Last Night...

in the old apartment! (As I wrote the above title to this entry, the song "High Times" by Jamiroquai popped in my head, and now it's the soundtrack to this post. ♫Doo doo doo doo doo...♫)

I've packed up just about everything I can pack (except for my bedding) and then as of tomorrow, I'm going to live somewhere else! That's amazing! I don't have that same sadness this time around of leaving behind my home. I think it's because this time is not like the other times, when I was leaving my ex-husband and not knowing when I'd go back home or even if it still was my home, or like the time I left my parents' house which, although it came with its own brand of challenges and a houseful of teenagers, was nevertheless my soft landing, my safe place where I was welcome and loved just the way I was.

Now I'm moving away from an apartment that doesn't have Stephanie in it anymore. All of the heart has gone out of the place. Now there's nothing left there but great big rooms, marble floors and nosy cotton' pickin' OCD landlords. And I'm sore as anything from lifting and shifting furniture and whatnot.
(The whatnot would be the extensive cleaning of the apartment, including, walls, ceilings and every little nooks and cranny. And I mean every single one. I don't want them to be able to say a pair of jungle bunnies lived up in there.)

I'm moving forward and upward on to a bright new start, Babies! And the forecast is looking clear and bright!

♫Doo doo doo doo doo...♫

Don't you know that last night
Turned to daylight
And a minute became a day
Last night
All my troubles
Well they seemed so, so far away
Searching my reflection
For a glimpse of, another me
I've got to get away from these high times
All these high high times
Cause these high times
Are killing me

Cleaning House

Since I've been packing in preparation for the move, I've been decluttering and feng shui-ing my apartment. It's such an amazing feeling to throw away those things that you've been hanging on to out of nostalgia (or laziness) but which no longer serve a useful purpose, or those things which which lose their initial significance. You know what I'm talking about. Those relics of previous days that you thought would always mean so much to you, or that would recall moments that you thought would always be pleasurable?

Yeah, allyuh packrats, I'm talkin to YOU.

I too, have been guilty of this phenomenon in the past, but once I started throwing out the things I didn't need (like those articles of clothing I haven't worn in the past year, for example) and got down to the bare essentials, I felt so light! Like I was actually on top of things! Well, soon that translated itself over to feng shui-ing my body and clearing out stupid junk foods, alcohol, and cigarettes (I haven't slipped up in a week). Next, comes the clearing out of angry, bitter and frustrated resentments that I've been hanging on to. Who needs them? They're just taking up space in my mind. Even little things like clearing my desk, my purse, clearing away profanity...now that I've started, I just can't stop!

Anyway, to quote the good folks of Parliament (think Funkadelic and not government):

Free your mind and your booty will follow...

Atlanta: The final Chapter

I liked Atlanta, and I really relished my final hang-outs with Stephanie. We drove through Buckhead which was a pretty funky little neighbourhood. Reminded me a little bit of Montreal. It was a welcome change from the strip malls we seemed to be seeing in all the suburbs. We drove past the governor's house and through this neighbourhood with some spectacular homes.

Downtown was...well, basically just another downtown, albeit with a lot more Coca-Cola advertisements than I've ever seen in any town. But here's something I'd never seen before: Policemen wearing shorts! They seemed less intimidating somehow, stern faces and scowls notwithstanding. But you know, you still gotta respect a dude with a gun and a billy club, even if he has chicken legs and ashy knees.

Beluga was a cool martini bar in buckhead where we went for drinks that night, and the live band playing that night was the bomb! It's nice to be a spectator sometimes, you know? I expected a martini bar to be something like the Jello Bar, a little more loungy, more laid-back. Anyways, if it wasn't for the band, the killer music (we killed it on the dance floor, baby!) and super tasty martinis, it would have been disappointing. But it was all good.

Flying back home the next day was an ordeal. The kicker is, up until a certain point, I was just sailing on through. I even had time for a quick bite at a soul food joint. (Fried chicken, cornbread, collards, macaroni, and black eyed peas, all covered in hot sauce! Yum. Much better choice than the typical burger joint, or chinese food place, or sub-par Italian counter.) I couldn't finish my plate, though. Pity.

But once I hit airport security, it was ridiculous. It took two tries to make absolutely sure I didn't have a single thing in my purse or on my person that made them nervous. In the end, I had to mail some of my stuff back to myself. The lady in the Post Office was amazing. I didn't have enough money on me at the time so she paid for my shipping. I'm buying her a thank-you card today and enclosing a money order with it. Good Samaritans abound! I was truly humbled and touched by this perfect stranger just wanting to help me out.

Then came the mad dash to the train (yes, you have to take a train between terminals) and to board the plane. That convinced me to take the weight-loss thing seriously, I thought I would hyperventilate and pass out after that sprint.

It was one of those itty bitty planes, and I'd forgotten how bumpy a ride it can be in a fifty-seater. But it wasn't worrisome. By far, the most stressful flight I ever had in a small plane was the flight from Indonesia to Singapore with Lianne. I'll never forget the sight of the cockpit (because it was only separated from the cabin by a curtain, which was drawn back) completely lit up, beeping loudly, and the sight of the pilot scratching his head in confusion.

Then, home again, home again, jiggety jog.
My tale of my cross-country pilgrimage is done.

Spread love today, Bay-bees!

Press Release!

Also, an excuse to add pics, which I haven't done in forever...

BLACK THEATRE WORKSHOP

YouthWorks: COMPREHENSIVE PERFORMANCE ARTS TRAINING

2006-2007 Season

Open Audition Call

Press release
For immediate release


Montreal, August 23, 2006 – The word is out! Black Theatre Workshop’s YouthWorks, Performing Arts Training Program, will be holding open auditions on September 2nd and 9th.The auditions will be held in the Black Theatre Workshop Studio Space, 3680 Jeanne Mance, Suite 460. All levels of experience are welcome.

YouthWorks invites all interested young people to join its fall/winter program, which runs from September 23, 2006 to May 7, 2007. If you are between the ages of 12 and 25, this is your chance to unleash your talents or simply discover your creative voice.

YouthWorks is a bilingual multi-disciplinary program that offers Introductory, Intermediate and Advanced level programs. YouthWorks helps develop key skills and values involved in theatre performance integrating both Western and Africentric theatre principles and practices. Our aim is to expose participants to a hybrid of theatre training that resonates with and is more accessible to our young people.

The 26 week fall / winter program picks up from our 2 week summer intensive program, with an individualized and comprehensive performance curriculum. Students in Levels I and II develop their skills through focusing on staging and play production. Level III students create, develop, and stage their own creations encompassing a variety of performance art forms.

This year, YouthWorks introduces its Industry Seminars. Industry Professionals will offer to YouthWorks participants a Specialty Workshop Series covering a variety of disciplines on an invitation-only basis. YouthWorks participants will also have the opportunity to attend performances of Black Theatre Workshops Mainstage productions as well as this year’s special BTW presentation of The Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre in collaboration with Les Grands Ballets Canadiens.

Black Theatre Workshop
YouthWorks 2006-2007 Season
Auditions September 2, 9, and 16, 2006
To book an interview:
(514) 932-1104 ext. 224
Fax: 932-6311

youthworks@blacktheatreworkshop.ca

This is not an entertaining post...

Does anyone know someone looking to buy a washing machine? Call me or email me if you know anyone...I gotta get rid of it before I move next week.


As for the heading, well, what can I say. When your bread and butter is the entertainment industry, sometimes you just want to indulge in the luxury of being boring.

So HA! I revel in my banality!
Friends can stay, haters go catch the show if you want entertainment. Or just go.

The Road Warriors

Sorry it took me so long to update, but I've been busy...good busy! And now I have found a gorgeous apartment! I'll be living right around the corner from Cyrille and Charmaine (hmm, I suspect that I'll be getting lots of calls to babysit--actually, that's okay, they've got cable!) And the beauty supply shops are barely a 20 minute walk! Yes sir! My hair will be hooked up...SOLID! I won't have to wait until I go stateside to get hair goodies! Although I can never seem to find Matrix Biolage products at a decent price in town. But I digress.

My own, pretty, pretty apartment! Yay! God came through for me, Babies! Thanks for the prayers, did they ever work! It's a decent price that I can afford, so I won't be destitute. I won't even be po'. I'll just be broke. That's a step in the right direction, I think. Next step, find a second job. Then I'll get out of debt. And baby, after that, the sky's the limit! I'll start saving!

So yeah, the rest of the trip...

So we hit the road early the next morning, full of coffee and better rested than the day before. I continued knitting while me and Stephanie talked, and talked, AND talked. I haven't talked that much with any single person in a long time. And the tunes were so good1 The rest of Baltimore sped by to the sounds of Amel Larrieux. Sigh.

Washington D.C. and Virginia were all about Earth, Wind and Fire. And I saw brick red roads for the first time in my life. It's pretty trippy. (I've never been to P.E.I. so I've never witnessed that phenomenon firsthand before.) And it was swelteringly hot. That dirty heatwave just wouldn't let up, man.
Kudzu creeps over all the trees and makes these wicked living leafy sculptures all along the side of the road, which was cool. Ah, and Donny Hathaway saw us over the state line into North Carolina.

Because we switched from the I-95 to the I-85, we didn't get to stop at South of the Border, this wonderfully tacky theme park in South Carolina just south of the state line to N.C. Mom and Fabian wouldn't stop there either when we drove down to Florida during my high school days. More's the pity. I remember watching that movie with Sandra Bullock and Ben Affleck Forces of Nautre, and it looked like they were having so much fun when they stopped there. And I mean, they aren't the finest actors around, so it must be true! I make a solemn promise to myself to one day stop there and go on the rides and eat bad Mexican food, 'cause I like to live dangerously!

Sort of.

Anyhow. Then we hit Georgia, and everything was going smoothly until we hit the Atlanta area, and of course we had to start to get lost again. But I imagine that after 12 hours of driving, your concentration gets a little wonky, so it's inevitable. But as it turns out, the place where we stopped to call for directions turned out to be the right direction to take, and fifteen minutes later, Stephanie's mom drove up, led us to Popeye's Chicken, and then took us home. And the spicy chicken, red beans and rice, and buttermilk biscuits were everything that I imagined they would be. The cold beers could not wash away my goofy, blissed out grin.

Was it worth the sixteen hour hunt?
You best believe it was, baby. I'd do it again.

It was the Taco Bell that I regretted.

I'll tell you about Atlanta next time. What a place.

The Saga Continues: Big Game Hunting for Chickenus Deepfriedicus

After fourteen hours of driving, we pull into Baltimore and see the exit for downtown Baltimore via Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd or via Phelps (I think?). We took Martin Luther King Jr. and found ourselves in some sketchy surroundings, so we hightailed it back to the highway, now woozy with fatigue and desperate to find a place to stop and settle in. It made me think of Episode 10 from The Boondocks where you can't help that notice every street named after Dr. King tends to be--um, how should I say this?--not quite what you'd call upscale. Anyway.

Baltimore has just as many frustrating one-way streets as Montreal. I felt right at home. We find the Holiday Inn, get settled in and call down to the front desk to find out where the nearest Popeye's is, because we've got a craving for fried chicken and beer that cannot be denied. Ali, the lovely sister on the phone took pity on our plight and gave us directions to the nearest one she knew, which happened to be right around the corner from where she lived. So, although we were exhausted, we were also buoyed up by the hunt! We armed ourselves with purses, Ali's directions (but not the road map, stupid me) and all the enthusiasm we could muster, and we hit the road.

Everything was going fine until we got to the 295 looking for the correct exit. We were halfway to Washingtone before we realized that we had been driving much longer than the reputed 15 minutes it would take to get there. We turned around and miraculously found our way back to the hotel a mere hour and fifteen minutes later, now delirious with fatigue and hallucinating (just a tiny bit--if envisioning a bucket of fried chicken and biscuits flying just out of reach and how to bring about the imminent death by soup spoon of a concierge named Ali in technicolour counts as hallucination).

I called back down at the front desk, where Ali had mysteriously decamped, and now I was speaking with Antwone, the gentlemen who checked us in. I asked about the restaurant downstairs (now closed) and whether there were any places nearby that would deliver. There was. I asked for the number. He asked where we were from. I said, Montreal Canada, we were exhausted from trying to find a Popeye's and just wanted to eat and go to sleep. He then asks, "Why didn't y'all ask me?"
...
...
What do you answer to this? Okay: Deep breath. Deep breath. Don't roll your eyes or grit your teeth Tamara. If you can hear a smile over a telephone, surely you can sense when someone is strangling a pillow and wishing it was your neck. Deep breath.

"My bad. Anyway, the bar is open downstairs and I can bring beers back up to my room, right?"

He replied in the affirmative, and then proceeds to tell me about his friend from Montreal. Steph and I are now dizzy with hunger, so I interrupt as nicely as I can and ask about that delivery number and we hang up.

We order two cheesburgers (somehow they are 12-inch burgers, whatever that means), fries and onion rings. That will cost 24 bucks. I die a little inside. We go downstairs to pick up six beers. That costs 30 dollars. I die a little more and trudge back upstairs, 40% dead now.

When the food arrives an hour later (keep in mind, we set out in search of Popeye's around 9:30 pm and it is now midnight) and the death percentage is hovering around 65%, we open the bag and find what looks like two wrapped submarines. Death percentage has shot up to 95% and I'm about to collapse on the floor in tears of frustration.

But behold! Inside the submarine rolls are cheeseburgers, oddly enough. Sure, they're lukewarm, but my onion rings are tasty, and hunger is a marvellous tonic. Food and beers are inhaled and we drop off into sleep after being awake for seventeen hours on three hours of sleep.

I have crazy nightmares about death that night. And so I make a vow: no more greasy food before bedtime. No, really, I'm serious.

The next day, the city looks like a completely different place: less menacing, more open. Fueled with tasty hot coffee, we hit the road, determined to make it to Jonesboro and to resume the hunt for that ever-elusive Chickenus Deepfriedicus...

D'oh! That's what you get...

when you surf the net instead of going back to work right away. So now I have to pass on this book meme courtesy of Bill.

So here's how it goes:

The Rules:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.

Don’t you dare dig for that “cool” or “intellectual” book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest, then tag three people.

The Result:

Our linguist says their moaning is a prayer for death, ours and their own.
Some try to starve themselves.
Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under.

Courtesy of the poem, Middle Passage, all about slave ships and the slave trade, by Robert Hayden.
Honest to goodness, it was the nearest book, but then again, I am at the office and I only noticed the In Style Magazine nearby two seconds after I finished typing. Oh, wait, that doesn't count as a book, does it? Anyway, on you go! I hope yours is lighter than mine.

Okay, Brigitte, Lianne and Kay, I tag you!

You make me feel...

Also, I thought it would be a funny story to relate of one of the few times in my entire life I actually had a snappy comeback at the ready instead of three days later. I'm milking it for everything it's worth because I won't have another one for years, I know it.

Some random fellow in AC during the gig made some comment that I suppose was supposed to pass for a compliment on my good looks and whatnot. I said in my huskiest voice:

"Thanks, only one more operation before I'm all woman!"

Ah yes indeedy, those are the days it pays to get out of bed...

Apropos of nothing...

I forget where I heard it was bad form to post more than once in a day, but since you're all friends of mine, you know how tacky I am.

Anyway. I've been apartment hunting, and let me tell you, downtown apartments are expensive. But as long as it's cheaper than what I'm paying now, I will not complain. And since homelessness is not an option, I'm wrapping this mess up as of this week. No joke. Then and only then will I finally get around to phoning you all so that I can exploit you as movers. Heh.
Um, but it's not pure exploitation: I pay in lots of greasy, salty junk food! Or healthy food, if you prefer.

Anyway, I promise to have a housewarming party soon so that you can all compliment me on my lovely apartment and remark to yourselves how badly I've been ripped off.

But oh, to live alone! How fabulous! To finally be able to run around the apartment in my underwear! (well, I already do that, but now it won't be offensive to anybody!)

The Cross-Country Tour...

was a trip. Wow. Started on Thursday morning after a whopping three hours of sleep (but you know how those gigs mash up my sleep cycle, so that was inevitable) and we hit the road.

And promptly missed our exit. Took the 10 instead of the 15. But rather than go back, we bought a map and continued on until we crossed the border through Vermont.

Ah, Vermont. Lots of hills. It was all very green. And pretty. There were old white men in every passing car. I ate my first turkey sandwich and granola bar. Not long after, it was, "Bye Vermont! What's up, Massachusetts!"
(Incidentally, I said goodbye to every state we left and what's up t every new one we entered. If I got on Stephanie's nerves, she kindly didn't let on.)

Then Massachussetts. Ah, Massachusetts. What can I say about Massachusetts? Actually, nothing, now that I think of it. It was nice, and it was over quickly. I saw one elderly black man at our bathroom break, which I thought was cool. First one! I also saw this skinny dude come rolling up in the diner wearing black PVC chaps over his blue jeans. Ugh. Actually, I'll go back to my first statement: Massachusetts, nothing much to see.

Then we rolled up in Connecticut. We stopped in New Haven to get gas (but only for the car, sadly, as Stephanie wanted to forgo a pit stop at Taco Bell or at Popeye's Fried Chicken) and I saw Yale University. Which was cool. I also saw many more black people, which I thought was a-ok. Of course, I also saw a huge economic disparity between the races, which was decidedly not. Hmph. But since I became friends with Stephanie, I've stopped wantonly abusing Americans at large, so I'll hold to that. Anyway, it's not like we're any better up here. Brown-skinned folks get the short end just as much. If you're Black or Native, you know exactly what I'm talking about. And I'm thinking about my Filipina friend who's a nanny, as well. She's got a rough deal too.

Driving through New York and New Jersey took forever, because that's where we got connected with the I-95 and had to cross through the Bronx and then the New Jersey Turnpike. At rush hour. I will not attempt to conceal the fact that after two hours crawling through traffic and really needing to use the bathroom, that some profanity snuck out from time to time. The three hours we'd slept weighed very heavily on us as we crawled through that traffic. It also meant that there was no way we'd be able to crash in Richmond, Virginia that night, which really sucked. As for New York state and Jersey, just...ew. I have just four words for you: Oil and Petrochemical refineries.

Moving on: Next was Pennsylvania. We drove by Philadelphia, and Popeye's chicken was calling out to me strongly (you may remember from a previous post that it was in Philly where I first discovered the glories of Popeye's.) Lots of hills. It was green. It was over quickly. We listened to parliament and tore the roof off the sucka.

Boistered by a promise from Stephanie that we would get some Popeye's and beers once we made it to Baltimore, we continued driving to Maryland. We were really, really, tired. The sun had gone down on a 14-hour driving day.

I'll give you the next part of the saga tomorrow for two reasons: one, I should get back to work, and two, maybe it'll seem funnier to me by then. The more that time goes by, the more I can see the humour in things.

On the road again...

Yes indeedy, I'm back for two days from Atlantic City and a killer heatwave. My cocoa-caramel tan is beginning to fade as are all the wicked bug bites I sustained while there.

And guess what else? I still have to move! Crap. My landlords are not amenable to having me stay at my present apartment without a roommate, so now I've got to pull off a miraculous move in a matter of weeks. Like, two of them.

I'm going to trust to hope and serendipity and any other benevolent force in the universe to hook me up with a decent situation. Please send all of your good and positive vibes my way, and to those of you who pray, could you make out a few of those to the Big Guy on my behalf? Much appreciated.

Well, next stop, Hotlanta...

Lots of maniacal laughing

and not a lot of work done yet.
But I have reasons! Just not good ones.

(There also happens to be absolutely no one else in the office yet today. I'm sure I'll eventually exert myself, probably for the sake of appearances and living up to my lovely job title in public when/if someone comes in today. There you go. I'm a horrible person. Or just dangerously close to my vacation time, whatever.)

Check this out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeTuQDJDqdM&feature=Views&page=4&t=m&f=b

I was telling Lianne about this one and you know, maybe if there had been hijinks like this at PSL, I might have stayed in the corporate world. Maybe I can bring a little of this dementia into Black Theatre Workshop. Hm. Who should I pick on first?
Probably not my boss (although, to quote Dave Chappelle: That would be the ballinest sh*t EVA!) and probably not the Marketing Director, because she works out.
The General Manager is thin and cute and sweet, and although she looks like I could break her in two by sitting on her, I bet she's secretly a ninja--you've got to watch out for the wiry ones.
I can't pick on my Program Coordinator because she's the one who makes me look professional and competent and I need her on my side. (She's also wiry and cute and probably a ninja.)
I guess that leaves the temp from the the local university. Yeah... Tyranny without fear of reprisal. Kicking little puppies and pigeons. That sounds about my speed.

And getting back to Lianne, she was telling me about these TBS commercials promoting Lord of the Rings when she came to town for Gigi's wedding. Darlings, I've got tears in my eyes and a tummy cramp from laughing. The first two are my favourite, but the third deserves an honorable mention, I think.

White Horse:

http://tbs.com/broadband/videoplayer/0,,70640,00.html

Secret Lovers:

http://tbs.com/broadband/videoplayer/0,,70636,00.html

It Sucks to be Frodo:

http://tbs.com/broadband/videoplayer/0,,70621,00.html

I'm going to show this to EVERYBODY over the next two weeks for sure. This will be worse than Nunchaku Man.

The truth of the matter is..

that there are so many worries pressing on my mind that I can't even begin to let one of them out. I'm afraid that if I do, the rest will pour out and I'll get swamped. I feel as though if I can only keep the lid on them, it'll buy me time to find a way to manage them singly. So sadly, in the meantime, you get silly stories about cute dancer boys.

God, I wish I could still afford therapy. I feel as though I'm living on credit. And if you know anything about my credit card, you know that's not good.

Aloha!

I'm back in town for a few days, desperately trying to cudgel my brain into some kind of activity for the sake of work. And not being entirely successful about it.

I'm completely knackered, I just never can sleep well away from home, and combined with the late nights of gigging, I'm in a fog. But anyway, all's well with me.
What's up with you?

I met the cast of Aladdin: The Musical over the weekend in Niagara Falls. Lovely people who by chance caught our show on Saturday. Most of the band went to see their show the next day (I was wiped out and not feeling altogether well, more's the pity) and later that night the cast came back to see us perform again. Loads of fun. Great people, so fun to hang around with. I'm almost always anti-social between sets, but I made an exception for them. And let me tell you, you never saw a more good-looking group of people congregated in one place. And Lord have mercy, could they ever dance! When I was singing Disco Inferno, they spontaneously erupted into this killer choreography together on the dance floor, and I felt like a movie star. You know, like in Goldmember when Beyoncé's workin' it on the dance floor and somehow the whole club is moving harmoniously together? Yeah, that was me, sadly, minus the afro and fabulous gold dress, but with the big legs and booty intact. It was all good.

I tell you, one lovely young man in particular busted a move on the dance floor that made me forget my lyrics in the middle of my song. Yes, it was embarrassing, but on the other hand, I defy any red-blooded woman to keep her wits about her in such circumstances.

Well, I guess that will be all for now, next week I'll be in Atlantic City again, with more tales to regale you with.
Love and kisses, baybees!

I'm not dead yet...

Just busy.

Work's been good, although I could be more productive. I've been braiding my hair and Stephanie's hair, for the past two weeks. First I unbraided and rebraided my hair, and then I did hers. Let me tell you, my biceps have been aching since then. And now I'm in Niagara Falls singing at the casino again. (Although not this very second.) Good clean fun. More details to come later.

Loving you!

Today was a scary day.

Can I tell you? So much drama.
I'm actually having a bit of trouble typing because my hands are starting to shake again.

As you may already know, we're four days into the summer intensive theatre program over here at Youthworks. Today, during the lunch break, as I was returning to the building from the nearby food court, four of my students (all girls aged 10-15) were walking about thirty feet ahead of me. They passed by a man, who started calling out after them, and then proceeded to follow them. The girls were so great, they didn't freeze up, or dawdle or engage him in conversation, they kept their heads--they took one look at him and bolted together towards the building. They outstripped him, and so he began to shout obscenities after them and proceeded to hump the nearest tree and shout the things he'd like to do to them.

I felt this burst of adrenaline: fear and more predominantly anger. It was as though there was a five second delay between my reason and my reactions. All I felt was: Protect! Stop him! Fight! I know I wasn't reasonable because the man was huge, he had a good sixty pounds and a half foot over me. It was just this sense that he was a coward or mean spirited to try to pick on little kids. There was just something about the image that enraged me, to see this big white man harassing little black girls.

I ran up to him and started hollering at him: You shut up! Stay away from my kids! What's the matter with you? Don't you ever come anywhere near here again! You're not a human being! Go away right now!
That's when I realised that he was mentally disturbed or intoxicated, because he wasn't making any sense at all in what he was saying to me. Suffice to say, most of it doesn't bear repeating, and I've already begun to block it out of my memory. I can't handle it.

But he backed down, and so I ran after my students and accompanied them up the elevator to the office. They told me then that they recognized him, because security guards at the food court had already ejected him from the building. (I'm not sure if that happened that same day, or earlier in the week, they weren't clear about that.) And the youngest girl told me that something similar had happened to her this year as she was going home from school. It breaks my heart, the poor thing. But they were safe, unhurt, and didn't seem to be in any way traumatised; basically, they were no more fazed by the situation than it warranted. They laughed it off, and stored it upfor their annals as an anecdote to tell their friends.

Five minutes later, he came back upstairs into the office looking for them. All of the students were there having lunch, so they called out that he had come back and was headed for the emergency exit. All I could think was that if I didn't do something right then, they'd never feel safe, and I ran for my cell phone and chased him down the stairs, dialling 911 at the same time. I was telling the operator the situation when halfway down the stairs, he heard me speaking, turned back and came at me. Just as he pushed me, two of my colleagues were already running downstairs and caught up with us. Luckily, one of my colleagues is a big burly black guy, and the other is a little wiry girl with the spirit of a pit bull when she's roused. So while I'm talking to 911 and the police, telling them what's happening, he's shouting at us, and keeps making lunges at me. We herded him down the stairs and out into the street. Again, none of his talk bears repeating, and in any case, he was hardly making much sense.

Once outside, he threatened to come back to the building and cut off my foot and set the building on fire. Since the police were so slow in coming, I stayed on the cell with the operator and we kept watch over him. It was really unsettling because he wasn't going away, he kept weaving back and coming towards us, but it was a two steps forward, one step back kind of thing. He meandered around the neighbourhood, and even tried to break into peoples' homes. Not to get away I think, because he always remained in view.

But more than that, I just couldn't let him out of my sight. What if the police couldn't find him? What if he came back? Finally, the police came, we identified him, they apprehended him, and they promised to come back and to take our statements in ten to fifteen minutes.

As they were loading the guy into the back of the cruiser, he started shouting again and looking back over at me. Once he was safely inside the cruiser, I started thinking: What am I going to tell all the parents? How could I tell them what happened? How could I have let this happen? Why did I confront him? It was my fault that he came back after us and followed us to the building. What if something had happened to the kids? Are they even safe with me as a teacher? Maybe if I'd have left him alone, he would have just gone away.

When the police left, we started walking back to the building, and for the first time, it registered: I felt his hands pushing me in the chest again, and I cracked. All of the fear rolled over me, washing down my face and into my stomach and back up to the top of my head and then my feet and hands got so cold. That was so scary. What if I had shown even a little bit of weakness? What if Bruno and Naima hadn't come down the stairs at exactly that moment? Maybe things would have been worse. It started to get loud in my ears, and I had to push it out, push it away.

Thank God for coping mechanisms, and that mine tends towards activity, to productivity. I still had kids and colleagues to look after. (Well, not so much the latter, but I needed some purpose to cling to.) Everything became all about keeping the workshop going, sheltering the kids from the incident, keeping things going as normally as possible. Thankfully another one of my colleagues had remained upstairs with the students, and so I sent Bruno to go upstairs to them, reassure the students and start up the classes right away.

There was no way I was going back into the classroom until I had gotten myself sufficiently calmed down. There was absolutely no need to be a hero or to prideful, as though the workshop couldn't go on without me. I just didn't want to scare the kids, I didn't want it to become all about me, you know? I went upstairs, got some photo I.D. and planned the course of action to take for the next three hours with my boss.

Then I went back downstairs to wait for the police and give my statement to them. It was weird, all of a sudden, it seemed like every man that passed by weighed 250 pounds and was wearing a green shirt. No, seriously, you'd think there was convention or something, like there was a homing signal beckoning every man fitting that description in the city of Montreal to come and pass by the building where I was waiting.

Another police officer pulled up to take my statement. He invited me into the cruiser to write down all the information while he waited for another officer to come and bring him more forms. And it crossed my mind that for the first time, I was going to step into a police cruiser. And I was for some reason embarassed and ashamed to have to do so, even though I hadn't done anything wrong. All I could think was: how does this look, a black woman stepping into a police car? (I sat in the front seat.)

Thank God he had air conditioniting, because I kept having hot flashes. Anyway, we all gave our statements, I went upstairs to call the girls' parents and make sure they got picked up from the workshop. It's amazing what you can do when you have to, to be calm and reassuring because someone else needs you to be, when all you want to do is go curl up in a ball, bawl, and throw up (in no particular order). I mean, the girls were fine, very calm and unfazed at the moment, but what if it hit them later on tonight, or tomorrow? So they needed to be prepared to talk it through with the kids. I felt horrible: all of their parents were worried about their kids, and of course I felt guilty about the whole thing. And then we had to call all of the parents and let them know what happened.

Not a fun thing for a gal who hates and avoids confrontations and such. I'm the proverbial ostrich, normally. But I learned today that that's only the case it it concerns just me. I don't know how you parents do it. That terror, that protective instinct...it's just so overwhelming and overpowering. And you live with that latent current running thorugh your veins 24/7. I'm more convinced than ever that I could never have kids of my own, because I'll always have that running inside of me now. I never want to have to feel that burst again--agh, I don't know what I feel. I'm grateful for that instinct to have kicked in, but that power is a scary thing, that feeling that you would charge like a bull and destroy someone. I want it out of my body.

Anyway, although the experience was highly unpleasant, there are so many providential things to consider. First of all, I had a great staff on hand to hold down the fort. I was done teaching my sections for the day and had other workshop leaders who could take over for me while I was dealing with all the legal, administrative, and emotional stuff, and neither the kids nor the schedule were disrupted.

Second of all, that man was obviously sick and in need of help--crying out for it, I think, otherwise, why didn't he just run away as fast as he could? And because he assaulted me and issued death threats, the police had sufficient grounds to book him, and I had sufficient grounds to press criminal charges and request a restraining order so that the kids can be safe. Because of the criminal charges, they were able to pick him up and legally procure for him a psychiatric evaluation to see if he was competent to stand trial. One way or another, he'll get the help he needs. The policeman called me back and told me that the man is in custody and is going to appear in court tomorrow morning.

Third, I'm grateful that the situation kicked in protective instincts and the adrenaline to see things through to the end, and fairly quickly. There's something to experience in facing down an aggressor that is liberating--no, restorative. When you face down a threat and challenge it, push through your fear to push back, at least you feel as though you've at least done something, if not your best. I feel as though I've had a personal victory, that I will not be a victim of fear and intimidation. I'm not helpless. I didn't just let someone run roughshod over me, I didn't roll over, curl up, and cower. The survival instinct tells you that you have the right to be here, to be alive, that you have worth.

When I think about all the ways things could have gone so badly, I'm grateful that things happened the way that they did. Everything was contained. Everyone is safe. We did do the right thing. I have enough work on my plate today and over the next couple of weeks to keep me busy and functioning so that I don't collapse, until I have time to properly process it. I'm not hurt. Well, nothing that won't heal.
I think a sleeping pill is in order tonight. And junk food. Don't you?

Just wondering...

What's your favourite website nowadays?

I wish for one hundred...

• Voice coaching sessions with Patsy Rodenburg.
• Witty comebacks in my arsenal to choose from whenever someone is rude to me.
• Kisses on the forehead from Viggo Mortensen whenever I'm feeling bad.
• Free months of rent.
• Prince songs on CD. (that's a big cd!)
• "Do Overs" redeemable for the past, present and future.
• Students in the YouthWorks program this year.
• DVDs in my home collection (or movie certificates, or theatre tickets-s'all good).
• Schools fighting over me to offer me a scholarship to do my Masters in Theatre Performance.
• Gift certificates for Popeye's Fried Chicken (spicy, of course!).
• Plane tickets to fly anywhere in the world.
• Honest men and women in the government (I know, don't hold my breath, right?).
• Visits from the Take Home Chef. (Have you seen this guy? He really can cook.)
• Posts on this blog.
• Lottery tickets.
• Sessions with a personal trainer. (To counteract the fried chicken consumption of course.)
• Solid gold toilets.
• Stage and film acting credits on my résumé.
• Days of paid vacation.

One down, eighteen more to go...


(c'mon, you didn't think I'd list one hundred wishes, did you? that would just be greedy.)

Those were the days my friend...

There are not many things that I enjoy reminiscing about when I think back to the days of my adolescence. Being a bit overweight, a little geeky at times, not running with the popular crowd (I ran with the artsy kids) and basically mediocre at all sports...Never quite as snazzy on the fashion tip as my peers, it was irksome to be sure. I'm of mixed race and never could get the black swagger thing down pat, I seemed too "white" for black people to really want to claim me as one of their own. Mind you, I was dark skinned enough to get trailed by store security personnel and to be told, "Nigger, why don't you go back on your boat to Africa?" As my friend Quincy says, how can I go back to somewhere I've never been? Anyway.

Would that I had grown up in Montreal. When I finally managed to get popular enough to be elected to student council, I realized that it stopped being a badge of acceptance. Being different in Montreal, on the other hand, would have been a fine place to live, and the pursuit of popularity would not have been so important, I think. But then again, maybe not. Teenagers are notoriously stupid about stuff like that.

However, I did manage to make some awesome friends in Toronto during my teen years. I had a blast doing theatre and chilling with my friends. I had found early on in life the one thing I did better than anything else (although I wasn't aware of it at the time). I had really cool acting gigs that gave me the opportunity to travel to neat places. I had great grades without having to try very hard. But there was something that stands apart in the singularly wonderful things of my adolescence. One something that takes me back and makes that whole hellish period all alright.

Video games.

How many fabulous hours of hosing around did I spend in front of the Nintendo, playing all the Mario Bros. Games that were available, Metroid, Mike Tyson's Punch Out, Donkey Kong, Tetris (which would brand itself on my brain for hours after I stopped playing)...Whether playing alone or with friends, it was always all good. I never got mad at the Nintendo. Not even when my sister threw it at me during a particularly nasty altercation and it gave me a bruise did my love for the Nintendo ever abate.

And so, I spent hours playing Nintendo with Eileen yesterday and this morning, and I felt young again. But the good kind of Young. Not the young and socially stupid kind of Young, not even the tireless and physically sound kind of Young (I am suffering some backache and tension from pressing on the controller buttons with all my might), but the kind of Young when you really could forget all your pressing problems in the face of a brightly coloured virtual world and all of your mistakes are do-overs, even when you die you get to come back to life, and winning is the best thing in the world (but not the only thing in the world) but not so much that you ever tire of finding new challenges to beat. (Incidentally, Eileen's Korean name is Ye-Young. Coincidence? I think not.)

I feel good. I feel young. But I've hosed around long enough. It's time to get back to work.
It's time to grow up.

For now.