Here I am on your bed again-- it's too big for the room it's in.

I had a meeting with my manager today. End of the fiscal year, start of the new quarter. You know the thing. I'm coming up to my one year anniversary at work and my manager wanted to go over my results, I remarked to her how crazy it is that I lasted this long. After an hour going over various boring, financial things as I was walking out of her office she turned to me and said I'm wasting my time. Wasting my time and "not fooling anyone," were her exact words I believe.

Not really what I wanted to hear on a Friday morning. I guess it capped off the craptacular week I'd been having though. This week has been one of the worst I've had in a really long time. Career-wise, personally, socially. You name it. Everything found a way to slightly unravel itself and in the process make me despondent. Every now and then I start getting that same feeling I got towards the last couple of years in high school, like I've outgrown things. The cliched big fish in a little pond. Bleh.

I'm still in a pretty foul mood right now, but I've gained a little perspective and Maybe if I try just a little more, I can take myself from this dirty floor*. Ever so often I forget about the things that ground me. The people in my life, the things that I do to make myself happy. I've drowned myself in music (and forgotten to scrobble. Oops), cleaned my room, walked the dog. Re-evaluated. Bummed? Still? You bet.

Anyways, the room. It's been cleaned, but when I was going through the recent purchases and acquisitions I had very little to show. Trying to curb the spending to save for my pending January vacation.



As much as I try to be good, shoes remain my vice. So the brown oxford shoes were showcased in a post of their own, these red and black plaid pumps are from Joe Fresh. 25 bucks, who can go wrong for that price?



Note the abject squalor in the background. What? I'm not ashamed. Bring it! Found that sweater vest for $10 at some super random store at Scarborough Town Centre. The turtle neck is one of Ammi's cast offs from the early 90s and no jokes I've been rocking that thing since I was like 11 easily. Is it like a crop top? Yes. That's why it's worn underneath things, duh! Oh, also, I got my haircut at Pacific Mall. I have bangs again!



Everyone needs a pair of mustard stockings and a Nescafe briefcase. Incidentally, I recently re-discovered that under my bed. I bought in in Senegal. Whenever I see it I think of Moussa, my driver when I was there. One day when I'm far less lazy I may tell you the story of how this briefcase came to be in my possession.



I had every intention of getting a blouse made from this material (it's the blouse piece off of a very kitschy sari), but I never got around to it. With the colder weather on us I've started rocking it as a scarf. Note Oliver's smouldering manly look though. I've read a measly 39 books on this list this list, I'm sure he's read all of them. The bastard.



There's a sari store just around the corner from where I live. Last weekend Abi and I, for lack of anything else to do, headed over that way just to "browse." I walked away with two saris. I love that store because they have really retro prints, we've sort of come to the conclusion that it's unintentional, but I don't really care because the stuff is very inexpensive. Which means I don't feel bad dropping cash on them. That one was $7.50. Abs hates it, I love the pink checks. It's okay though, she and I hardly ever agree on clothing options.



So alright, this one time Abi and I totally did agree on a clothing choice. That grey jacket. We are at Vaughn Mills sometime in September and both spotted the jacket, ran over to the rack, proceeded to try it on, looked at each other and laughed. Although we were wearing the same garment we had both individually styled it so different you could hardly tell that the jackets were the same. I had my collar popped up like a big douche, the buttons undone in the front and my hands jammed into the pockets. She however was buttoned up, fully. All the way up to the throat. That's my Abi!



My cousin's getting engaged in November. Most of you know the background on that whole thing. I don't particularly want to go to it, she's a major contributing factor to a lot of the stress we as a family have been dealing with for the last little while. That's also a whole 'nother post. Anyways, I thought I'd wear a sari for the engagement, but decided not to. This is the second one that I got, paid a princely $14.00 for it. I think it looks much better on Oliver. Again, the vintage print. I love it.

Well, I sincerely hope that next week turns out to be better than the one I just had.

*Lyrics shamelessly stolen from Band of Skulls who TinyLF and I will be seeing in concert November 13th

Domestication

Having Abi around as my only close Sri Lankan girlfriend means that we can have a heartier laugh over some of the more ridiculous elements of our culture than I could with, say, Alby. Since we're considered to be of "marriageable" age these days we find older, more meddlesome friends of our parents seeing the need to make comments on our varying levels of "domestication." As Abi puts it, they make it sound like we're feral beasts who've only just barely managed to be paper trained or something.

Cleaning is really not my forte, not that I'll never do it, I just don't derive the same pleasure from it as Alby does. If I'm mucking around in the kitchen I'll clean up after myself, but my room? An absolute nightmare, something akin to my locker in high school. However clutter in my living spaces drive me bonkers. I'm sort of like Monica but instead of a closet I've got a bedroom. I've been meaning to purge it out for sometime now and since we had a new cleaning service coming in this afternoon I figured that now would be as good a time as any. One thing I never take into consideration is my ability to get easily distracted. I start finding things, old clothes to try on, books which get skimmed through, sweetly scribbled handwritten notes on pieces of random paper...you know, the things that'll totally make me sit down and take a closer look.

It all started innocently enough. I swear.


I was told to run down to the basement and make sure none of Oliver's toys were on the floor before the cleaning ladies came. That's when I caught sight of one of Lokku Mammah's blue Barefoot shirts in a garbage bag. Aiya had claimed that shirt a few years ago and I was surprised to see it in the give-away pile that he had put together just before he moved. So I ran upstairs and tried to figure out a way that I could wear said shirt without looking like a tool. That was really the beginning of the end. I coupled it with my favourite pin-stripped vest and one of my grandfather's ties.

I love that shade of blue.


While rummaging through my scarf/tie rack looking for Papa's tie I came across this little tie. It belongs to one of my most favourite shirts of all time, which surprise, surprise I'm now way too fat to even poke a finger into. I practically lived in that shirt when I was working in Colombo. The stripes and the white take me right back to all of that. Note the absolute squalor in the background. (And apparently, I was told, my hair looks FAKE in the above? I know right? How dare he etc.)


Guys, remember when I was totally obsessed with the Beastie Boys? Oh. Wait. That's right I still am. I bought this hat right around the time "To The Five Boroughs" came out. It was my homage to them. This was the hat I was wearing when I failed my driver's test for the 3rd time, it was around Thanksgiving too. On a side note, if it was possible to hug Paul's Boutique I think I would. Also, Adam Horowitz? I'm totally single and available (age means nothing). Call me!


One of my favourite people in the world totally misjudged me and gave me a black and beige organza sari from Singapore. I love her to bits but not enough to even attempt rocking it. The sari went to Ammi but I held on to the blouse piece which has alternatively been on my bed and also used as a scarf. It is surprisingly warm and makes me giggle at the stupendous lapse of judgement.


This penchant for scarves of all sizes is like a filthy drug. I'm going to end up a toothless junkie because of it. Last summer in Colombo the bossman and I made a quick dash to Cotton Collection to pick out a shirt for some fuddy duddy meeting he was attending the following day. This little scarf was by the cash register for 100 Rs so he grabbed it for me. On our way out to the parking lot we were promptly shoved into a random saivar kade because the road was closed off for some minister. So we sat there and drank cups of ginger tea, shot the breeze and managed to leave without cholera. If I recall correctly this was the lovely workmate's favourite colour and he ended up designing the cover page of a report to match it. Perhaps that'll be my only real legacy in Sri Lanka.


The TinyLittleFascist used to always make fun of me because I had a tendency to wear something akin to a hijab when scampering around Colombo in tuktuks. The thing is my hair was a dirt magnet and it just made more sense to keep it covered up to avoid all the nastiness that would otherwise get trapped in it. I was immensely amused when I came home last summer and found that someone who had recently visited the Middle East decided it would be a great idea to give my Christian Fundamentalist mother an Islamic head dress. Fun times indeed people! I clearly wear it as a neck scarf and not a head one.


Really? Does the significance of this beret really need to be explained? If I need to spell it out then you don't deserve to know. However I will give you this, I've had it since I was in high school.


The very first vintage sweater I ever bought at Courage My Love. I think I shelled out 10 dollars for this beauty when I was in grade 9. Surprisingly enough it still fits but only because it's snug in all the right places. Trust me though, it could've gone either way. There's potential there for it to have looked horrific.


Most of the things that meant the most to my grandfather when he died went to my uncles and Thathi, which is totally fair. Aiya of course got the best stuff out of all the grandkids. I grabbed on to precious little that I could get hold of, mostly ties and scarves that the others weren't interested in. The above is actually a cummerbund which his bestfriend Carlyle brought back to him after a trip to London sometime in the early 1950s. It's starting to get a bit chillier out these days and I'm head over heels for the pattern on the cummerbund I figured that I'd start wearing it as an ascot in the fall instead of just using it as a cinch. Apparently it works? Both are cheating I know. Shh.


Again, I totally found this while rummaging. This is one of my favourite ties, I picked it up for 25 cents at the open Saturday market along la Rue Mariste in Dakar. Clothes and other items which people from the developed world hoping would go to needy people in Africa oftentimes ended up at the market for sale instead. I bought this tie along with 3 others, they were the first items I ever price-bargained for in Senegal. The rush of being able to haggle successfully in French? If there's any French speakers out there, you know what I'm talking about.

So it's now just after 2:40 AM my room still looks like the closet threw up and I'm left with the choice of just shoving my clothes off of the bed and onto the the other pile of clothes on the floor, sleeping on top of them, or just heading to the guest room to sleep tonight.

Choices.

Indecision 2008: Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika

Africa has always been where it’s at for me. Granted it’s been awhile since I last set foot on the continent but when I left Senegal I knew that I always wanted to go back. My long term plan was to stick around French West Africa and do the whole development thing. Figured I’d be of more use there, my grasp of the language is not as tenuous as my hold on Sinhala. Aside from Percy Montgomery South Africa never really had that same siren call and hold as as its Western neighbours.

Cue Indecision 2008. Whilst pondering on my pathetic existence and the prospect of going to London it occured to me that instead of slumming in blighty, maybe I could head over to Capetown. I could work and make enough money to travel around the continent. Which come on, who wouldn't want to traipse around Africa? (muggings, carjackings and rape ignored of course.)

But there are some pros and cons associated with hitting South Africa up. Drac's cautionary tales aside there are some serious things to consider.

The case for Capetown
1. It is not the "safe" option.
Toronto, London, Colombo all have a certain amount of safety attached to it. I'm obviously not talking about physical safety (hello suicide bomb attacks in Colombo). It has more to do with things like established social networks, places to stay etc. Going to Capetown is totally new territory, and I'd be in the same position I was when I was alone in Dakar. There is a certain amount of freedom liberty that's tied in with that which I haven't felt for a long, long time.

2. African Lion Safariii
Okay. So maybe not that one. But.

ZOMGWTFBBQ!

I could sure as hell go on a real one though. The travel opps are endless coupled with the fact that it's so cheap to get around I could easily hit up so many different parts of the continent. Especially since travel within South Africa is a bit on the precarious side (see above: muggigs, carjackings and rape). I have high hopes of having the chance to at least fly back to Senegal and touch base with some of the people I thought I'd never see along with going to Mauritius, Ethiopia, Kenya and who else knows where else. Decidedly much cheaper than Europe. My theory is that Europe is a place to traverse when you're old and can't handle the mosquitoes and other various tropical diseases. Which brings me to my next point.

3. Vaccinations
I'm up to date on all my needed tropical disease shots. Including yellow fever, it's all nicely outlined very handily in my government of Canada issued travel inoculation thinger. My doctor here in Toront is South African, I've been going to him since I was like 8. (Yeah like Ross.) He thinks I'm insane. He always has very sage advice for me before I head off for months at a time but one thing he can't fault me on is being made out of lead. (Okay, maybe really soft lead because some might say that I am a porker. I prefer festively plump but whatever.) Some of you have witnessed my strong constitution. I can eat and drink practically anything and not get sick, people are generally jealous of this talent.

The case against South Africa
1. It is pointless going
I have been told quite seriously by many people within the industry and from various unsolicited sources that I would be committing career suicide if I went to Capetown at this stage in my life. Apparently the years spent in Sri Lanka are considered to be "enough" time spent working in a "developing world economy." Employers do not look too kindly on South African experience, transferability does not exist.

2. It is not the safe option
I like to think that if I was able to survive in Dakar where no one spoke English and Sri Lanka where I couldn't speak Sinhala then South Africa would be the safe option. Until a South African friend pointedly told me that I am safe nowhere other than Capetown. That is sobering. There is also that lovely added dimension of being in a post-apartheid racially tense country.

*yay*

3. It's Far
The distance coupled with the visa restrictions would make coming home to Toronto inbetween incredibly costly and virtually impossible. I've never been away from home a solid 12 months in a row and I wonder if I could actually handle it.

Gah.

What happened to the risk taker kids? Where did she go?

Salaam Alaikum.

Coming to a jihad near you

Next month is Black History Month, which means the charming, well dressed African American men with educational pamphlets will soon be outside of St. George Station generally getting in the way and causing people to be late for class. About four years back I was rushing to a politics class at Sid Smith, rocking the same keffiyeh that Ollie's got on when one of the African American scholars turned to me and shouted "Salaam Alaikum, sister!" Under normal circumstances I would've lost my shit at him for condescending to call me "sister," but surprisingly in this instance I returned the greeting "Alaikum Salaam" and got a bit adventurous.

Yes.

I busted out my poor excuse for Wolof as I had a sneaking suspicion that this fellow just may be Sénégalaise, and it turned out he was. What followed was the rapid fire traditional "greeting" which is just one person interogating the other on a myriad of different topics ranging from family, health to business. He was surprised to say the least, when I brought up Daara J.

And that is why I love Toronto. I can get away with wearing a keffiyeh, prattling away in piss poor Wolof and relate this story to any one of you, and in turn none of you would even bat an eyelid. (Although Thorn's very verbose friend would counter that a keffiyeh is one of "the most offensive items of clothing that one could possibly wear. As this clearly and blatantly show support for the PLO and other such terrorist organisations." In all my many years of wearing one, I must say that was the first time anyone has pulled that out of their ass!)

Well, this is life in a robust multicultural city (and yes, my cheque from Ontario Tourism is in the mail, thank you for inquiring). The thing is, I think we Torontonians unlike most other cosmopolitan city dwellers have come to the understanding that, yeah, no shit Sherlock, culture is fluid, and as much as you'd like to box it in, you can't. I also think that I've read too many pages of The Ground Beneath Her Feet in a concentrated period of time, and may very well be spouting off too much Rushdie. (Great book by the way.)

Quebec? Yes, we get it, you speak French, you're a "distinct" society within a "unified Canada." But why harp on that? The polarising nature of the whole separatist debate stagnates Canadian politics to a certain degree. This debate, and "controversy" has been around since the Natives were given the boot. What about cultural inclusion? I'm not talking about coming to Canada and living in your own little enclaves trying to emulate life in the mother land to a T. But look at someone like Deepa Mehta.

Born in India, a naturalised Canadian citizen based in Toronto, makes a Hindi movie set in Varanasi. Which is actually shot in Sri Lanka with a lead actress who is Polish/Indian and was born and brought up in Missisauga. Water, which I've forced most of you to watch at least a part of is incredible, so it should come as no surprise that yesterday it was announced as being on the shortlist for best foreign language film at the Oscars. Canada's contribution I may add. Mehta's film follows in the footsteps of French-Canadian films like the Oscar winning Barbarian Invasions and nominated C.R.A.Z.Y.

I personally don't think there's anything more Canadian than that.

Which is why shows like Little Mosque on the Prairie, can air in Canada and not even raise an eyebrow of controversy in its home country. But have the US media up in arms. Our inbred cousins to the South have got their eye on us! I checked it out last Tuesday night after the Mercer Report like the good CBC supporter that I am.

I was pleasantly surprised but thought I'd wait until the second episode aired before I weighed in with an opinion. I like it. It's smart, funny and it doesn't just focus in on the Muslims in the small town cliche. It also examines the whole idea of Toronto being the centre of Canada, and well, other Canadians being more than a little irked by that. Although one quibble that I do have, I wish they had a "progressive" practising Muslim woman on the show who didn't wear a burqa.

OoOoOo.

That's right, it looks like the diatribe is back!

I need a haircut.

Any ideas?

I get bored at this time of year. The stress of exams coupled with the awful weather makes me feel like I'm stuck in a rut.

Usually this feeling comes on around mid-November and doesn't wane until about the end of February. This is the time of year when I usually go and chop off all my hair. Right now it's just at my waist, my bangs look horrid, they've grown down to my chin and I'm most definitely loosing the battle against split ends. I'll probably head on over to Pacific Mall and let aiya's hair stylist work his magic, the man's a genius.

Throughout the years I've employed various methods of pulling myself up out of the funk.

There was my bout of entrepreneurialism that resulted in me making close to a $1000.00 one Christmas on crocheted scarves. (What can I say, the waitresses that worked for aiya at the now defunct Red Drink Boutique weren't the sharpest tools in the shed.)

It was around this time of year that I first started tutoring high school brats in French. Stressful, and probably not really worth the pittance I used to charge for 45 minutes of my time.

I got my humanitarian on as well, one year I volunteered at a small but very well known NGO and ended up wanting to kill myself.

It was hard to juggle writing close to 1500 Christmas cards and then coming home and trying to study for university exams and doing assignments. Still high off the smell of black Sharpies all I could manage to muster was "Seasons greetings from all of us at The NGO. Hope your New Year is ____ ." (At this point I was allowed to fill in the blank with either "wonderful," "spectacular," "awesome," or "amazing" depending on who the donor was.)

Didn't really do much to help me out of my rut. However the experience came in handy much later on, because I decided that I never wanted to start at the bottom of the pile in a Canadian NGO ever. Yeah, sue me, somehow I think I'm a little above photocopying, getting coffee and writing Christmas cards. (My experiences in Sri Lanka were a million times better)

Interspersed between all of the above were random bouts of hair cutting disasters. Generally I go the haircutting route every 2 years, because it needs to grow back to butcher again. The last "haircut" I got was actually a trim, at the Cutting Station in Colombo (the only decent haircut I've ever had in that country), that was in mid-June. Time for a haircut. Stat.

What's in store for me this year? Turns out I've got a teaching gig.

That's right. You read that correctly.

I'm teaching French at an elementary school. To small children. In January. You guys know that I had a hard enough time dealing with two dogs a classrooom full of kids is just going to epitomise "fun."

Let me recap.

Before I went to Senegal I got the brilliant idea to do some work with inner city ghetto kids. My reasoning was, hey, I'm going to teach psychologically damaged street kids how to read and write in French, might as well get a head start with messed up kids in Toronto. (Incidentally this arrangement also took place at around this time of year.)

I didn't last very long. Why are kids so damn annoying? The kiddies I had in Senegal were angels compared to anything I've ever had to deal with here.

So yeah, I'm really hoping that Chinese guy will come through with the haircut. Otherwise I think I'm going to be totally SOL.

Yes. I am that shallow.

Tagged by a consonant.

The boys from Sloan. The last concert I went to (with thorn of course. God bless guestlisting)
So. N tagged me, and I didn't even realise this until yesterday, after I had responded to slothy's taggering. Here it is, the music meme.

1. CD or vinyl
- OoO. Well, for me, when it comes to personal every day use, neither. I'm all about the ipod. However when in a night spot, give me vinyl any day of the week. You must agree that for some unkown reason the Dream Warriors and a Tribe Called Quest just sound so much better on 12 inch

2. An album you’ve been meaning to listen to
- Not a big Oasis fan, but I have been meaning to check out their latest which dropped at the beginning of this month.

3. Grammys
- Load of tripe. Bring on the Mercury Prize instead.

4. Your favourite album is
- That? That's just an EVIL question. It's like asking me whether I'd rather die of decapitation, burning, drowning or combination. But I guess if I really had to choose, it'd probably be The Postal Service's GIve Up. That album never gets old, and every single depressing song on it has at one time or another in the last 3 years rung true in my life.

5. Invite 10 Music people for dinner. Who will it be?
Not in order of importance, but order of popping in my head.

i. Stephen Colbert and the Decembersits for the December 20th battle of the guitars. And I'm counting that as one. Suck it.

ii. Nirmala Basnayake of controller.controller to ask her WHY in God's name she did it.

iii. Bono. Simply to tell him that he used to be my idol when I was in highschool but now not so much anymore. I would include Angelina Jolie into this mix as well. I have essentially the same message for both of them. Stop with the nauseating faux humanitarianism. *cough* (red).

iv. Youssou N'Dour, he's all kinds of awesome. Got into him when I was in Sénégal. Speaking of the Sénégalaise, I'd probably also have over the man who handmade the incredible d'jembe I schlepped back from there. (Even though he was a French beach bum.) And yeah, don't nit pick, they count as one.

v. Leslie Feist, if I was a boy, i'd marry her.

vi. If I could bring back people from the grave, then Bob Marley for sure. And with that new found power, my Uncle who passed away and loved him.

vii. My paternal grandfather, because he has kickass taste in music, I'd also make him bring his record collection which features (to name a very few) Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, and Dizzy Gillespie.

viii. Seu Jorge, makes some killer samba and he grew up in a freaking Favela for Pete's sakes. Oh yeah, and also his covers of David Bowie songs in the Life Aquatic are untouchable. With that said, David Bowie would also be invited, as Mr.Jorge's date.

ix. The Clash. That needs no explanation. Okay fine, for the uninitiated, how can you not have one of the most influential punk bands (in my opinion) at such a dinner? R.I.P Joe. Hmm, since we're talking about influential folks, in lieu of Joe (since he's dead) Afrika Bambaataa is also welcome at my overflowing table

x. Sufjan Stevens, I think he's one of the most innovative and prolific musicians of our time.

--> There's a lack of Toronto artists here, only because I've run in to all the ones I've wanted to ever meet at the Beac. Granted it wasn't dinner at my place, but it was dinner. Aiya just keeps 'em coming back for more.

6. Appropriate punishment for those who play Celine Dion’s "My heart will go on" while pretending that it’s still 1998
- Remind them that 1998 wasn't all that great. Seinfeld came off the air, Frank Sinatra died, and Bill Clinton was impeached.

7. Choose your favourite instrument and its best player from your point of view.
- I don't like this question. But no one can touch Ron Burgundy's Jazz Flute.

8. The one piece of music that can move you to tears
- Perhaps a bit cheesey, but I ain't ashamed. It's a toss up between How Great Thou Art and Great is Thy Faithfulness. Shut up. My inner Anglican is very strong.

9. You are an executive at a major label and have the power to green light one album a year. What would you do?
So many things to do!
- stage a coup d'etat that would effectively make me the lifetime-sole authority-leader of the ship type thingie at said record label, ensuring that i have a musical dictatorship that will last until i am either usurped of my power or die. Then i would go about doing a variety of different things such as:
- give Nirmala all the money she and her controller.controller cohorts need in order to continue recording
- buy over SubPop records ensuring that all the indie goodness coming out of there never has to be influenced by anything other than pretension.

Now I wield my great power and tag sloth, and drac (because, I think he probably hates memes with a passion. Prove me wrong drackity!)

I predict a riot.

Watching the people get lairy
Is not very pretty I tell thee
Walking through town is quite scary
And not very sensible either
A friend of a friend he got beaten
He looked the wrong way at a policeman
- The Kaiser Chiefs

Shut up. I know. This song is about Leeds. I'm not the only music snob. But I'm still going to talk about France because I think the lyrics are pretty apropos. In reality, I don't have that much to say that hasn't already been said before. North African immigrants reacting to racism. Pretty straight forward to me.

Marietta was one of my English students during my three months in Senegal. She was a little bit older than I was and had a 2 year old son, I never met him, he lived in the village with her mother. She didn't get a chance to see him all that much, she worked 7 days a week and used to come for help with her English homework after she was finished her day job. Marietta was a housemaid, and on the side she used to sell beaded necklaces which the expat community would snap up readily and greedily.

One thing that I particularly liked about Marietta other than her friendliness was that she spoke French with a perfect Parisian accent. Something that was really uncommon to find amongst the native Senegalaise. She was always a really welcome sight to me during my first few weeks in Dakar especially on Sundays at church where the usual suspects were a touch too snooty to speak to me. It took me awhile to get used to the Wolof accent which was inflected on the every day common French. In the beginning I wasn't all that curious as to why the Bowlers' house maid had such an impeccable Parisian accent.

Her father had a few wives, polygamy just like in Utah, is still practiced in many parts of North Africa. Marietta's dad left her along with her mother and took off for France with his latest wife. Some how or another she ended up joining her father in a suburb of Paris. She was about 13 and her new life in France consisted of 5 years of horrible physical abuse at the hands of her father and stepmother.

In the hot dusty afternoons, we used to sit outside to do our English classes. I'd lug out the massive copy of LaRousse which Mrs. Penney used when she was doing her MA in Quebec, and while trying to translate my lesson for her Marietta used to tell me bits and pieces about her life. She credits her social worker in France with saving her. When I met her she had been back in Senegal for just over 2 years (slightly enough time to get knocked up and have a kid). It was her social worker who suggested that she return to Dakar, realising that if she stayed on in France she'd most likely get beaten to death. Instead of just bundling her off on a Dakar bound plane she really went beyond her call of duty. She provided Marietta with all of the necessary correspondence booklets to finish off her French high school education. The social worker paid for it all out of her own pocket. (I was only useful for her English lessons, Mrs. Penney used to help her out with everything else, because I was hopeless and still am.) Marietta has the option of returning to France after she graduates from high school and no longer is a dependent on her father.

Mehdi was a first generation Frenchmen, his family was originally from Morocco. It's because of him that I'm dying to see Marrakesh with my own eyes. He only arrived towards the latter half of my stay, and we had to collaborate on a bunch of projects together. Although I found him mildly irritating we did have some really eye opening conversations. Mehdi was unwilling to pay any attention at all to his Moroccan heritage. Granted this is not uncommon, I know a bunch of Sri Lankans who'd sooner than later forget that they come for a hot, tropical, third world country and not the snowy wilderness of Ontario. But the way he used to vehemently deny that he was Moroccan, it smacked of 'the lady doth protest too much.'

What does this all mean? I'm not really sure and I don't think I'm some sort of a cultural authority on Franco-North African relations just because I spent a fair chunk of time in Senegal and am studying post-colonial history. (If I lived in America, I think I'd have enough credentials and bull shit in me to be a pundit on Fox News though.) It's much more complicated than that, and as the recent events in various different suburbs in Paris proves, it's also very unpredictable.

I wonder though, could what the civil rights movement of the 50s and 60s did for America be likened to the riots that are currently rocking France?

Prepare yourself for a rather useless diatribe

(Drunken debaucherous pictures from our lunch at Spring Rolls are here.)

"Dedicated with honour to the women and children of Calcutta's Red Light District*"
(Excuse the poor grammar and sentence structure. I wanted it to be an authentic diatribe. But really, I'd like to think that my small heart is still capable of warning people against the evil that is formally known as 'D's Run On Sentence of Death.' Consider yourselves warned.)

Photo courtesy of Kids With Cameras

I had wanted to see Born into Brothels for a really long time; way before the Oscar hype(have no fear, I have not gone mainstream. Not yet at least.) But as is often the case, I never get around to actually dragging myself to the theatre and justifying spending $13.50 on a movie that will eventually come out on DVD and can be rented for much less (and now with Blockbuster's wicked no late fees, what's the point anyway?!) I knew if I didn't go and watch it this week, there was no way I would get a chance anytime in the near future. So I pulled a Stan and went solo. Best decision I could have made, because I cried through parts of the bloody thing. And God only knows how big of an arse I would've felt if someone I knew witnessed that. The entire experience was incredibly thought provoking, as is often the case when dealing with documentaries of that sort.

I think my spiral into this month's bout of extreme leftism occured this past Tusday after I watched Cry Freetown (done by Sorious Samura of Living with Refugees fame) in one of my politics lectures. There was an absolutely horrific scene in that documentary where a deaf and mute 10 year old boy was stripped naked and beaten by Nigerian peacekeepers in Sierre Leone on suspicion of being a rebel snipper. He was sobbing and screaming for them to stop. Fanners had to cover her eyes while it was going on. I was immobilized, just sitting there in absolute shock and horror. Although I couldn't erase the images that I had seen from Cry Freetown I still willingly went to see Born into Brothels on Thursday. It's really difficult for me to quantify what I felt watching those two stellar documentaries; but simply put it felt like every single child who had crossed my path and affected me in some form or manner during my times in Mexico, Sri Lanka and Senegal was staring right back at me through the faces of the children on screen. The rawness of their lives once again came up and slapped me across the face. And what made it sting so much more is that for the first time I was able to feel shaken deep within myself while in Canada. As I was watching the little boy being beaten by peacekeepers, I felt the same tightness in my stomach as I did the day when a boy around the same age walked into the Talibe Centre (in Dakar) with horrible third degree burns all up and down his arms. The marabout he belonged to had thrown boiling water on him in a fit of rage. I remember there was a chubby little boy named Reuben in Mexico who insisted that we play frozen tag with him, I used to watch him and all the other little kids and wonder what life would be like for them if they had access to proper education and health care, what they would become. Kochi who is growing up in a brothel in Calcutta wondered the same thing; how different life could be for her if she could end the cycle of poverty and get an education. Childhood has been robbed from these children, their faces are full of innocence but their lives reflect something way beyond my understanding.

Even as I still try to rationalize all of this, I just can't. And to tell you the truth, I'm glad I can't, because really who wants to understand the real reasons behind why developed countries sit idly by and watch the third world go up in flames? Isn't it mind boggling to know that in this day of budget surpluses and booming economies there's still high levels of child poverty in the United States, England and Canada? More attention needs to be paid to the plight of children in poverty and not fixated on fighting a war on terror while millions are dying of preventable deaths every day. Even Richard Roeper rightly points out that films such as Born into Brothels needs more widespread recognition, "This is a movie about our world that deserves the attention and audience that Michael Moore's films command." (For the record, Michael Moore blows, and hopefully this will be the last time I find myself using Roeper to back me up on a point.)

A wise woman once said "Speak up for those who can't speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy." (Proverbs 31:8,9) So, who would like to step up to the plate?

*steps off soapbox* (I know, as of late i've been abusing it. But there's only so much I can hold in. Plus. No one told you that you had to read all of it. What? I msged you on MSN and made you. Well, that's possible, but technically you stillhad a choice. So can it.)

*Born into Brothels

Broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times, Lord!

A public service announcement followed me home the other day,
I paid it never mind. Go away
.....
Broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times, Lord!
Count your blessings.
The papers wouldn't lie!
I sigh. Not one more

It's been a bad day
Please don't take a picture
It's been a bad day.
Please.
....
The lights went out
The oil ran dry
We blamed it on the other guy
Sure, all men are created equal*

What a week eh? The kind that makes you want to clear your head with some good music, a pint (of vanilla Coke!) and a good long bike ride. Weeks like this are good every once in awhile, reminds me of how small and insignificant i am in the larger scheme of things.

First off
Bush gets re-elected. Was not surprised in the least bit but still really disappointed. At least this time around his win was legit (yeah i'm being naive, whatever.) Am I scared? Yeah for sure! Ammi sent me a forward the other day written by a Christian lady, it was her take on the rise of the religious right in American. She had some interesting points (and some really bad ones too lol). It's worth a read though.

I was reading the headlines on the BBC yesterday and i caught sight of this
When i was in Senegal, i befriended some missionaries who had to evacuate from the Ivory Coast during the September 2002 uprising. They were seeking safe haven in Senegal while trying to tie up loose ends in Abidjan before leaving back to Montreal. M. Gaucher's son Emmanuel was the same age as Josh, (the little boy whose family i was staying with) they came down for a play date and M. Gaucher ended up getting stuck at our place b/c the Autoroute was closed down for the Telefonica Paris - Dakar rally race (it's really fascinating, and a whole other story really, it would take pages!) Anyways what resulted in that day was us having a 4 hour conversation about life in the Ivory Coast for the believers in their church during that horrific time. There is so much political unrest in the world, and it's sad that certain countries just want to add to it.

Well not everything was bad
Ollie and i raked an obcene amount of leaves last week but really to no avail. Thathi was supposed to mulch them but he never got around to doing that. Now all my time was wasted b/c he's getting the gardener to come and do it instead!
(leaves in my back yard)
(Ollie vamping for the camera)

My room is ugly. It was worse before we moved, but it needs an extreme makeover. So far we've stripped the walls of the hideous incandescent wallpaper, the evil carpet needs to GO. I won't be satisfied until i have hardwood in there. Well last week ammi made me a new bedspread (out of a burgundy Sari). She used my ancient Beauty and the Beast comforter as the base. I still remember when she and thathi got it for me. I was in grade two and was flipping through a Zellers catalogue with amammah (my grandmother on ammi's side) and i saw the comforter. I FLIPPED out, b/c i LOVED Beauty and the Beast. LOL Ammi went out and bought it THAT very day (i'm not spoilt. I swear.) She was so taken aback that i was interested in something remotely girly that she didn't want to waste the oppurtunity to go and get it for me. And that is how the Beauty and the Beast comforter makes its way lovingly back onto my bed (when i make it) 12 years after it first found its way there.
(l-r Ammi and Aiya; Ammi looking totally paked out, and Aiya just looking fat ;))
l-r Ammi and her assistant)
(Ammi's assistant couldn't handle the pressures of being a seamstress and eventually broke down)

Oliver graduated from his puppy class. I don't really know how he managed to, but he did. And he won a prize too!! He was the fastest dog in the class in the little race that they had (which was run to your owner, and you'd only win if you sat down first, and surprisingly he did!!)
(l-r Me, Oliver, Kristi (his teacher), Terror (a Vizsla's whose owner's name i don't remember), Toby (Golden retreiver, again the name is non-existant), Max (an English Springer Spaniel with his owner's daughter. Max didn't win anything, and he got in a LOT of crap from his owner. Poor guy)
(l-r Oliver, his prize and Thathi)

I watched Rick Mercer's Monday Report today and there was a little segment of him and Justin Trudeau together chilling out in Montreal. It's so sad that he's engaged!! There goes the only thinking Canadian woman's man! Here's hoping that eventually he'll run for office, he's a great speaker, remember the eulogy he gave at his father's funeral? Speaking of his dad, today thorn and i were wondering around the nether regions of UC after a morning spent chatting in Diabolos and we stumbled on the Trudeau Centre for Peace and Conflict Studies . Kind of scary b/c all the doors had pictures of Pierre's head floating on them b/c of his nomination as the greatest Canadian. But back to Justin, as Rick Mercer pointed out, how wicked would it be if he ran for office against Ben Mulroney who for the record, i can't freaking STAND. Let's not even start about his dad.

*http://www.retroweb.com/rem/lyrics/song_BadDay.html