I'm so white.

Click on the pic for a clearer glimpse of Grad '82 Airband Greatness...

I was raised in the suburbs of Western Canada until such time as I fledged. I was in Regina for Kindergarten. We coloured mimeographed pictures of the Virgin Mary. Elementary school was in Calgary, and then Middle and High School were in Tsawwassen. (I prefer the easier-to-spell "T-Town".) These places were pretty damn waspy and my childhood occurred during the "pre-politically correct" era. I enjoyed listening to the Carpenters and John Denver on the family hi-fi stereo unit.

We would visit my war-vet, ex-pat British grandparents and would be given 25 cents each and sent down the street to the Chink Store. We actually thought that was the last name of the elderly Asian couple who ran the place. Imagine their surprise when my kid brother entered the store to say, "Hello Mister Chink!" with his sunshiny 5-year-old smile. I guess they'd heard worse because they ignored our innocent racism and sold us candy. Maybe they were even thinking, "Oh, these must be the grandchildren of Old Gwailoh Everett."

Interestingly, my brothers and I, first in Elementary and later in High School, became friends with the only Black boys in each of our schools at the time. Each of these kids were the adoptive son of white couples (I recollect no actual Black families.) They were nice, and we had a lot of fun with them. The first boy was named Chris. And we would happily play Lego with him and fry ants with his dad's magnifying glass. I remember when there was a childhood dispute once and someone called him a "nigger". Fascinatingly, he didn't get angry, or contrite. He explained that he was actually a "mulatto", as if that were a relevant fact in the face of our ugly juvenile bigotry.

When we moved to the West Coast our Black friend's name was Andy. In high school we entered the Airband Contest with a group called the Crippled Reincarnated Experience. We all portrayed dead rock stars. I was John Lennon because I'm so deep... and a Beatles fan. Others were John Bonham and Jim Morrison. Obviously my Black friend ended up being Jimi Hendrix, who he more than peripherally resembled. We tore it up pretty good, but there was no hope of victory for us. The prettiest girls in school put on miniskirts and haltertops to recreate the Go-Gos. I mean... they were so sexy I think we even voted for them. I have no idea what happened to Andy, but I suspect he's done well for himself.

Back in the '70's and 80's there was a clear tone of racism in my young environment. It wasn't an angry, clan-style thing, but it was pervasive. My Grandparents might have felt very comfortable with Asian racial slurs, but words like "Paki" and "Punjab" were also used at the dinner table in my house when I was a kid. The suburbs I grew up in had very few non-white kids. They really stuck out in the pale crowd. I didn't like them more or less because they were Chinese, or East Indian, or Black, but I don't think they were on a level playing field either. Some of the cliches were true in T-town, where the Chinese girl was the daughter of the couple that ran the laundromat. This: in a town that was made up largely of cops, pilots, entrepreneurs and upper-management types. They were mostly white men with families, pulling down decent coin, and living in a suburb that is largely an isolated Caucasian enclave. I don't fault my folks for choosing to raise us there. It was comfortable for them and a nice place to be a kid. But hell yeah, I grew up pretty damn white.

Tsawwassen is less than an hour from Vancouver, and that is a horse of a completely different colour. As I got older, I spent more time in the city. My first days in college I took the bus in to take English 101 with a group that was about half East Indian. This shocked little, white me. It wasn't that I didn't like it. On the contrary, it really felt nice, and I was learning more about the real world. Also... some of those brown girls were really, very pretty.

At 20 I was a full-blown angsty acting student when I flew the nest from my folks' place and moved to East Vancouver. Although the area is now trendy (read affluent, gentrified and predominantly white), in 1985 my Main Street neighbourhood was full of First Nations and East Indian folks. It was economically depressed, but colourful, and exciting and not at all like where I was from. Jesus. In retrospect they must have seen me coming. I haven't really looked back since. After that I moved in with another guy who I went to acting school with. He was the son of a woman from Washington DC who once sang with the Duke Ellington Orchestra. She was absolutely not white. My friend's energy and awareness and rebelliousness blew me away, and I learned a thing or two from his mom as well. T-town just looked smaller and smaller.

Fast forward over twenty years, half a life, some travel, and now a family of my own. When the time came we could have bought a house in Tsawwassen and returned to the enclave. Many do, and I think that's fine for them. We just wanted to stay here. I live in a community where you look on the street and see real drug crime and damaged lives. Once in a while some of the Vietnamese gang members have been known to kill one another in restaurants two blocks away while I sleep at night. But...

When my son goes to his Elementary school, or his karate class, he shares his world with kids from many different races, religions and economic backgrounds. In spite of some of the ugliness, which is luridly played up in the media and in non-residents' imaginations, this is a safe, kind and nurturing place to live.

We've been honoured with an invitation to our nieghbour's daughter's wedding next week. I had to get briefed by the girls next door to learn what to expect because it'll be our first Indian Wedding. Sounds like a wonderful spiritual, food-laden and joyful event. These are folks who my son has known all his life because he was born here. The bride was just a kid when we moved into the house next to hers, and now she's moving onto the next phase of her life. We'll be among friends, so it'll be great, in spite of the fact that I'm so white.

Chili Champs 2008

Nifty new app... sweet, fine chili... cool blog...

Kicking it Old School...

Today I walked my son to school for the final day of regular classes at the original Charles Dickens Elementary School. The place is being torn down and replaced with a gorgeous new building which will begin classes after the Victoria Day Long Weekend. After opening in 1913 and seeing countless kids and educators walk the halls, this is actually "it" for the place.

My relationship with the school, and this neighbourhood, actually predates my son's attendance to the school. Back in the '80's I used to ride my bike through the immense green park on my way to rehearsing with a singer/songwriter. I remember just being amazed at the size of the old trees in the park, and how striking the big old red brick school house was. It was a hub of the community then, as it has been throughout its history, and remains to this day. Once I discovered the place I took my future wife and mother of our child on a picnic there. We ate chicken salad with baguette and white wine. We kissed passionately under a tree, fully in love and in the moment, unthinking of the future.

A few years later we were were hired to sing a concert for the kids in the school. It was a treat for us because it was actually close to our regular East Vancouver home, and not way off in Tumbler Ridge as was often the case. We usually had to travel hundreds of klicks to do a gig in those days. Dickens school was so interesting, and old, and welcoming, and positive that we never forgot it. That, coupled with our picnics there, made it a place we thought of when we bought a house. We live where we do today because of our pleasant associations with Dickens School from before we were married.

Our son was born shortly thereafter and has enjoyed spectacular education here, first at the Annex and for the past two years, at the big old Main School. His classroom is upstairs in the old wing of the place that was the original building in 1913. Although his classroom doesn't look much different from the rest of the them, I still like that for it's sense of history. I was walking past the school yesterday and some of my son's classmates waved at me though the high, tall windows. I imagined kids back in 1913, who have since lived full lives and passed away, doing the same thing back when this community was new, sparse and fresh. Honestly, the changes here over the past 95 years are astonishing.

There are politics about removing the historic building and replacing it. The reason is that it has been determined that the old building would not withstand a major earthquake and smart folks realize that one is probably coming. There was strife in the 'hood, and lots of politicking, and in the end I think the new plan for the new school has worked out well. There's an interesting synergy to the the fact that, during the final week of classes at Charles Dickens Elementary, there is dismaying news of an earthquake in China, with at least ten thousand dead, some of whom are kids who were in school that day.

The state-of-the-art eco-building that has been built looks to be beautiful, sustainable and just stunning. The history will be gone, though. Some parents are fighting to save the original school for other uses, and I really wish that could happen. Why is it that the powers that be are so reluctant to accommodate the past along with the future? The fight has been bitter, and looks to be lost, all because of "lack of money". Yet there seem to be plenty of money for the Olympics....

I feel privileged that my wife, my son and myself have been associated with the grand old place. We are part of its history, too, I guess... and will be part of the history of the new Charles Dickens Elementary. Maybe, in about a hundred years, some guy kinda like me will walk by and wave at the kids through the window, and stop to wonder who was there when the place was first opened, and pause to be astonished at how much the community has changed since then.

The pictures above are: the old school through the park, my boy on the steps, and a shot of the near-finished new school.

My mom and my wife...

... are "the bomb" in my life! Aprille and Sue are the best. Try to appreciate your maternal figures today. I'll be doing it culinarily, for the most part. Sue had home-made BC Benedict this morning with the boy and I. We'll drop by Mom's and make fresh garlic prawns (the critters are currently alive in my fridge) and steamed mussels. Best wishes to all those smart and wonderful mothers I know! We'd be nowhere if not for our moms.

Bad behavior in public, part 3.

If you need to catch up on the story, you'll find part 1 here...
You'll find part 2 here...

There was a great clamour and confusion surrounding us in the parking lot. I certainly wasn’t the only one who wanted to get away from the Steveston Tall Ship Festival. I realize that, while we are all unique in this world, similar folks will often find themselves placed together by circumstance. I was one of several hundred mildly smart people who had come to the conclusion that they’d been tricked into attending a huge, under-organized, painful non-event. We were the ones who knew that, if you wanted to get out, it would be best to flee before all those dorks down by the river tired of their crushing, banal experience and decided to migrate home. It would be best to be ahead of that horde of goofy, sun-stroked enthusiasts and leave them to the fate they richly deserved. As such, there was an “every man for himself” vibe on the scene. We were all abandoning ship and looking for lifeboats.

Tired seniors, parents with their meltdown toddlers, dissatisfied yuppies, and I all clutched the same leaflet with instructions as to which bus you needed to catch and where it might be found. We puzzled over these scraps of paper like they were papyrus inscribed with some ancient, cuneiform writing. The bus names were non-representational and numerical, their locations were obscure, and their destinations were cryptic to the non-resident. After much consideration I concluded that I needed bus # G473 to Meanderville, which might be found in the sector 12 quadrant of the lot. (Okay, I made that up because I can’t remember what it actually was. Mine is easier to remember. You get the idea.)

Armed with an ephemeral hunch as to what I needed to find, I doggedly dragged my boy around the never-ending rim of the lot and pushed through the rapidly growing crowds. I needed to inspect the cards stuck next to the entrance door of each bus. The few buses in attendance were either full, or their doors were closed with a rough, crowdesque queue bunching up within sprinting distance for when the doors actually opened. After fifteen minutes of hiking, shoving, inspecting, and eliminating I finally came across bus # G473 to Meanderville. We arrived just in time to see the last people implausibly wedge themselves into its door as the damn thing chugged away.

And then another one pulled up at my feet. Immediately! It was empty! I goggled at the card on the door. G473 fer Chissakes! The door opened with a hiss and a shudder. Angels sang and blew trumpets. My son and I strode in with pride and chose those cherry seats about a third of the way down, with the extra legroom. This was it! Our miracle conveyance to the real world had arrived and escape was imminent. It was at this precise moment that a certain woman, her husband and her dogs swept in.

Truth be told, I didn’t give much thought to this group when I saw them follow us on. The important thing to understand is that, besides the driver, we were the only ones to see them enter. Thinking back, it was as follows: A stout, barrel-bosomed woman in walking shorts and a tilly-endurable hat entered with her spindly and similarly-attired male partner. They had two small dust-mop dogs on leashes. The couple sat down about four rows in front of us, across the aisle, and immediately tucked the dogs under their seats. The woman glanced shiftily around the bus, caught my eye, and looked ahead. She seemed flustered.

Word must have escaped that a new bus had arrived because a flood of humanity immediately jammed every available inch of room inside the vehicle. It was all armpits in faces and sweaty thighs rubbing together as you try to politely ignore the stranger who is suddenly closer to you than the last person you had sex with. Strangely, when this happens to me it always seems to be the old Italian guy, and never the freckle-faced, tattooed girl from the local roller derby team. I guess that’s just my karma.

The murmuring realist in my head pointed out that it was growing mighty warm and crowded on the bus, yet we had not yet begun the journey. There was an upbeat hubbub. Riders were chatting about what a lame time they’d had, how they never saw a ship, how glad they were to be on the bus… that sort of thing. There was a tinny noise in the background, which tried to penetrate the general rhubarb. At first you couldn’t really hear what the driver was saying on the intercom. As the crowd fell quiet you could catch the end of the phrase, “…off the bus as required by Translink regulations.” Then the driver killed the ignition on the idling bus and our world took on that quiet, inert and lifeless feeling.

People started talking to one another. “What was that?” they asked. A little kid who still had good hearing said, “I don’t see any animals.” The chattering noise grew as people wondered what was going on. I was foolish enough to actually feel encouraged. Although no one else had seen them, it was obvious to me that the driver had made an announcement about the woman’s dogs. “Thank God it’s not a real problem,” I thought, “We can finally get moving.” Then I looked at her and the murmuring realist in my head laughed the giggle of the dismayed.

She sat with her shoulders forward, her feet firmly on the ground, and her jaw set. Her wrinkled face held a bullish obstinance that one feared from old ladies as a child, and learned to resent as an adult. Her flinty eyes glanced about her challengingly and matched her battleship-gray hair perfectly. She elbowed her partner, shot him a dirty look and did not budge. The general chatter on the packed bus continued as people wondered what the problem was.

It is important to understand that what happened next was only viewed by roughly the front third of the bus. It was so hot, busy and bewildering that, unless you were near the action, there could be no way that you would know what had occurred. After a few minutes (which felt exponentially longer) the driver got up and wormed his way back to where the woman was sitting. He steadied himself on the handrail and said, “Look, really, you’re not allowed to have your dogs on the bus. It’s against the rules.” Then I heard her speak and the murmuring realist in my head ground his teeth in antipathy.

She barked, more than spoke, in a drawling British accent that those of us descended from the English know very well. In tones soaked in defiance and condescension she stated, “We are taking the same bus that brought us here in the first place. There is no other way home. If you have a problem with it, perhaps you should take it up with the other driver. He certainly had no problem with our dogs when he brought them with us in the shuttle earlier in the day.” She glowered at him meaningfully and for good measure.

The weary and unintimidated civic employee tried again. He offered helpfully, “Translink rules clearly state that, other than assistants such as seeing-eye dogs, no animals are permitted on the bus.” The woman nearly vibrated out of her chair at him. She looked him in the eye and offered imperiously, “We came on these buses and we will be going home on these buses. We will not be getting off this bus under any circumstances, so you better go do your job, and drive… Now.” She made a brushing and dismissive motion with her hand. The driver shrugged his shoulders, made his way back to his seat and spoke to someone on his CB radio. Then he gathered his belongings and left the vehicle. My heart sank. The murmuring realist in my head knew when to keep his mouth shut.

There we were left to bake in the hot afternoon sun for approximately thirty minutes. We sardines in the can did as best we could. Many folks on the bus had no idea as to what their reality was, but we were all packed in tight and weren’t going anywhere. I understood with painful clarity what was happening. The driver was in the right and didn’t like the way that woman was dealing with him. He was not authorized nor required to physically eject her from the bus, but he was not permitted to operate the bus with the dogs on board. Another driver might have fudged it, but this guy, after dealing with such an unholy bitch as our dowager empress, did what any intelligent union employee with rights would do. He tossed the problem up the chain of command and fucked off for a coffee.

So we waited. My son had checked out and was drowsing the sleep of the heat-damaged, clammily draped over my damp shoulder. I peered out the window. It looked like a George Romero movie outside, with hundreds of shambling undead milling about, coming towards us, looking for anyway out of this Hell. I was astonished at the strangeness of human nature. Pretty much everyone on the bus was just sucking it up, making small talk and waiting. The mean lady sat rigid, looking for all the world like she had won some kind of battle. I began, for the first time that day, to lose my patience. Was there no one present who could get things moving?

As if on cue, some guy in a security windbreaker cautiously stuck his head into the door of the bus. He looked like he’d much rather be just about anywhere else, which means he only looked half as bad as we did. “Hello?” he said. “Apparently there are animals on the bus? They, uh, need to be removed, please?” he quavered. And it all began again, but this time most of the bus was catching onto what was destroying their hopes of life and freedom. Queen Victoria barked at the security guy and informed him that these buses brought them in and could bloody-well take them out. The loser husband weakly bobbed his head in agreement. Security guy shrugged his shoulders and left the building.

I heard someone from the back of the bus, who couldn’t perceive the activities at the front, ask, “What’s going on? Why isn’t the bus going anywhere?” My son blinked at me blearily and whimpered, “Daddy, when are we going to go hooooome?” The murmuring realist left the back of my mind, climbed into my mouth and took over.

I craned my head towards the back of the bus and said loudly and clearly, “There is a woman up here with two dogs under her seat. She’s been told several times to remove them, but she refuses. That’s why we are not moving.” Some nimrod offered, “Hey man… the dogs aren’t bothering anyone. Why can’t they just stay?” There was some support for this viewpoint offered down the line. I was getting all Henry Fonda on their asses. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “This is not a committee or a democracy. Don’t you get it?! We don’t get to decide. The driver has left and no-one is going to operate this machine until that woman gets her dogs out of here.” I pointed at her angrily to punctuate the statement.

The woman turned to face me with malice in her eyes. “I think you should mind your own business, young man,” she clipped, “ This bus system brought us here with our dogs, and we have every right to expect this bus system to return us home in the same manner.” Her words dripped venom as she spoke.

I decided to up the ante and got all Jimmy Stewart on her. “Every right?! I proclaimed, “Do you have a right to imprison an entire bus load of people in this hot Hellish place because you couldn’t be bothered to obey the transit rules? It doesn’t matter what you think your rights are. The people who operate the vehicle will not do your bidding. In order for the rest of us to go home you gotta get those dogs out from under your chair and out of this bus…. you sack of shit!"

Yeah. I didn’t plan for that last bit, but it came out. It was inappropriate, and I meant it. Some politically correct asshat from the back of the bus mewled forth, “Hey! There are children on this bus.” I responded by saying, “I know there are kids on this bus. My five-year-old is passed out here next to me and none of us, or our kids, will ever get to go home because this person won’t get her damn dogs off this damn bus.” I pointed at her again, with a rigid arm, for emphasis.

This horrible harridan, this nemesis, this Lex Luthor of a woman drew herself up. Medusa-like, she turned her baleful gaze upon me. Somewhere livestock was casting forth it’s young prematurely. In a low, menacing voice she intoned, “Well… Aren’t you a revolting creature.” It wasn’t a question. It was a curse.

Occasionally in life you actually say the exact perfect thing in an argument at exactly the right moment (instead of realizing what you should have said later). This was such a time. I made myself big and began speaking softly, growing in volume and intensity, “Yes. I am revolting. But if you think I’m revolting now, you had better be careful because you have no idea how revolting I’m going to be in a few minutes if you don’t get those DAMN… DOGS… OFF… THIS… BUS!”

There was a ripple of assent in the crowd. I felt public opinion shifting to the side of the realist. She knew it too because she deflated by about a half an inch, gathered her husband and dogs, and scuttled towards the door. It was lovely because it was so awkward and hard for her to get out. She had to trip and push to escape with her brood, trying wordlessly not to look anyone in the eye. Then she was gone.

Shortly thereafter our driver returned. We cheered as he turned on the ignition and we were, at last, underway. A cool breeze wafted through the windows and helped dispel the oppressive atmosphere of conflict, body odor and excessive carbon dioxide. I tried to chat with my neighbours, but no one liked me much, even though I was their savior. I had broken several rules of public politeness and had done it unapologetically. I would do it again and I offer this: Against all expectations I learned that, under certain circumstances, it is acceptable and necessary to call a little old lady a sack of shit in a busy, public forum. That day it was cathartic and fun to boot.

As our blessed bus left the Steveston parking lot I heard cheering and brouhaha behind me. I looked out the window, past the swarming anthill of people and over the roofs of the shops and restaurants towards where I suspected the Fraser River might be. I’m almost certain I saw the tippy-top of a mainsail above it all in the distance. Damned if the ships hadn’t finally arrived.

Bad behavior in public. part 2

For the earlier part of this story, click here...

Steveston is an historic area in Richmond at the mouth of the Fraser River. It’s famous for being a boomtown of salmon fishing and canning during the Victorian era. You should visit the museum if you want to understand how hard life was back then, and how First Nations and Asian people were exploited by the fishing industry. It’s amazing to glimpse the horrible lives people lived so that well-heeled whitey in the Commonwealth could enjoy lovely hand-packed tins of Canadian salmon. Hail Britannia.

Geographically, Steveston occupies a spit of riverfront land that ends with a park. The shuttlebuses were emptying people into a large, central parking area, and hundreds of us were excitedly making our way to where the best vantage points might be. Although it was still over an hour until the ships were to arrive, the place was packed. I held my boy’s hand tightly and followed the surging mass of humanity towards the paved path to the view spots at the waterfront park. It felt a bit like we were being sucked into a whirlpool or something. Folks were bottlenecking at the entrance to the walkway and foot-traffic became slower and more pressed.

As we were swept along the murmuring realist in my head pointed out a few things. No one was coming out. I mean no one. The tide of humanity (of which I was part) was occupying every square inch of available space. I conjured up a mental image of the map I’d seen and realized that this path led to a park that had only one entrance and was surrounded on all sides by the river. Logic dictated that there was a profoundly finite amount of space to occupy down at there. The outcome seemed clear. At some point, as more and more drones pushed in from behind, those already trapped in the park would be forced to impersonate the lemmings they so completely resembled. The other choice was to be packed together like sardines in a tin, which would nicely recreate the historic industry of a century ago that took place on that very spot.

I looked down the paved path, restricted on either side by a four-foot tall chain-link fence. The inexorable throng pulsed and pushed, a la peristalsis, towards an unknown, yet inescapable destination. In one of the few correct, spontaneous choices I made that day, I clutched my son under the armpit and threw all my weight arbitrarily to the left, dislodging us from the stream of hapless fools who likely were on their way to a watery tourist-packed hellhole. We were safe for the moment.

You should know that I hate crowds. I also hate the heat. I also hate being surrounded by rubes. Most importantly, I hate not being in control of a situation that I made for myself. I took the time to savour the hatred that permeated my being at that distinct moment. It was like a sweet fire, distilled in my centre, which flew forth from my eyes like flashing bolts from Hell. Where I had been forced into the crush, cheek by jowl with countless anonymous twits, I felt the tides of humanity part to give me space, so powerful were the emanations of hatred I was exuding. Then I remembered that I was clutching someone’s little 5-year-old hand, perhaps a bit too firmly. “Oh, son…” I smiled kindly if maniacally, “I don’t think we want to go down there. Maybe we should go get some fish and chips?”

I dragged the poor little bugger through the crowds and into the shopping areas, which were slightly less insane. A miracle occurred (no angels sang this time) and we managed to get a patio table for two at a place that faced the river. We might have even seen the river if not for the five thousand assholes milling about between us and the water, looking for the boats. Nonetheless, I counted us lucky. I figured we’d at least see the crowsnests and pennants pass by above the heads of all those people. I had a seat, a cup of coffee, and the company of my beautiful, patient and sweet young son. We dined on overpriced, mediocre fish and chips while waiting for the archaic pageantry to begin.

It didn’t. An hour later the boats were 30-minutes late and nowhere in sight. Our plates had been cleared, my coffee stopped being re-filled, and the bill was archly placed before me. There was a long line-up to get into the restaurant. The little space that had been left between the river and us had been packed to capacity while we ate. The sun beat down upon us mercilessly. My boy asked me, “Daddy… aren’t the big boats ever going to come?”

Deep in the recesses of my consciousness the murmuring realist wiped the chip oil off his lips and told me some true things. “Tim,” he offered, “ those ships are not coming. If they do come, the only way you’ll see them is to fight your way to the front of this crowd, perch on the edge of the Fraser River and struggle for a foothold, where you will absorb the heat radiation of the sun like a solar panel. If, by some act of God, you actually get a vantage point, that will be when your boy will decide he needs to defecate, urgently. You don’t really know where you are, where your car is, or how to get to it. This has been one Hellish misadventure since you were deluded enough to think it would be a good idea to come here. Oh… and did I mention that the ships are not coming? Hate to say I told you so.”

That’s when I told myself, “Fuck it.”

I paid the bill, grabbed my boy, and began shouldering through the throngs like a linebacker. On the way back I noticed with evil satisfaction that the entrance to the pathway to the waterfront park was finally topped up. It was packed with an unmoving mass of wriggling humanity. Perhaps not surprisingly, I noticed that the dumbest ten per cent of the gene pool was still trying to force their way down there. I imagined that I heard screams and splashes in the distance. After a long series of semi-impolite shoves and jostles, we found ourselves back at the gravel parking lot where we’d been dumped into this insidious trap about 90-minutes earlier. This was where, if we were lucky, we could catch a shuttle back to the relative pleasantness of that distant parking field, our car, and a chance at freedom.

We were not lucky. The Steveson Tall Ships Festival was not yet willing to release us from it’s cruel, sun blasted and salty embrace. Not by a long shot.

Okay, really this time… In the next post, I am provoked to rudeness beyond redemption. Stay tuned for part 3...