Diamonds In My Eyes

My imagination was consumed a few days ago by synthetic diamonds. They seem to be the answer to so many peoples' desires: the desire for bling (in a Tiffany setting of course!), the desire for technological advancement (imagine a diamond microchip), and the desire for a clear conscience.

There seem to be a few labs in North America that are capable of simulating Nature's magic recipe.
I'll keep my eye on this one, and if you know anything about it, could you let me know?

Other things that are of particular interest to me are:
The world's housing challenge (over 50% of Caracas consists of squatter settlements - see Dave's picture of a barrio below)
Water (the rising of water, the purification of water, the distribution of water)

Addendum - Dave bought me gold stud earrings in the SHAPE of diamonds for my birthday! Lucky for him I find the irony adorable.

Venezuela

Some images that Dave took during his trip to Venezuela.

Future/Past

"Motorcycle Diaries" just came to a close here in my living room. Trying to feel a connection with Dave who is in Caracas and a day from returning home. The film was wonderful because it offered me a warm invitation to participate in Ernesto "Che" Guevera and Alberto Granado's epic journey. It will be memorable because of its grand and sweeping landcapes. As I sit here, I am thinking about history and how it is recorded and who gets a say, and when and why and what. And I'm thinking about perspectives and points of view and how easy it is to feel competitive against our fellow humans when intellectually, it should be possible to shed the ego and share in our experiences together. Will we ever be able to write a "human" history?

Above is a picture of what will soon be the tallest building in the world. Tokyo will beat Toronto! Acutally, the CN Tower which I see from my living room widow, from the building where I work, the building that oddly is such a presence in my life - well, I forget that it's the tallest building.

That reminds me of when I arrived in Vancouver at age 20. When I expressed my awe of the mountains, a friend who had moved there a year prior claimed "Ah, you'll forget they're even there. I do."

In nine years, I never did.

Not sure what radio station this is I am listening to, but the DJ is talking about Oregon - feels like a different lifetime ago that I passed though that state! Anyways, they are playing a Broken Social Scene tune. I remember the first time I listened to it - in the kitchen at the place on Bleecker. I think back to what my life was then. I also remember clearly listening to this particular song in my basement apartment on Gwynne last year. And now I am here. Is life changing too fast? Too slow? Too much? Too little? Again, I wish I were somewhere foreign. I am looking forward to the stories and images Dave brings back from Venezuela tomorrow.

Making Sedentary Progress

It has been too many months since my last confession, Father.

Perhaps it is the grinding discomfort I feel whenever I visit my untouched blog that I have moved very little since I last wrote and this is meant to be a place of movement - the movement of people and ideas. But maybe I can accept into the fold the concepts of flux, evolution and dynamism. What little movement I have made is - physically - virtually immeasurable. My job has changed: I now work at the CBC Broadcast Centre downtown instead of in the barren outlands of North York. So that has made a major impact on my daily commute and in turn my daily life. Taking the bicycle or a short streetcar ride - or heck, walking even! - the change from transitting from streetcar to subway to bus which robbed almost two hours of my day has impacted my life considerably. For one thing, I've been left with all this time! What a luxury. Yet I have been confounded by how to manage it.


May we exchange wisdom with each other as we travel on our own unique, mind-blowing experiences!

Springtime in the Annex

We found this lawn chair on the sidewalk in a pile of stuff marked "free." This is me waiting for the Bathurst streetcar.

Doubly Privileged

After two years of international paperwork, I am finally, officially, a dual citizen of Canada and the Netherlands. Today I picked up a whole new passport. You couldn't give a person a better present then the rights to citizenship to one of the world's most safe, wealthy and socially minded countries. A second set of rights and privileges. It's almost sickening how lucky I am - thanks Mom and Dad. My sister is not so fortuitous - the folks renounced their Dutch citizenship when they became Canadians during the time between when I was born and she was born. They loved Canada so much they wanted to become citizens - who could blame them? Is this not a country to be proud of? Unfortunately Canadian law demanded that they relinqish their birth nationality in order to become Canadian. My parents did not chose to remain landed immigrants and maintain their origianal nationality as so many thousands of immigrants to Canada choose to do. They wanted to vote.

Below is a recent email from one of my Dutch cousins from her travels in India. My Dutch isn't fantastic, but in this communique Floor describes how she and her travel companion meet a traveler who knows no English so they teach him a few words. Then tomorrow they themselves will learn more English from two other girls who work in the hotel. Yesterday they watched the Canadian film "Born In Brothels" - a fantastic documentary about children born and raised in the brothels of Calcutta.

I thought in light of my new identity as Dutch/Canadian I would push the Netherlandic language onto you since English is always pushed onto them.

Hey hey,

Hier zijn we weer... Het is hier eindelijk weer lekker weer! De eerste paar dagen dat we hier waren was het echt Nederlands weer! Vida en ik gaan iedere dag een heel eind lopen want onze conditie is nog niet echt wat het zijn moet en we willen toch echt wel de berg op (6000 m.) Gister hebben we een jongen leren kennen die 3 maanden geleden uit Tibet weg is gegaan en nog geen woord engels spreekt dus wij gaan hem een beetje engels leren! Ook twee meisjes die bij ons in het hotel werken gaan we vanaf morgen engels leren. Gister zijn we naar de film geweest (born into brothels). 't Was echt een hele mooie documantaire over kinderen die in een sloppen wijk in Calcutta wonen en een amerikaanse vrouw die de kinderen daar probeerde weg te krijgen. Er was een jongetje bij die echt prachtige foto's kon maken en kon schilderen. 't Was maar goed dat er meer mensen in de bios zaten want anders hadden Vida en ik hard zitten huilen! O ja weet iemand nog hoe die Italiaanse film heet die afgelopen zomer in het filmhuis draaide en 6 uur duurde (ja zelfs Philippe weet dit!) Kan het niet hebben dat ik de naam ben vergeten... Verder vermaken wij ons hier nog prima,natuurlijk!!!
Veel liefs en tot snel (hahahah) xxx Vida en Floor

Valentine's Day 2006

(This was emailed to my dearest of friends for Valentine's Day)
You all know me as a helpless romantic incapable of checking my love at the door. Always happy to be in love, I find myself surprisingly at peace with being unattached this fine February the 14th. Yet my love still gushes forth. Just now as I walked back to my desk, touching the red pendant that hangs between the red collar of my red shirt, I banged my head against an open cupboard door. I chuckle to myself because on my mind is the beautiful man from the streetcar whom I made a point of sitting behind while returning home from my class last night. He was very tall, very thin, very dark-skinned and walked with a casual style. What struck me in particular were the two bags he carried which were full of some sort of recording equipment. Sound or picture - I could not decipher. He had placed them gently down on the seat to his side and kept them close. He gazed through the windows alert at the world around him. He must use the equipment to record this world. I was smitten. At one point he turned my way and smiled at me. My heart could have pounded through steel. You could argue that this is an unremarkable event. A fleeting blip of the connection of two human souls on a planet of billions…
(Check this out! http://www.ibiblio.org/lunarbin/worldpop )
But I’d rather think it’s about our human capacity for love – a power that we can wield even in a world that sometimes feels ovewhelmed with conflict. Ok. Enough blather from me. I’ll leave you here with the words of a true poet who says it better than I ever could.
HAPPY LOVE DAY TO ALL OF YOU!

F. R. Scott
From: Events and Signals. Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1954.

A Grain of Rice

Such majestic rhythms, such tiny disturbances.
The rain of the monsoon falls, an inescapable treasure,
Hundreds of millions live
Only because of the certainty of this season,
The turn of the wind.

The frame of our human house rests on the motion
Of earth and of moon, the rise of continents,
Invasion of deserts, erosion of hills,
The capping of ice.

Today, while Europe tilted, drying the Baltic,
I read of a battle between brothers in anguish.
A flag moved a mile.

And today, from a curled leaf cocoon, in the course of its
rhythm,
I saw the break of a shell, the creation
Of a great Asian moth, radiant, fragile,
Incapable of not being born, and trembling
To live its brief moment.

Religions build walls round our love, and science
Is equal of truth and of error. Yet always we find
Such ordered purpose in cell and in galaxy,
So great a glory in life-thrust and mind-range,
Such widening frontiers to draw out our longings,
We grow to one world
Through enlargement of wonder.

Voting in St. James Town - January 24, 2006

This is a corner store in the traditional sense of corner stores: crisp apples in baskets are lined up in rows outside and fresh flowers sit in colourful plastic bins in the windows. Racked newspapers cramp the entry-way and a little bell rings when the door shuts behind you upon entry. Regulars here are welcomed by name and their purchases are anticipated: the lotto ticket tray is swept out from under the counter for presentation, and the amount for Ethiopian bread is punched in the register before the customer has selected his purchase.

Boyun Lee, who goes by the name of Julia, owns and runs Howard’s Fruit and Vegetables with her husband Howard. Their store is on the corner of Howard and Bleecker Streets (guess where Howard got his “Canadian” name) in St. James Town. This is arguably Canada’s most densely populated and ethnically prolific neighbourhood – fifteen thousand souls from around the globe in two city blocks. Here my Caucasian face is the minority.

For two years I lived in the third and top floor of this turn-of-the-century brick building that is dwarfed by the eighteen high-rise apartment buildings that loom in the background. It is one of the few reminders of St. James Town’s earliest years in the 1870’s when this was one of Toronto’s desirable upper middle class neighbourhoods. Now this area represents a chief concentration of new immigrants to our city.

Today is Election Day, and I am on my way to Rose Avenue Public School to vote. I stop in at Howard’s to have a friendly chat with Julia. We talk a little longer than usual. There has been a paucity of concern for immigrant issues during this election and I am curious to know how Julia feels about it. In broken English she explains that she is fed up with what she perceives is a corrupt Martin government and has decided to vote Conservative. She wants to see a change, that change is good. Her children on the other hand, prefer an NDP government. But she doesn’t want to throw her vote away, that’s how she’s sees it.

I ask Julia if she understands the terms “minority government” and “opposition party” and she says she’s heard these words before but doesn’t understand them. She explains that when she became a Canadian citizen a year ago that this was all described to her, but her English is rough and it’s difficult to understand such concepts. Language acquisition is important to her and she has attended ESL classes; however she was disappointed in how lax the instructor was and how he never assigned homework. Now she tries to practice with customers, but since nearly everyone in the neighbourhood is also struggling with the language there has been little progress. She laughs when she describes how she tries to read the Toronto Star between customers but rarely gets past the headlines. I wonder how many new Canadians never get past the headlines.

Julia, Howard and their two children moved from South Korea to Canada on May 16, 2001 and within a year they had bought the store. For the most part, the neighbourhood is friendly. There is an evident crack problem and some prostitution, but the crime comes and goes in waves. There are times when Julia gets very, very scared: one day last week a half-dozen thuggish teens stormed in and grabbed whatever they wanted then hit every other store on the block in a similar fashion. Last year there was a marked dealer presence on the corner, the same types of thugs sat behind the glass window of the fried chicken place next door and kept their eyes trained on the sidewalk. A new, resolute owner has cleared out that presence – for now.

But Julia is happy to be here. She has no plans of returning to South Korea, especially when she thinks of the future of her children. “We moved here because it was the thing to do for younger people who want to see progression. We wanted to break free from the traditional life in South Korea where women of my mother’s generation are still servants to their husbands.” If there’s one thing St. James Town needs, Julia thinks, is a change of attitude. “Most people are very nice, but some people need education to learn respect.”

As I leave for the elementary school, I ask if Julia’s youngest attends class there. She says no, he attends Rosedale Public School. In his class he is one of only two or three visible minority kids – so why? Because she wants to make sure that he commands the English language and sees immersion into Anglo culture as the most efficient way.

Rose Avenue Public School is another rare brick building amongst the tenements. It has seen better days. Big yellow arrows direct voters down a basement corridor. On the walls of the corridor are collages that children have made of themselves from tiny scraps of coloured paper. Below these collages they have listed particulars about their physiques. The title of each collage is called “Me” and one description reads:

Me
My eyes are BROWN
My hair is BLACK
My skin is LIT BROWN
By: Nirmala

Before I enter the gymnasium to vote I take a pit stop in the girls’ washroom. Two ten-year-olds are playing with a faucet, trying to make it squeal as loud as possible. They are laughing uncontrollably but gulp back when they see me. I enquire if it’s ok to ask them a couple questions about immigration and they agree.

Rafa Mir is from Bangladesh and moved here with her family when she was two. Neither of her parents is a Canadian Citizen and will not vote today. Cristine Castro’s mother is from the Philippines but has become a Canadian Citizen and will vote today. The girls learn about voting in school. They cut out articles from the newspapers and learn about the parties and the polls and how to not wreck ballots, and if you’re sick that you can email your vote in, or if you have to go for an operation you can vote in advance.

The girls tell me that the hardest thing about immigrating to Canada is leaving family behind. Also, Rafa says that her mother turned over a lot of fast food restaurants but is thankfully sticking to one these days. She says that the government could make life easier for new immigrants if they would show them around Toronto and Canada upon arrival. They have felt the pain of their parents’ struggles, yet when I ask them if they feel Canadian they chime a resounding “yes!”

The cinder-block gymnasium is very big and like many school gymnasiums also stands-in as an auditorium. The large stage at the far end is currently doubling as a furniture storage space. There are six basketball nets and crisscrossing coloured lines painted on the weathered wooden floor.

I present my identification and am told to proceed to booth sixty-nine. There, one of the volunteers tells me that I am told to go back to the front table and fill out a registration form. The other volunteer at the booth argues that no, my name is on the registration list and that is sufficient. The first volunteer pulls out the handbook. As they discuss, I look around me. It is Noon and there are few voters, but those who are in the room are of varying ethnic backgrounds and ages. Some look tired, others looked rushed, but all take the time to smile. It is a peaceful room.

After voting I decide to sit at the entrance on a plastic folding chair and watch the comings and goings for a while. A young security guard pulls a chair up next to me. He is bored and wants to talk. I tell him that I am interested in the immigrant experience and that I am watching all of the different faces in this room. Today is a special day for Canada because the people have the opportunity to play a role in the direction of our government. And this room is a special place because there are so many new Canadians here that may be voting for the very first time. I must have piqued his interest because he tells me “Yeah, that Martin guy, what did he do, like steal a bunch of money?”

Sibthey Hasnain has a nickname that matches his disposition poetically: Sunny. He tells me he’s 21 but as his story unfolds he admits with a warm and bashful smile that he is only 20. He and his family moved to Canada from Pakistan on September 30, 2002. They came via Houston, Texas where they lived for about 8 months. In Pakistan his mother worked as a Civil Servant in the Department of Agriculture. His father worked in a semi-private cotton company in a similar position. Both were raised in middle-class families and both hold University degrees.

Currently Sunny’s mother assembles fan parts in a factory and his father drives a taxi. But both are trying to improve their situation: Dad’s studying to obtain a real-estate license and Mom’s learning about RRSP’s. They own their own house now and Sunny is planning for college – he wants to become a police officer. “I want to keep the community safe, unlike in Pakistan” where there is no confidence in peace.

Things are pretty good for the Hasnain’s now, but they weren’t always. Living from Visa to Visa in Texas was proving to be exhausting and they applied to emigrate to Canada. When they got the green light they had one month to relocate north. They sold everything they had accumulated in Texas and moved into a friend’s basement in Mississauga. “Those were the worst days,” Sunny says. “It was a cold first winter.” Then, when his father burned his hands in an accident, Sunny and his brother were forced to leave school and find work – Sunny clerked in a convenience store while his brother washed dishes. But the family pulled together and that’s how they managed to buy a house within three years time.

Sunny thinks that the best way to improve the lives of new immigrants to Canada is to allow them the opportunity to work in their discipline. “Professionals, with a degree, should work in their fields. We need doctors don’t we?” Although this is his main gripe about the transition, Sunny is grateful to be here. “I am happy to be Canadian, I feel Canadian. Life is assured here. You live peacefully, make your life, make your money, and you get to know more cultures. I like Canada because you can find your community.” When I ask Sunny to explain what he means by that he tells me “Because I am Muslim, there was a fear in people in the United States. Here I can talk to anyone, brown guy, white guy, anyone. The States is different. They call you Bin Laden to your face. Here, there is none of that.” He explains that there are some people in Canada who try to take the peace away, but there are people like that in every community.

St. James Town sees its share of crime and strife. Guns are not unknown here. Thankfully, what is known is that beside the worst in human nature you will find the best in human nature. When I leave the school, I spot Sunny smoking outside. He is wearing a black jacket emblazoned with the word SECURITY. He is bored and wants to chat some more, but I have to leave. I wonder if he’s grateful that he’s bored.

Good day. May this be the glorious start of many thought-provoking and meaningful exchanges between like-minded visionaries, activists, poets and creatives!