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November 10, 2009 |
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Big Medicine is published by Team EMS Inc.
Managing Editor
Contact: ideas@tems.ca
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Contributor Emeritus
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Stop Violence Against Women & Girls
The views expressed here reflect the views of the authors alone, and do not necessarily reflect the views of any of their organizations. In particular, the views expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of Big Medicine, nor any member of Team EMS Inc.
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VIEWS: SACHA VAIS
by Sacha Vais [Sep 16 2008] *This column is dedicated to my Grandmama Jacqueline. May she rest in peace. On Halloween night in 1950, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, five big-hearted children started knocking on complete strangers’ doors. They were hoping to collect money to send to their “peers” in post-World War II Europe. They walked from house to house chatting with people about their concerns, raised a grand total of $17, and donated every penny of it to UNICEF. They had no way of knowing it at the time, but their actions would soon trigger a far-reaching movement. Shortly after the five children made their donation, the campaign that came to be known as “Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF” was launched nationwide. And in 1967, inspired by those kids’ generosity, President Lyndon Johnson declared Halloween, October 31st, to be “UNICEF Day” in perpetuity. Over the years, the now-global campaign has gone on to collect upwards of 200 million dollars. Kids helping kids. Strangers helping each other. Giving without receiving. Awesome stuff! *** Fast forward > On Halloween night in 1994, in Montreal, Quebec, I committed a reprehensible crime. I got away scot-free. The deed went unpunished. I never got caught. Since I’m incriminating myself anyway, I might as well fess up to the whole offense—the truth is, I committed the same odious crime umpteen times that night. The crime was theft. I was stealing from UNICEF. This is my online confession. *** I was a teenager—hormonal and pimply, fickle and faithless. It was Halloween and the weather was damp and sticky. The sky and I were equally blue and gray. The school day had just ended, and while leaving the building I walked past the principal’s office. Outside her front door, there was an enormous bin filled with bright orange “Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF” collection boxes. There was a sign stapled to the front of the bin: FOR ELEMENTARY-LEVEL STUDENTS ONLY. I made sure no one was watching, and then grabbed one. I wasn’t an elementary-level student, but I didn’t care. I bundled the collection box in my godawful burgundy high school cardigan, tucked it safely into my knapsack, and ran all the way to the #51 bus stop. I think you can see where this is heading. And No, I am not proud of myself. *** That evening I explored my entire neighbourhood. I went door-to-door. I must’ve walked for hours. Just like those big-hearted children from Philadelphia, I knocked on strangers’ doors to chat about my concerns—knowing full well that my plan was to keep the money for myself. And unlike those poor kids, I had the benefit of carrying an authentic bright orange “Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF” collection box around with me, which helped mollify the suspicious strangers, and won dozens of them over. Dishonourable. Aimless. Two-faced. Low. The skies were thundering. Lightning crashed. And it was pouring rain. I was a lost boy in troubled waters. *** I made almost thirty bucks during that soirée of larceny and fraud. If memory serves, I waited for my parents to fall asleep before ordering a gooey vegetarian pizza and a side of hand-cut French fries with my winnings. This is not a story about redemption. You didn’t miss my point. Not all truths are gospel. Not all news is good news. And No, I am not proud of myself. *** Fast forward > On a chilly evening in 2008, in Halifax, Nova Scotia, I write these words. The ocean in front of me stretches out forever. The air it breathes is thick and salty and briny and delicious. I am sitting barefoot in the sand. There are ducks, loons, osprey, sandpipers, pigeons, and gulls all around me. (A pigeon is just a dove with a lousy publicist.) Walden-the-dog is in heaven as he frolics in the surf, and rolls in the sand, and pounces at nothing in particular. My life partner (and best friend) is sitting beside me, being beautiful, holding my hand and gazing outwardly in the same direction. Her feet are bare and sandy, just like mine. Soon it will be autumn. Soon it will be Halloween again. The winter of my adolescence has come and gone. I am humiliated. I am uncomfortable. I am content! I am human! To quote the late Kurt Vonnegut’s late Uncle Alex: “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.” *** Here are three things about life I know for certain: —Without darkness there is no light. —Failing big is necessary. —Making a fool of yourself is essential. *** An original poem about self-awareness and moral codes: Roses are red and there once was a boy from Nantucket, Violets are blue, but not always Canadian boys don’t beg Be braver! Be a man! Grow a pair! Have some stones! Too much of nothing can turn a man into a liar And for god’s sake, never steal from UNICEF.
[Oct 1 07] Just finished watching the sun rise over the Brudenell River. It arrived in fifty shades of golden. I am in eastern Prince Edward Island, a part of the world affectionately known as Canada’s “Million Acre Farm.” I am in heaven. A heron drinks water and watches me. It drinks and watches for a long, long time. When it finally flies away, its wings are magnificent as they soar above me. I catch myself wondering where the heron is going and, perhaps more esoterically, where we’re all going. I remember that great old line, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” I watch the heron until it becomes a tiny fleck in the clouds. Taking a sip of my hot chocolate, I promptly remember that it stopped being “hot” chocolate over an hour ago. I spit out the clumpy milky cocoa watersoup into my cup. Walden yawns lazily as he lies beside me. I rub his belly and scratch under his collar, before I remember that he smells...DISGUSTING. (And now my hand smells rather inelegant, too.) You see, Walden is now a bona fide Country Dog. Because as of seven hours ago, Walden has been sprayed — in the face — by his first skunk! 7 hours ago... I was lying on the back porch with Walden beside me. It was almost midnight. I was watching the moon and the stars, and Walden was standing at full alert and watching everything else. We’d been out there for almost an hour, and until then Walden hadn’t moved from my side. The sky out here in rural PEI is infinite and clear, and the stars bounce and dance and fill up the senses. Oftentimes, in the city, I have a little ritual where I wish upon the first star that I see at night. But out here in the wilderness, there’s just no way to figure out which of the stars is first. As soon as you look up...they’re everywhere. All of a sudden Walden let out a small, almost inaudible growl. I looked up at him, and noticed that his eyes were as wide as golf balls and the hair on his back was sticking straight up in the air. By the time I turned and saw the two beady eyes peering out from the forest it was too late, and Walden was gone. I screamed, “WALDEN, NO, COME BACK, COME RIGHT NOW!” but it was no use. Walden had disappeared into the forest after a small animal. All I had time to see was that the animal was black...with white stripes. Less than — and I’m not exaggerating — less than 5 seconds later, Walden came teetering out of the forest looking quite dazed and very ashamed of himself. He walked right up to me, head down, tail tucked tightly between his legs, sneezing, wheezing, and stinking very, very much. Now, I’ve read my share of wilderness survival guides, and when I travel I like to think that I’m prepared for practically any emergency that might pop up. I consider myself a man of action and not of words, so...quickly...bravely...sacrificially...I leapt into Canine Paramedic Mode and took matters into my own hands. I flung open the screen door to the cottage, and yelled out to my girlfriend: “SWEETHEART, THE DOG’S BEEN SPRAYED BY A SKUNK! WHAT SHOULD WE DO?” (Note that I didn’t yell “What should I do?” The “we” was extremely calculated.) Less than — and I’m not exaggerating — less than 5 seconds later, my girlfriend appeared from the bedroom, where she’d been wrapped up in a cozy blanket watching a DVD. She got the hose, I got the soap. I took off his fetid collar, she got the towels. I held him down, she sprayed. Walden bucked, I held tighter. We laughed, Walden didn’t. It was the middle of the night. We were tired and cold and wet and cranky. The smell was awful. And, well, to be honest it was really very nice. Tonight we’re planning to play boggle on the beach at sunset and then have a barbeque. Those are our “plans,” anyway. But I think I just heard God chuckling by the bonfire pit.
Coming to Terms with Terms (or, Disability is a Four-Letter Word) [Mar 11 07]--My father contracted polio as a child, and lost the ability to develop much muscle in his legs. He either walks with a brace and canes, or uses a wheelchair, depending on how he’s feeling and where he’s going. When I was a teenager, and started experiencing panic attacks and agoraphobia, I felt like I was letting him down by not being “normal.” After all, he has managed to have a career, make a living wage, buy a small house, start his own business, travel all over the world, and, with my mom, raise a family (me!), despite a total lack of cooperation from the lower half of his body. And here I was, his pathetic weenie-of-a-son, too scared to even go to a friggin’ movie theater. Because of extreme anxiety and depression, I gave up university in 2003, with just seven courses remaining towards a Communications and Cultural Studies degree. I stayed away from school for one full year, and during that time I came to terms with the fact that I, like my dad, am...disabled. Until that point, I’m ashamed to admit it but I think I would’ve been offended if someone had labeled my anxiety a “disability.” I hated the idea that I was “different,” and cringed at the term Mental Illness. I’d witnessed firsthand how hard certain things were for my father. Simply because of stereotypes and prejudice, he’s had to fight twice as hard as most people just to be listened to, and taken seriously, and I didn’t want that life. I longed to belong. To fit in. To blend in. When I made the decision to try going back to school part-time, I was terrified to have a panic attack during a class (or faint or vomit or get dizzy or say something inappropriate or or or...). I was so scared I’d embarrass myself, which got me thinking about all the times my father has slipped and fallen down in front of huge crowds of people (often complete strangers). The thought made me very, very proud of him. A year in therapy had taught me to accept my limitations, and to be upfront about them, so before starting the semester I paid a visit to my university’s Office for Students with Disabilities (a room I didn’t even know existed until I needed it). I was told that if I wanted to be assigned a caseworker/advocate, I’d need an official letter from my doctor or psychologist stating my conditions and outlining my need for advocacy. I asked my shrink (I’m afraid of my doctor), and she wrote one immediately. And I submitted it. It got me in! I was assigned a caseworker, and when we met in person (she refused to meet with this ol’ agoraphobe over the phone, citing university policy), I showed her my therapist’s letter and explained that I was hoping to substitute in-class presentations and group work with extra assignments and take-home exams. She laughed at me, and said that the office doesn’t give “handouts.” She said that her job was to intervene for “accessibility issues,” and not simply when students “can’t cope.” She suggested that if I’m not able to write an exam or give a presentation I might want to consider switching out of a program like Communications. I told her that there have been countless great writers and artists throughout history who have led rather reclusive lives, and cited J.D. Salinger, Elfriede Jelinek, Philip K. Dick, and Woody Allen as prime examples. She got increasingly rude and hostile, before declaring outright that the Office for Students with Disabilities couldn’t help “someone like me.” Being told categorically that I was not considered disabled by my university’s advocacy program was one of the strongest motivating factors for me coming to terms with who I am. I am disabled. I do deserve to be represented and defended. That being said, I was crushed (not to mention flat broke, unemployed, depressed, and pretty damn hopeless). But I still managed to muster up the strength/dignity to demand another caseworker. I was assigned a very kind, polite, gentle, slow-paced woman...the anti-advocate. Ombudspeople need to be aggressive, persuasive, relentless. Pitbullish. She was...a schoolmarm. Her first executive decision as my advocate was to send a letter to my professors. Here’s an excerpt: I would like to introduce Sacha, who is registered in your course. Sacha has self-identified to the Office for Students with Disabilities as having a health-related/ongoing medical condition...According to the student’s medical documentation and an evaluation of educational needs by our office, the following accommodations are recommended: · Extended time for assignments when warranted in negotiation with professors. Take home exams when possible. Some pit bull, huh? I’ve “self-identified” as being mentally ill, and I should be granted everything I need to make my education possible...when warranted, in negotiation, and when possible. And, to boot, these accommodations are merely RECOMMENDED. Needless to say, it was a difficult semester and an exhausting school year. But I did survive it, and lived to tell the tale. I eventually graduated. (With Distinction, might I add!) And now my degree hangs on my wall, in my home office, where I spend my days somewhat reclusively...getting paid to be a writer. But I’m leaving out the best part of the story. My schoolmarmy caseworker might not have been a pedagogical pit bull, but she ended up doing me a HUGE favour. The Québec government has a relatively unknown program that grants loans to university students who require education-related equipment. Even less known is the fact that any student with a “major functional disability” is eligible to have their equipment loan converted into a bursary, which means you don’t have to pay it back. My caseworker sat with me for hours one afternoon, and helped me fill out all the required forms. She even attached a letter sponsoring my request, and wrote that I had a file with—and the full support of—Concordia University’s Office for Students with Disabilities. The government granted my request, and a few months later they sent me a bursary cheque for $2000. With it I bought a shiny new laptop computer that I NEVER would’ve been able to afford otherwise. This computer. The one on which I’m writing this exact article. These days, I can’t help but feel that I’ve come a long way. I used to fight to be considered “normal.” Then I fought to be considered “disabled.” Eventually I stopped fighting altogether and took up freelance writing instead.
Flirting with Disaster [Jan 29 07]--It happened on a Wednesday in my city. I was nine years old. The rifle he used is called a Sturm-Ruger Mini-14, the same weapon used by the heroes in the 1980s TV show The A-Team. Although it normally comes with a five-bullet magazine, a larger one can be attached. He attached one that held 30 bullets. The killer’s name was Marc Lépine, and by mentioning this I’ve just given the selfish bastard yet another Google search result (he had over 65,000 last time I checked). Lépine committed suicide that day, but not before killing 14 innocent women and shooting 13 other people. Then he turned his Mini-14 blood machine on himself, and shot his own face off. (Apparently this is normal behaviour for a mass-murderer, who, unlike a “serial killer,” has no desire to bask in his own glory and be around to witness his celebrity.) December 6, 1989. I remember it like it was yesterday. Seven days ’til my tenth birthday and I remember I was excited to finally reach “Double Digits.” I hid under the coffee-table while my parents watched the news. And from under my coffee-table I watched the news, too. I was terrified, but I didn’t cry. I’ll never forget that I didn’t cry. “A crazed gunman confronted 60 engineering students during their class at l’École Polytechnique in Montreal,” announced the solemn-looking anchorman. “He separated the men from the women and told the men to leave the classroom, threatening them with his rifle.” Lépine aspired to study engineering at École Polytechnique, but had missed entrance to the ultra-competitive university program by two credits. Before opening fire he called the women “une gang de féministes” and yelled “J'haïs les féministes [I hate feminists].” One woman pled that they were not feminists, just students taking engineering. But he didn’t listen. And he shot her in three places, including her temple. And she survived. Her name is Nathalie Provost. She went on to be an engineer. After the massacre Provost spoke on national television from her hospital bed: “I ask every woman in the world who wants to be an engineer to keep this idea in their mind.” After that female enrolment in engineering programs across Canada rose dramatically. Another survivor, Heidi Rathjen, went on to become a gun control activist. Rathjen, a fourth-year engineering student at the time, was one of the women who survived the incident by hiding in rooms Lépine never entered. Shortly after the massacre, Heidi Rathjen circulated a petition calling for strict laws preventing possession of military-caliber assault weapons. In a matter of months she had collected half a million signatures. She went on to co-found an organization, along with Ryerson Polytechnic Institute professor Wendy Cukier, called Canadians for Gun Control. The organization, which lobbies vigorously for stricter gun laws, merged with the Coalition for Gun Control in 1991, and is still going strong. Then, a few months ago, the unthinkable happened. On September 13, 2006, history repeated itself in Montreal. Again on a Wednesday. This time the killer’s name was Kimveer Gill, and this time the school’s name was Dawson College. I know the campus well, having studied there when I was younger. My uncle works there, as do several of my friends. The killer did as killers do, and Kimveer Gill murdered Anastasia De Sousa, an 18 year old woman who had just started studying international business, and wounded nineteen other people, before police cornered him and he, like Marc Lépine before him, shot himself in the face. Gill was armed with a Beretta Cx4 Storm carbine, a Glock 9mm handgun, and a Norinco HP9-1 short barreled shotgun. He had time to fire sixty shots. Every one of the weapons Gill had in his possession can be purchased LEGALLY by a civilian in Canada. In fact, Gill had a restricted-class firearms license and his weapons were registered with the Canadian gun registry. The same goes for Marc Lépine. As such, according to Canadian law, until they rained bullets upon innocent strangers they had yet to commit even a misdemeanor. This is nothing short of lunacy. When I got the assignment to write a column for a special Violence Against Women-themed issue of Big Medicine, I had absolutely no idea what to write about. I was really intimidated by the topic, and hadn’t a clue how to approach it. I confided to my girlfriend that I didn’t think I could be clever or funny or witty about violence against women. She looked me straight in the eye and said: “That’s not the point this time. There’s nothing funny about this one. You need to tell the truth, instead.” In an interview with CBC Television in February of 1990, less than two months after the École Polytechnique Massacre, Heidi Rathjen echoed that sentiment: “Students are putting up with fewer sexist jokes since the murders,” she said without smiling. There’s nothing funny about this one. Here’s a statistic: Violence inflicted by men (to women or other men) requires medical attention five times as often as violence inflicted by women. Here’s another one: Women are nearly four times as likely to be murdered by their spouses than men are. When I did an internet search for Sturm-Ruger Mini-14 guns, one of the first websites that popped up was a “fan club” for assault rifles. This particular site runs a “motivational quote” at the top of their homepage, and the one that was featured when I checked was: “Owning a gun no more makes you a gunfighter than owning a Stradivarius violin makes you a concert violinist.” There’s nothing funny about this one. Guns are murder machines, and innocent people are dying. Let’s join hands before it’s too late, and stop...violins against women. Ok, maybe we need to laugh just a little. LIST OF VICTIMS École Polytechnique de Montréal Geneviève Bergeron (b. 1968), civil engineering student. Hélène Colgan (b. 1966), mechanical engineering student. Nathalie Croteau (b. 1966), mechanical engineering student. Barbara Daigneault (b. 1967) mechanical engineering student. Anne-Marie Edward (b. 1968), chemical engineering student. Maud Haviernick (b. 1960), materials engineering student. Maryse Laganière (b. 1964), budget clerk in the École Polytechnique's finance department. Maryse Leclair (b. 1966), materials engineering student. Anne-Marie Lemay (b. 1967), mechanical engineering student. Sonia Pelletier (b. 1961), mechanical engineering student. Michèle Richard (b. 1968), materials engineering student. Annie St-Arneault (b. 1966), mechanical engineering student. Annie Turcotte (b. 1969), materials engineering student. Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz (b. 1958), materials engineering student. Dawson College Anastasia De Sousa (b. 1988), international business student.
Mercy [Sep 8 06]--As a boy growing up, my friends and I used to love to play a popular children’s game called “Mercy Fighting”—perhaps you’ve heard of it? It’s a basic game, and the rules are simple: (Adapted from the Wikipedia entry on Mercy) Two opponents face each other and grab the other’s hands, interlocking fingers. Opponent #1’s right hand to opponent #2’s left hand, and opponent #1’s left hand to opponent #2’s right hand. On the word “go,” each person attempts to bend their opponent’s hands back, inflicting pain on him or her as the ligaments and tendons stretch in the wrist. When one opponent can no longer stand the pain, nor reverse the situation by overpowering his opponent and bending back their wrists, he cries out “mercy!” and is then defeated. The opponents then disengage hands and the match is completed. It may sound barbaric, but we used to have loads of fun organizing our Mercy Fighting/Bloody Knuckles round-robin tournaments! I was standing in line at the bank the other day, and I got to daydreaming about the concept of “mercy,” and how it’s been a really long time since I’ve seen a stranger perform a voluntary act of mercy. And then I got to thinking about what the world would be like if life were run by children: Me: What do you mean this medication isn’t covered under Medicare? Why not? It is a MEDICINE after all, is it not…? Pharmacist: I’m sorry sir, that’s just the way it is. Me: But I can’t afford it. Pharmacist: And I regret to inform you that there is no generic version available in Canada. Me: What??? That’ll cost me, like, sixty bucks a month. Pharmacist: More like eighty five. Me: I won’t be able to eat, or pay my dog’s vet bills, or put gas in my car. Pharmacist: Dem’s the breaks. Fork it over. Me: Ok, ok…mercy. Pharmacist: Pardon? Me: Mercy. I give up. Now can I take my medicine home? Pharmacist: Oh, of course Sach, have a great afternoon. Good match! See you in a month. All I’m saying is: it might be nice if we all took care of one another a bit more… The kids call it “mercy.” What are we civilized adults gonna call it? *** There is a creek near our house that our dog Walden likes to swim in. (And yes, we cornily refer to it as Walden’s Pond!) To get to Walden’s Pond you have to cross a giant meadow. Walden loves this meadow almost as much as he loves his pond, and he frolics in his meadow and chases birds and butterflies and dollar-store tennis balls alike. A few weeks ago, much to my chagrin, I arrived at Walden’s Pond only to find truckloads of construction equipment—heaps of gravel, shovels and spades, manual steamrollers, etc. My heart sunk, and indeed continued to sink in the following days and weeks as the crew (which was always gone by the time we arrived in the evening) began to clear a HUGE site, uprooting the grass and spreading around the gravel. And I thought to myself: They pave paradise and put up a parking lot. And I thought to myself: Another perfect wedge of nature lost to the Concrete Gods. Bah. It’s been weeks now since they started, and day after day they’ve cleared a wider and wider area. At first my girlfriend and I thought they were building a house, and then we thought they were building an apartment building, and then, as it grew and grew, we thought they might be building a baseball diamond and a community center (which would be nice for the neighbourhood kids, don’t get me wrong, but terrible for us, who are only in search of some peace and quiet). But, in the end, it’s not going to be a baseball diamond/cultural center either... You’ll never guess what it turns out they’re building? …C’mon, guess?
…Betcha can’t.
...Give up yet?
...They’re not building anything at all. It turns out they’re planting an entire field’s worth of new grass, so the meadow will be nicer to play on! Sometimes...once in a while...they save paradise, and say screw the parking lot. *** Just before my girlfriend and I moved to Halifax, we held a massive garage sale to raise some much-needed cash for our trip. We sold our old posters, and cameras, and sports equipment, and t-shirts. We sold rollerblades, and bean bag tosses, and a dartboard, and an unbelievably cool Velcro tennis ball game. Against my better judgment, we also sold a large chunk of my old Archie comic collection (a collection which naturally included Richie Rich, Jughead Double Digests, Josie & the Pussycats, Katy Keene, Casper the Friendly Ghost, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, etc.). It was a sunny, hot and muggy Montreal day, and we started the garage sale at around 8 AM. By 2:30 in the afternoon we were absolutely drained. We didn’t want to close up shop because there were still people coming by, albeit sporadically. We’d done pretty well for ourselves already, raking in a decent amount of money considering we’d only put up, like, ten hand-drawn signs advertising the sale. But there were still people coming, dammit! We tried to push ourselves, we tried to soldier on (in the name of needed Travel Cash), but we were dehydrated and exhausted and headachy and sunburned, and we needed to stop. We decided to try something rather unique, a what’s-the-worst-thing-that-can-happen kinda experiment. My girlfriend got out some permanent markers and a neon green Bristol board, and she wrote in giant, colourful, bubbly letters: And then, in front of the sandwich board sign, we set up a tin can with a slot cut out that was big enough to fit coins and bills. And we used duct tape to seal up the tin can, to act as a “deterrent” to potential thieves (some deterrent!). And then we went inside to eat lunch. And take showers. And take naps, and watch TV, and surf the net, and catch up on emails. And then we went out to dinner. And came home and went to bed. The next morning, when I woke up and went out to check, a lot of our stuff was gone…but not all of it. And there was almost seventy dollars in our tin can! I urge people throughout the world to hold Honour System Garage Sales. Some of you might end up disappointed, but many of you won’t. It’s worth it, if just for the firsthand experiment in human behaviour. And besides, trusting people can be profitable! *** p.s. My editor tells me that my column’s regularly among the most clicked on pages on Big Med. Thank you for reading, guys. Really. Or as the French say... Mercy.
Meeting David Suzuki or How I
Contracted Foot In Mouth Disease [Jun 28 06]--Someone
once challenged me to “find my authentic voice.” She said we each have one,
though we don’t always use it. She told
me I had one. Somewhere. “How do I locate it,” I asked her, “and how
do I use it?” “I dunno,” she said, “each person’s is
entirely unique.” “Thanks,” I said, “thanks a lot.” And as I travel along this upsy-downsy,
sometimes-scenic highway we call Life (at breakneck speeds), I often catch
myself wondering whether or not the voice I most often use is my own. The truth is, I dunno. Hard to tell. It
sounded like me, but don’t we always…? *** I was pleased (ok, shocked!) to see that I am
writing for the same publication as Dr. David Suzuki. I’m sure I speak for
everyone here when I say that he is a very welcome addition to Big
Med. He’s amazing, and accomplished, and
legendary, and brilliant, and determined, and unstoppable, and an
international celebrity, and a Rock Star Environmentalist, and a One-Man
Canadian Institution, and… …and he once called me a “cheeky jerk.” I didn’t mean to offend him, I swear.
I was only trying to be friendly. Bah, so much for authentic voices. *** I first contacted Dr. Suzuki in September of
2003. I wrote him a letter imploring him, in his capacity as Scientist
Extraordinaire, to send my girlfriend – who is now a marine biology master’s
student – a personalized birthday present. Yah, I know – pretty vain, huh? Young love.
Adolescent ego. Unworldly naiveté. All of the above? Anyway, he sent me back a signed bookmark,
and a pamphlet for the David Suzuki Foundation and the Nature Challenge. His
office even called to verify my address before they mailed the package. If I hadn’t been young, and newly in love,
and incredibly stoooopid, I probably would’ve-should’ve-could’ve left well
enough alone… But I was, and I couldn’t, and I didn’t. …so I wrote him a second letter,
chastising him for not taking more time with his response. Of course, at the time I didn’t think I was
being an arrogant dumpkiss. But then again, in the moment, we never do. As
Dorothy Day wrote in her autobiography (titled “Written when I was fifteen, this letter was filled with pomp and vanity and piety. I was writing of what interested me most…but I was writing self-consciously and trying to pretend to myself I was being literary…I enjoyed our correspondence but I did not want anyone else to see it.” A few months later, and having heard nothing back from Dr. Suzuki, my girlfriend and I, who were living in Montreal at the time, managed to snag a few tickets to the hottest lecture in town. David Suzuki was giving a speech at a local synagogue, and I remember we got all dressed up to go see him speak. (Keep in mind that, at the time, my girlfriend had no idea about my scheme.) At the end of his lecture (which was incredibly powerful and motivating, by the way), I excused myself from my girlfriend (who had bumped into an old friend of hers, so it was an easy getaway), and I marched right up to introduce myself to Dr. Suzuki, thinking he’d…truth be told, I don’t know what I was thinking! Our conversation was very brief. I introduced myself. He remembered me. (Ooooh boy, did he ever remember me!) He said my letter made me sound like a “cheeky jerk” (I’ll never forget those words), and he asked me, politely, to go away. *** When I first heard that David Suzuki was going to be my colleague, my fellow columnist (talk about your free-range chickens coming home to roost!), I thought to myself, “Great, now’s your chance to ‘get even’ by writing a column about how the great David Suzuki was insulting and self-important and hoity-toity to you.” Seriously, I was all prepared to write an arcane, narcissistic, deeply existential rant about the “illusion of celebrity” and the Death of the Hero. And then I went back and re-read my letters. And then I looked at the situation through my Today Eyes. And then I searched for my Authentic Voice. And guess what? It turns out my letters were filled with pomp and vanity and piety. It turns out I did, in fact, act like a cheeky jerk. *** An open letter to Dr. David Suzuki, from one columnist to another (wink, wink): Dear Dr. Suzuki, Remember me, Sacha Vais, the dufus kid who wrote you those annoying letters a few years back? Well, I just wanted to say sorry, and assure you I’ve changed and grown and matured and developed. I no longer feel that the world owes me itself on a silver platter, and I understand that you’re an incredibly busy guy and that I came across as a “cheeky jerk,” and I just wanted to say thanks a lot for taking the time to send my girlfriend that autographed bookmark. Glad to see you’re writing for Big Medicine. I hope you contribute widely and often. I look forward to reading your every word. Oh, by the way, before I forget: My anniversary is coming up in mid-July, and it’d be great if I could present my girlfriend (a biologist) with a handwritten job offer from you asking her to come work for your foundation…! I promise, this’ll be the last favour I ask for. Oooh, and one more thing – can you throw in an autographed David Suzuki Foundation T-shirt for my nine-year-old cousin Sarah, who idolizes you and wants to “become a Country Vet and save the planet and all the animals on it”?!? Ok, that’s definitely the last favour I ask for. Keep up the great work. The Hero is not Dead. Sincerely, S. Vais. *** I am learning, as I grow, that it doesn’t take moving mountains to mend broken relationships. Apologizing to David Suzuki doesn’t take writing a 50-page letter, and it doesn’t take airing a 30-second primetime TV ad, and it doesn’t take flying a skywriter over crowded cities exhibiting my sincerities… It just takes finding the words, and the humility, to say: I’m sorry, I was wrong, I’ve reflected. But perhaps that’s just my authentic voice talking.
Haligonian Vacation
[May 29 06]--So I’m filing this column from a rustic lakeside cabin just off
Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia. No kiddin’, I swear!
I’m pretty sure I can hear coyotes howling in the distance (nobody tell my
mother), and there’s a roaring woodstove, like, three feet from my laptop. I am drinking a bottle of Labatt Blue, imported straight
from "Kyoo-beck" (they seem to pronounce it like this everywhere east of
Moncton, New Brunswick). My girlfriend and I bought the beer – along with
our groceries and our sunscreen and our long-distance calling card and our
three dollar t-shirts and our bug repellent – in a tiny nearby town called
Hubbards, where the people are incredibly friendly and generous, and the
bank is connected to the liquor store is connected to the seafood restaurant
is connected to the "super" market is a stone’s throw away from the fire
station/bingo hall. Seriously…the fire station and the bingo hall are the
same building. Look: How I got to this idyllic cottage in this charming town on
the Atlantic Ocean is a whole other story… * * * A summary of the last week of my life: - We drove into
Halifax at 12AM, after the second 10-hour day of driving in a row. - We arrived at our
apartment, where the landlord met us outside and handed us the keys to our
flat. He wanted to get back to a poker game, so he told us we could give him
the signed lease on Monday (THANK GOD), and left us to look around
ourselves. Think Hurricane Katrina meets Baghdad. The place was a
catastrophe, a war zone, a carnival, a zoo. Broken windows that didn’t lock,
half-empty wine bottles strewn about, wads of hair in the bathroom,
toothpaste caked onto sinks, closet doors that wouldn’t close, a fresh URINE
stain in one of the bedrooms, an oven that didn’t work, air ducts that were
scotch-taped on, paint peeling everywhere… (see pictures below) - Needless to say,
we took all our stuff with us and checked into a hotel that night. - The next morning
we woke up at about 6AM (having slept a whopping two hours), to try
to get in touch with the movers…who were scheduled to drop off our stuff at
the apartment THAT MORNING! We called for almost three hours before we
reached a dispatcher, who arranged for his guys to deliver our belongings to
a local UHaul storage facility instead (which is costing us almost $90 to
rent for the month). - Next I called our
almost-landlord, to tell him we decided not to take the place and to ask for
our security deposit back. To say he was pissed would be a radical
understatement. At first he refused to give us our $325 back, but I stood up
to him and told him he had no choice, that the money wasn’t his, that it was
the law. I told him it wasn’t our fault that the place was in a state of
disrepair. - I met him outside
his place, to give him back the keys and to get a cheque for our security
deposit. My girlfriend was waiting in the open-windowed car, with our dog
Walden and a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Just in case. - We then spent
seven LOOOOONG nights at a cheap, pet-friendly hotel in Dartmouth (a suburb
just outside Halifax), and during the days we scoured the classified ads for
a place to live. - Note: If you have
a large-breed dog it is almost impossible to find a safe-but
affordable place to live in Halifax. - My girlfriend and
I must’ve called over 200 listings. No pets, no pets, no pets, no pets, no
pets… - We found one place
that we absolutely ADORED – huge private deck, cathedral ceilings,
overlooking a duck pond – and when we went to look at it the landlord
seemed to assure us the apartment was ours, but…then we couldn’t get in
touch with him again. He missed appointments, and dodged calls, and gave us
the runaround. We even told him we were living out of a hotel, and that it
was getting both stressful and expensive, but the jerk just kept stalling
and stalling. We finally had to give up hope when we found another
almost-as-wonderful apartment. Only difference was, this one was willing to
take us… - So we took
it. o Charming triplex
atop a hill o Top flat o 2 bedrooms (which
means I get an office!) o Hardwood floors o Many windows, very
bright o HUGE open kitchen
and living room o Private attic
(unfinished, but great for storage) o Quiet, tree-lined,
residential street, but on a major bus route o Coin laundry
on-site o Beautiful hiking
trail just down the road - We signed a June
1st lease, and rented this cottage to wait out the time ‘til then. - We’re in the Nova
Scotian countryside, and on a lake, and by the ocean, and it is utterly
majestic here (and quite a bit cheaper than that bloody hotel in Dartmouth).
- Our luck seems to
be changing…knock on wood. * * * Big Medicine Presents… Nova Scotian Grudge Match: A Side-By-Side Comparison of
Sacha’s Two Possible Fates:
Apartment we turned down VS. Where we are now * * * Y’see, the thing about this trip is…it’s not that I’m no
longer agoraphobic, or insomniatic, or depressed, or headache-ridden, or
irritable bowely. It’s just that – for know – I’m also nomadic, and
spontaneous, and vital, and curious, and content. Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t all been easy – I’ve been
freaking out at least three or four times a day! This "vacation" has been a series of misadventures and
a comedy of errors. At times, and often, it’s been frustrating, and
depleting, and terrifying, and surreal, and unbearable. But somehow, along
the way, I acquired some incredible memories, too. I am taking comfort in the knowledge that anyone
would have found the last few weeks of my life exhausting. For a change, I
have something very real to be anxious about! I am homeless, and unemployed, and madly in love, and
renting a cabin on a lake, and in desperate need of a Laundromat, and over
1200 km away from the only home I’ve ever known. I am drinking a bottle of
Kyoobeck beer, and writing my column on a laptop, and listening to the
coyotes howl, and toasting by the woodstove. Later on, I might even go bowling in Hubbards. As human beings, we have a phenomenal capacity for
exhaustion and pain, and our resilience is astounding. I am far stronger,
and more able, than I ever knew. And sometimes I’ll fall apart, too. And that’s ok. It seems I went to the ocean, and found a bit of myself. How cliché, I know.
Going…going…Haligonian! [May 6 06]--I had another panic attack over the weekend. This time I was by
myself, and driving when it happened.
I got out of the car, shuffling my feet over
to a nearby park, and sat down on a bench.
It’s been quite an anxious few weeks, so I suppose this was somewhat foreseeable. My girlfriend and I are in the throes of a major life decision. We’re trying to decide between Newfoundland (Memorial University) and Halifax (Dalhousie). We’re trying to save our last few dollars before an incredibly expensive move. We’re trying to find a safe neighborhood and a decent apartment (that accepts large-breed dogs, you try it sometime). We’re trying to find a moving company that’s affordable. We’re trying to decide what to take and what to leave behind. We’re trying to convince our doctors/dentists/banks/veterinarian/license bureau/mechanics/student travel agent/CAA rep/computer guy, etc. that they have a moral obligation to fit us into their already-overbooked schedules. We’re trying to organize a garage sale to raise a little extra travel cash.
I’ve got my shrink on speed dial…!
* * *
A linguistic snapshot of my brain at this exact moment: Ohmigod ohmigod yahoo, ohmigod ohmigod yahoo, ohmigod ohmigod yahoo, ohmigod ohmigod yahoo...!
* * *
Fight or flight, eh? Some choice. Well I choose neither, dammit. I’m sick and tired of fighting, and there are no affordable flights…so I choose roadtrip instead. Maritimes, here we come. Make way for the determined. (***This just in, breaking news – a Big Medicine World Exclusive***: Our decision is made…We’re off to Nova Scotia!!!) * * * In 2005, National
Geographic Traveler Magazine named Cape Breton Highlands National Park the
“#2 National Park in North America.” * * * My only regret with not
choosing Newfoundland is that I already had a job pitch prepared for local
newspaper/magazine editors: * * * Top Ten Things to Keep in the Car During Our Roadtrip: 10) A huge cooler – for
sandwiches, and fresh fruit, and Tim Horton’s truckstop donuts, and ice-cold
water bottles/soda cans. 7) A D/C adapter for my
laptop, so I can watch movies (with headphones) when it’s my girlfriend’s
turn to drive. * * * My girlfriend and I are
in the process of rigging up an intricate system that will allow Walden, who
will be in the backseat during our roadtrip, to drink fresh water whenever
he feels like it. It involves a 1-litre gerbil waterer (the ones with the
little water spout for the thirsty Cool, huh? * * * 5 Potential Ways I Can Make Money In Halifax 1. I can learn ventriloquism, and apply for a busker’s license. (Downside: agoraphobes hate crowds) 2. I can get a mail route with Canada Post. (Downsides: too much walking, have a really bad sense of direction, out of shape, not a morning person) 3. Sperm donation. (Downsides: icky, embarrassing, can’t add it to my CV, don’t think dozens of little Sachas scattered throughout Atlantic Canada is such a good idea…!) 4. Video store clerk. (Downside: I’m not sure my film-snob colleagues will accept me when they find out my favorite movies are Police Academy 1-7) 5. Lifeguard on a public beach. (Downsides: not a strong swimmer, get migraines in the sun, tend to daydream involuntarily) * * * BREAKING NEWS 2: My
girlfriend and I have found an apartment! * * * A Big Med prize giveaway,
just ‘cause I’m in a good mood: Question: Which poet
said, on his deathbed, “It is a reproach to the faculty that they cannot
cure the hiccup”?
Return address: School of Graduate Studies,
Memorial University of Newfoundland. A brief excerpt from the letter:
An original (unfinished) limerick about how I am feeling right now:
But I’m pretty darn excited, too.
I’ve spent the last week or so listening to CBC Radio’s live St. John’s internet feed, and checking Atlantic Canada job banks, and bookmarking off-campus housing sites, and making notes on ferry schedules.
I should take out a classified ad: Need work. Have car, won’t travel. Only those who conduct job interviews via email need apply.
Ok then, I’m doomed.
On time zones: Right now it’s 90 minutes later in Newfoundland than it is in Montreal. They’re so lucky, they already know who wins the hockey game I’m watching.
Oh, nooooooo.
Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if I have a doctor. It seems that practically every time I call my doctor’s clinic to book an appointment, the secretary casually informs me that my doctor has moved (usually to Toronto), and that my file has been re-assigned to a new physician.
So it looks like I may be taking this column on the road, folks. Come May or June, whether it be Newfoundland (2568.45 km) or Nova Scotia (1270.16 km), it seems my toes are about to touch sand ‘n saltwater.
The next time you see me, I could be a lighthouse keeper, or an eco tour guide, or a trawler.
Breaking news, this just in: Guess what? I just called my doctor’s office to book an appointment and…MY DOCTOR HAS MOVED!!! Adding insult to injury, the secretary refuses to transfer my file to another doctor in the clinic, claiming they’re overbooked.
Confessions of a Slightly
Bashful Foot Flusher [Mar 17 06]--I
had never seen a germ until I fell in love with my girlfriend.
What strikes me as odd (disturbing?) is that my girlfriend doesn’t seem the least bit concerned by the fact that we are literally surrounded by trillions of malevolent, virile, disease-causing monsters. Somehow, she’s able to detach herself from the reality that almost everything we touch in public has someone else’s flu on it. And somehow, I can’t seem to forget it.
Lately, I picture germs everywhere I go—on
toilet seats, and doorknobs, and elevator buttons, and mailbox handles, and
payphone receivers. And then I ask myself this question: Can I afford to get
sick this week?
The news is not good.
And then there’s the website for the product known euphemistically as “The Clean Shopper,” which boasts of being “The fast, easy way to keep shopping-cart germs away!” A shopping cart/high chair cover for babies and toddlers, it “protects the entire shopping cart seating area—sides, back, handlebars and front—to offer maximum protection against disease-causing bacteria.” (From the promotional material: “Protect your baby from bacteria-ridden shopping carts and grimy restaurant high chairs with the original, patented and award-winning Clean Shopper® and Clean Diner®.”)
Since I’ve started paying attention to issues
of contagion, I am finding references everywhere I look. There is a
hilarious show on TV called Monk, about an obsessive-compulsive, germaphobic
detective. And just the other day I came across an article about Kurt Godel,
the influential mathematician who developed the Incompleteness Theorem of
logic that challenged the view that logic would allow a complete
understanding of the universe, and later died of self-starvation when his
paranoid fear of germs grew uncontrollable. And Howie Mandel, the famous
stand up comedian, refuses to shake anybody’s hand.
The Pen Is Mightier Than The Ward [Mar 2 06]--This morning’s nightmare had me dying of multiple sclerosis. I’ve been woken up by a different disease every morning this week, at around 4:15AM. Yesterday was lung cancer, and the day before that flesh-eating disease. I had a brain tumour on Monday, which kept me up for hours, but on Tuesday it was diabetes, which is treatable, so I was able to fall back asleep in no time.
My psychiatrist tells me I need professional
help.
Q/ How many Freudian analysts does it take to
change a lightbulb?
A/ Two. One to hold the bulb and the other to
hold the penis, I mean the ladder. Welcome to my third column. Stay awhile.
***
Boy, this whole journalism thing is fun.
Porphyria is not a single disease but a group of at least eight disorders that differ considerably from each other. A common feature in all porphyrias is the accumulation in the body of porphyrins. Although these are normal body chemicals, they normally do not accumulate.
The type of Porphyria that Laila has is called Acute Intermittent Porphyria (AIP), which is hereditary.
***
I was sad to read in the papers that Heather Crowe’s cancer has spread.
Since she started to lose her speech last month, her doctors have found 11 tumours in her brain and a painful one at the base of her spine, along with the lung cancer that was diagnosed in 2002.
***
On a completely unrelated note: I’m in the process of trying to take up smoking, as a way of coping with my debilitating anxiety. It’s taking me some time to learn how to inhale properly (the first few cigarettes made me nauseous and dizzy), and often I still cough my brains out, but I’ll get the hang of it, even if it kills me.
Not dumb, just desperate. My loved ones want me to reconsider. My shrink’s imploring me to try adding another anxiolytic to my daily mood cocktail. I’m terrified to tamper with my meds again, the last titration was exhausting. (And besides, I hear those pills are addictive!).
I’m so sorry Heather, I’m so sorry Laila.
Second column [Feb
22 06]--Some people greet challenges with confidence and
curiosity—think of a young surgeon, fresh out of med school, convinced he
could perform an inter-mammalian brain transplant in the backseat of a cab.
Should the need arise.
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SACHA VAIS Sacha Vais is a freelance editor, writer, ghostwriter, and photographer, as well as founder of IrkedMagazine.com. He currently writes for BBC Ouch!, The Huffington Post, Link Magazine (South Australia), and the irrepressible Big Medicine. He is grateful for his regular gig at Big Med, and he realizes that if he is to see a little further, and if he is to become a better practitioner of ubuntu, it will be by standing on the shoulders of giants. He lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, was “schooled” at Concordia University, has a dog named Walden, and can be reached by email. He enjoys baba ghanoush. But he enjoys hummus even more. Previously on Sacha Vais: Coming to Terms with Terms (or, Disability is a Four-Letter Word) [Mar 11 07] Flirting with Disaster [Jan 29 07] Mercy [Sep 8 06] Meeting David Suzuki or How I Contracted Foot In Mouth Disease [Jun 28 06] Haligonian Vacation [May 29 06]
Going…going…Haligonian! [May 6 06]
The Maniacal Ramblings of an Agoraphobe on the Move [Apr 4 06]
Confessions of a Slightly Bashful Foot Flusher [Mar 17 06]
The Pen Is Mightier Than The Ward [Mar 2 06]
Second column [Feb 22 06]
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