fourteen: Peter

Life as a professional bum still has its novelty for me, but recently I started thinking about what it would really be like to be what society calls a bum. No one grows up thinking their future will be less than desirable, but that is often what life on the streets is like.

Just the other night, a fairly large group of us were getting ready to enjoy a pot luck together. There was plenty of food and plenty of fun all around. And there in the corner sitting there was Peter, a man who's presence I have become accustomed to, yet I have probably never spoken more than 2 words to him. He seems to always be at the church, but always on the fringe of the actual church community. Sometimes he is accepted, while other times I have seen him chastised for eating food not meant for him. (Did Jesus not teach the church to feed and look after the poor?)

As we were all settling in, I noticed Peter had disappeared, but not before I noticed his longing gaze towards the food. Inviting him downstairs to join us was such a simple thing to do, yet I do not know why it was so hard and why no one else had said anything. I also had to walk by him 3 times before I could finally muster up the courage to ask him. It's so easy to get caught up in the busyness of life, but really a part of me is so curious to hear his story. What is it like to live a life where all your worldly possessions can be carried around with you? Is the church a more accepting place than other places you frequent? How does one end up becoming homeless?

Growing up affluent I really do have a hard time empathizing with those that are severely disadvantaged. So my goal before I go back to school and do things like pro bono work for the those who need it, is to get a better understanding of where those people are coming from. I'm sure they have much to teach to someone like me, because their lives have probably not gone according to plan and I love to have every detailed planned out to the tee. So Peter, one day I hope to be able to have a conversation with you that goes beyond asking a simple question of whether or not you'd like to join us for a meal.

thirteen: the unprofessional professor

When I first met you, you were somewhat of a bitter divorcee. Maybe you would not classify yourself as such, but when you bring up your ex-wife every lecture there must still be an unresolved underlying issue. You were definitely an odd looking man with your glass eye and cigarette stained nails. Looks aside, you were a pretty decent professor, just enough sarcastic humour to keep the class awake.

While I would not consider you the best professor I've ever had, I genuinely liked you and found you easy enough to talk to. You were definitely an asset to have as an advisor for a case competition I did last year. But then this year happened, and you chose to behave like a kid in junior high. You would think we'd be able to work together despite you ruining any chances of a normal student-teacher relationship with your inappropriate behaviour. Please remember for the future that inviting a student to your house is almost grounds for sexual harassment, especially when meeting at school is an available option. 7am phone calls are also not welcomed.

The line was crossed when you chose to slander my team to my peers. That is the equivalent of me trashing you when talking to other professors. I thought I could over look most of your blunders, but after hearing that this slandering goes beyond a one time experience I chose to draw the line. Some professionalism would be appreciated. How do you tell a full grown man to grow up? Well a letter to the head of the department detailing all the inappropriate behaviour is a start, and truly I hope it will help you smarten up. Maybe bullying your way around has gotten you where you are, but it has to stop now.

twelve: falling out

As my time at university draws to a close, it seems appropriate to do some reflection of the past 21 years. Today a sad event really sticks out in my mind, probably because this upcoming Tuesday marks our last ever friends lunch date. There's been an empty seat for quite some time now, considering it always used to be the 4 of us. I suppose even though we'd all seen each other through the awkward phases of growing up, sometimes people just grow apart. And it finally seems we've hit that point of no return, because as weird as it is that we rarely see each other any more it would probably be even weirder if you came waltzing back into my life.

I'm sure we'd have plenty of stories to tell about our past, getting a fobby haircut, random days out at the park, eating McDonald's breakfast super early in the morning, sitting outside of 7-11 like a bunch of hobos. Somewhere along the way we stopped creating stories... and we are where we are today. Strangers with a history. Things can change, but it seems with the 4 of us all moving in our own directions wishing that things could go back to how they used to be is futile. At least I have the picture on my desk to remind me of the last little bit of normal we had, you guys were just what I needed for my birthday that year. Friends to pick me up after I was stuck in a puddle of wallowing ugliness.

If there has ever been a falling out in my life I would describe as normal, this would be the closest thing. I'm sure one day when you achieve all that is that you're chasing for I'll read your name somewhere and smile and think to myself 'I knew that guy.'

eleven: the war veteran

This one goes back to nearly a year ago, when I had the chance meeting with a war veteran on Remembrance Day. Eleven seems like a fitting number.

Of all the holidays that are out there, many of them are losing their meanings and to most people they are just another day off from work or school. Watered down from attempts to be politically correct, or non-offensive holidays like Christmas and Easter have become over-commercialized. Somehow a holiday that has always been associated with the selling of poppies does not seem to be commercialized or even recognized by most.

In elementary school we would always have assemblies with poppy wreaths, visiting servicemen and women, and some song about love and peace. Perhaps those even existed in Jr. high, but by then no one cared enough to go to assemblies because those were freebie skip the afternoon tickets. Before I knew about it, the day had merely become a welcoming break to finish last minute assignments, the last one, before final exams.

Most years by the time November 11th rolls around my poppy has already pricked me a few times and has lost the battle to stay on my jacket, and the only sign of respect I show towards that day is littered on the ground somewhere. Last year, I had the opportunity to sit at a table beside a veteran at a Starbucks. At first I didn’t know he was one, but I spotted a car outside the window with the poppy decal, and as I pointed that out to my friend he said the car belonged to the old guy standing in line.

Inside I got this urge to at least thank the man, as it seemed appropriate given the day. I suppose since my coffee date was mostly just two friends (or more accurately disconnected people) sitting there no longer exchanging words that could be heard, talking to a stranger couldn’t be any harder than the forced conversation. So I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder, and thanked him for serving his country. He reciprocated by telling me about his time during WW2 in Normandy, and how he was presently waiting for his wife and her friends.

I wonder what his WW2 experiences were really like, he would probably have been in his 20s when that transpired, could have even been the same age as me. How would he describe the fear and pain he’s felt? Is he ever haunted of his past? Has he ever taken another human life, or saved one? How is he able to reconcile life during the war to life after the war? Is every day like Remembrance Day for him? He seemed to be pretty well adjusted old man, and it gave me so much hope that he could overcome hell on earth scathed but not completely broken. We met on a day that I really needed to be reminded that time can heal all wounds, and there is always hope for the future if you can overcome the past.

ten: it's never that simple

I never even knew you, but your death was the end of innocence for me. I suppose indirectly I knew you, because I’ve known your would-have-been mother since we were kids. We used to be quite similar, but I suppose in our case nurture beat out nature and we turned out complete opposites. Our common ancestors were our main bond, and somehow we made that work. It’s sad that she could not make it work with you though, despite my feeble attempts to intervene on the situation.

It’s never quite like how the movies portray it —rowdy protestors surrounding the clinic shouting pro-life slogans and shoving model fetuses in your face. Or expectant mothers having a change of heart once they see the first ultrasound blob vaguely shaped like a human. The entire experience is more so a business transaction that doesn't consider the emotional and other additional costs beyond the financial.

I couldn’t go to see you off that day, I don’t think I have the stomach for it, but I still grieved for you. You would’ve been niece or nephew (lucky) number 8 on that side of the family, and you would’ve probably needed all the luck the world could hand you because of where you were coming from. Still I thought that there was a fighting chance for you, but maybe life would have just been too hard for you to be brought up in that environment and that’s why you’re not here today?

nine: the toothless teacher

You were definitely an eclectic teacher, not many PhD's choose to teach sixth grade. But there you were teaching that class for a good number of years, including my year in sixth grade. At the time I thought you were unreasonably hard, and I remember a comment on my report card about my less than ideal penmanship that seemed almost harsh. In reality you were challenging our narrow view on the world, by introducing us to things outside of the box.

Of all the actual material I learned, I gained the most out of our morning listening exercises tuned to CBC Radio One. No other teacher before then had encouraged us to seek information on what was going on the world outside, and there we were listening to the latest reports on advances made in space and the outbreak of Avian Influenza in Hong Kong. Just knowing what was going on in the world, we were transitioning from children to global citizens that have the potential to make a difference in the world.

The one book I remember reading that year was 'Free the Children' and to hear about children in Asia working themselves to death was such a contrast from suburbia. I went home and told my mom about the book, and she began to recount her experiences of working as a child because she had come from a hard life. I can't tell you how much that story scared me, because work for me was having to practice piano and dry the dishes. The story was also inspiring because the author was only a few years older than our class, and before he got really big he actually corresponded with us via e-mail.

Even though we were all at a point of time in our life that was supposed to be simple, you challenged us in a way that wouldn't overwhelm us with the darkness of the world. I don't think I fully learned what you taught me in sixth grade until much later on, when the news would get closer and closer to home. As serious as you often made class and learning, there were always moments of laughter. Including when you took out the projector by tripping on an extension cord and showing us that you were indeed human and not some evil short statured dictator out to get us. There was also that time you showed up to class without your two front teeth because your denture was taken out by some sort of accident and you had long lost your teeth to a hocky accidnet.

Overall of all the teachers I've had you had the right balance down to the tee, putting fun and learning hand in hand and making it challenging. There was even learning disguised as fun, when we had our valentine's party, which was an afternoon outside in the field building a quincey. I hear you're now working at the University, putting your PhD to good use. I wonder if your students there are learning as much as we did in sixth grade? I sure hope you're teaching them more life skills because after all those years not much else has stuck.

eight: the best grad date

It feels like a lifetime ago when the single most important event in my life was high school graduation. I suppose at the time it was quite a milestone, and the years following that really have been my coming of age. This is the story of the gentlemen that escorted me that night.

We were always friends, and in fact you were the guy that every girl in the class would refer to as the ‘nice guy.’ On Valentine’s Day you would take the time to send a candy-gram to every girl in the class, not just the one that caught your eye. You would always offer to drive people around, as you were one of the first to get their own car. Most importantly you would do just about anything for your friends. I don’t remember there ever being a time where I felt I couldn’t ask something of you. I know some of the other guys looked down on you, because they saw your behaviour as desperate, but I think they were secretly jealous.

I’m not too sure how we ended up going to grad together, especially since I was so set out on going with my friends. That was until my friends all got dates and I was starting to feel a bit like the black sheep of the group. I wish I had the kind of security I have now to attend events by myself, but back then going to high school grad by yourself had the social stigma of being leper outside the city walls. I think that’s what prompted you to ask me, a gesture of kindness towards a friend.

I had always imaged grad to be such a formality, especially the date part. Thankfully, we were friends so we did not have to partake in the awkward social rituals of grad. It was nice and simple, no fancy rented car, massive corsage (that would probably make me sneeze anyways) or expensive grad gift exchange. You were distinctly yourself with your cowboy hat and spurs, not a care in the world what others thought of you. Looking back I have many memories I am not too fond of in high school, but grad was definitely a nice way to end things off. Every time I think of the Niverville fair I remember our rain dodging shenanigans, and a time in our lives that was just simple and fun.

If you taught me anything, it is that nice guys do exist out there without any ulterior motives.