesses to traumatic events and survivors are left with, despite knowing they could have done nothing to alter destiny. You know better than to step into the line of fire. Besides, all desire to perform the noble sacrificial lamb role have evaporated over time and have been replaced by a collective resentment. There's nothing you can do but save yourself, you try to repeat to your distracted mind. The booming thumps of footsteps made heavy with rage get louder--it's coming for you. You throw your full weight behind the door--and your faith in its ability to keep the threat at bay...
You could be in the clutches of a deep, comfortable sleep when the terrifying shrieks yank you right back. The screaming is soon accompanied by wailing and for a brief, dizzying moment you wonder if perhaps you haven't awoke at all. Perhaps you have been thrust into a nightmare; except somewhere in your consciousness you recognize this brand of chaos. You try to ignore it at first, try to shut your eyes and even put a pillow over your head. This pathetic attempt at disassociation only makes the swelling combination of foolish curiosity and illogical guilt grow larger. Soon they have taken full control of your body--you are up and reaching for the controls on the tower fan, switching off the liberating gusts of cool air and sonic relief. Now you can make out the ramble more clearly. Curse words are hurled in a staccato, rapid-fire assault at no target in particular. You swallow back a clod of misplaced guilt, the kind that witnesses to traumatic events and survivors are left with, despite knowing they could have done nothing to alter destiny. You know better than to step into the line of fire. Besides, all desire to perform the noble sacrificial lamb role have evaporated over time and have been replaced by a collective resentment. There's nothing you can do but save yourself, you try to repeat to your distracted mind. The booming thumps of footsteps made heavy with rage get louder--it's coming for you. You throw your full weight behind the door--and your faith in its ability to keep the threat at bay...
11 July 2018
Insomniac Soliloquies to Self
it's 4 am and i find myself wide awake, twisting from side to side as though the furtive movements will eventually tire me out before finally giving in and sitting up. i turn on the lamp next to my bed--touch activated, a novelty in the 1980s it clearly dates to--and reach for my phone and the book I am halfway through reading. of course, this is purely for symbolic purposes, or maybe an incorrigible habit i adopted before my phone became an extra limb.
after distractedly shuffling through a montage of facebook videos-- old couples on vacation, white people calling the cops on black people for absurd reasons, a vice video about something to do with a fake fashion show (or restaurant, or drug, etc.)...
suddenly i am fixated by the image of a boy, no older than 14, whose hands are expertly binding together slats of timber using what appears to be a natural twill of some sort. he builds a cylindrical wall around a hole he has already dug out, his hands moving efficiently and gracefully, creating the perfect structure. with the miracle of time-lapse he soon creates a wheel out of hollow logs carefully woven together, and a mechanism attached to the wheel which allows for several "cups" to successively dispense water from the water reserve below. voila-- a well.
thinking about this boy's masterful use of hands, the aptitude with which he designed and created this whole thing machine before my very eyes, i hear that tormenting voice in the back of my head and i start to wonder. if a 5 minute time-lapsed video of my skill was to be made, what would it show? beyond the soup of cliche resume points, like "team player" (am i really?), or "excellent communication skills" (they're okay), what real skills do i have?...
somewhere between wondering what college program i can quickly enroll in to overcome this, and blaming my parents for not forcing me to study something more tangible, more valued in "the real world", i slip back into sleep mode...
after distractedly shuffling through a montage of facebook videos-- old couples on vacation, white people calling the cops on black people for absurd reasons, a vice video about something to do with a fake fashion show (or restaurant, or drug, etc.)...
suddenly i am fixated by the image of a boy, no older than 14, whose hands are expertly binding together slats of timber using what appears to be a natural twill of some sort. he builds a cylindrical wall around a hole he has already dug out, his hands moving efficiently and gracefully, creating the perfect structure. with the miracle of time-lapse he soon creates a wheel out of hollow logs carefully woven together, and a mechanism attached to the wheel which allows for several "cups" to successively dispense water from the water reserve below. voila-- a well.
thinking about this boy's masterful use of hands, the aptitude with which he designed and created this whole thing machine before my very eyes, i hear that tormenting voice in the back of my head and i start to wonder. if a 5 minute time-lapsed video of my skill was to be made, what would it show? beyond the soup of cliche resume points, like "team player" (am i really?), or "excellent communication skills" (they're okay), what real skills do i have?...
somewhere between wondering what college program i can quickly enroll in to overcome this, and blaming my parents for not forcing me to study something more tangible, more valued in "the real world", i slip back into sleep mode...
10 July 2018
Hello, Again...
It's been exactly one week since I came back from my short trip to Cairo.
While away, I
In the week since I have been here, I
So let's give this thing another try, shall we?
While away, I
- saw more sides to the city (I once thought I knew intimately) than I have in my decades of going back combined
- fell in love with Cairo
- drank more 3aseer asab (sugarcane juice) & street food than I ever thought my stomach could handle
- experienced freedom there in ways I have never been able to--at times it felt borrowed, or too good to be true
- fell out of love with Cairo
- remembered what it was like to want to write, instead of feel guilty over the fact that I should want to write but have no desire to
- didn't get to see the pyramids, but came to peace with the fact that they've been there for at least a few thousand years, and will likely be there when I return...
In the week since I have been here, I
- caught a bad cold that was probably not as bad as it seemed, but seemed to conveniently match my mood since returning
- finally received my delayed luggage--though, truth be told, I was low-key hoping I would never have to see it again (i.e. deal with more clothes than I already have)
- have felt more compelled than ever to regularly write, and perhaps return to the blog world
- thought about all of the ways I can get back out of this city
- come to terms with the reality that Toronto isn't all that bad after all, and I should probably work on changing my perspective
So let's give this thing another try, shall we?
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