The Drawer of Klepducational Wonders

So, over the past few months I have been doing what any good Me does when

presented with extra space:

FILLING IT WITH CRAP.

As with 100% of the other kinds of stuff I seem to collect when I'm not Feng-Swayed

(terrible pun, sorry), I give le crap far too much meaning. Alas, the consume-less tagline that seems to work for most ("Keep only what is beautiful and useful"), only seems to have the opposite effect on me. "Beauty?" I ponder, as I pocket a name-tag that I confiscate from

a student who is colouring rather than listening to my glorious lesson on the days of the week.

"Marbles are useful" I muse, as I pry one out of the hands of a cursing 11-year-old who just finished slapping another well-spoken pre-teen in the face.

Sometimes le crap is given to me, rather than sto...I mean, confiscated. Like the smiling Mickey Mouse face given up for adoption by a clammy-palmed five-year-old: One day, she just realized that her Hannah Montana (pronounced "ANNA-UH, MON-TAN-AH-UH") pencil case was too confining a home for Mickey, and she handed him over to me.

Admittedly, the designer paper airplane was not a cadeau.... it's just that...well.... though I support all students with aerodynamic dreams, it became clear to me-- upon unveiling the image trapped in the folds of this engineering masterpiece-- that in this instance, my student was less focused on the aero than the dynamic part of his career. And that was simply not coo.

For those of you that have already begun to fret: don't. You can rest assured I will not be bringing le crap with me back to Vancouver.

Instead, I'll be mailing it directly to Toronto so it can be the first delivery of Un-Sway to Feng my new place in September.

PS The plastic mistletoe was a Christmas gift for "La Dame D'Anglais"-- the packaging already torn open. E-Bay be wanting my Klepducational Collection baaaaad.

Hold The Stress

Maybe you didn’t know you had it in you, but you do. They did. And so do I.

They picked up her car—all ten of them. One had been holding a lighter in his right hand for several minutes, the coarse metal beginning to wear on his thumb. Tender. It hurt but he liked how it felt when the heat seeped in through to his bloodstream.

The others (aside from the one that was still massaging his cell phone pad) flexed.

This was the moment they had been waiting for. All of those nights, standing in front of the mirror. Coconut oil on their pectorals: their big break.

Alexandra stood next to a wilting tree, eyes greener than yesterday. Bigger. Stunned.

“One, two, three, LIFT!”

Later that night, she would tell me, between fits of laughter, how the neighbourhood drug dealers (that had, six months earlier, thrown rocks at my very own personal stalker) had lifted her car out of the ditch. Now I’m the first to wave at them when I walk by their street corner.

-------

They call me fat—all of them. Most of the time, the compliments come one right after the other:

1) My morning jog: thighs exposed to the woman at the kiosk who always invites me to her house and often throws recyclables under the bridge, into the un-water. “It’s right by the ocean!” she says, referring to home, pointing half-heartedly SouthWest. “Come by before you go to Canada. And hey, haven’t you gained weight?” She caresses her legs, implying I should watch mine, and then cackles, toothless.

2) Apres-lunch/avant-cours: the adorable child without the necessary diagnosis of ADHD yells out “LA CHINOISE, LA CHINOISE, LA CHINOISE!” and hugs me. His Special Ed teacher rolls her eyes, predicts my post-family-departure sadness, and there-there’s me with a “you’re a little chunkier now.”

3) Home time. So tired. Must. Stop. By. Neighbours’. House. To. Say. Hi. Otherwise. Am. Im.Po.Lite.

All I want is a hug, but I get a belly rub and “Let’s just say our little one is not so little anymore.”

I flip out. Unsuccessful.

The next few times I just laugh and respond “Maybe. Maybe you’re right” They laugh back.

Sometimes that’s all it takes.

Successiology

I’m gonna write from the heart. None of this “if I write in a journal it’s cliché and I’m wasting my time; when I write I should be thinking about publication and things that I know others will appreciate.”

The reason I like writing and the reason I started doing so in the first place is because it’s a safe place for me to express myself. Paper doesn’t judge and neither did I until I decided one day that I wanted to start sharing my work.

Even now, as I’m writing solely to “express myself”, the back of my mind is going “pssst…Caro, maybe this’ll be interesting enough to post on your blog.”

Oh, to have grown up in a world where productivity is everything and nothing at all.

Sometimes I write down what I’ve already “accomplished” with my day in my agenda just so I can cross it out later.

Getting to the point: right now I feel like a failure in many aspects of my life. I’m in debt, so economically I’m in the shit. Friendship-wise, I have people that I care about deeply here, but that I feel aren’t willing to open up as much with me as I am with them. I find myself often feeling frustrated because many of them appear to be uncomfortable when I attempt to share anything too personal.

It’s not that I want to recount every last detail of my life with them. I suppose what I mean about being able to open-up revolves around being able to share ideas. Ideas about positive change, about things one would like to happen in the world, far-flung initiatives that one wants to take, and so forth.

I miss talking about books, about dreams, about my feelings. I miss talking about my feelings so much. And having somebody there to my validate my fears and my sadness, and to share similar experiences with me.

This is perhaps the reason as to why I am longing so much for a partner at this point. As is expressed by the Swedish proverb “Shared joy is double joy, shared sorrow is half-sorrow.”

In this exact moment, I feel like the joy in my life is half of what it could be and my sorrow, double.

I have moments of desperation where I all I want is to have a partner, assuming his presence and our rapport will “solve” this longing that I have. But why? Why can’t I address this longing to "share" right now?

The desire to share= the affirmation that one is not alone=the desire to know one is loved and can love.

And how Caro-centric of me to assume that everyone is capable of sharing their love through words! Yes, words are an integral part of who I am, but others share their worlds and demonstrate their love differently.

And there is no denying that love is everywhere, in abundant and unconventional forms.

The love that nature transmits when you allow yourself to remain serene within its power, the love that a friend demonstrates when they make the effort to send you a valentine your middle-of-nowhere address, the love that your elderly neighbour shows by giving you a jar of guava jam just because she saw you walking down the street.

Love is ubiquitous, and perhaps I haven’t taken the time to savour it as much as I can. When one finds romantic love it’s as if one has scored a Costco bulk package of heaven. You have it all concentrated at once, and because it is so easily accessible you begin to think it’s the only real source of love, and perhaps the deepest.

But how can there be a measurement for love, when it is such a pure and noble sentiment, consuming the heart differently, not so much in terms of depth but in presence?

Using this logic, I retract my previous use of word “failure” to describe my current state of being. To be human is to want to love, and be loved. To fail at being human is to stop desiring these things. As long as one is missing, searching for, and ultimately uncovering love, one is human. And being human is succeeding.

méconfiance

under-appreciation i don’t know if it exists objectively I guess it can’t

 

                                                but when you mock my spirit

                                                it drowns in méconfiance

                                                for a moment and only

                                                                          springs back

                                                                                    stronger.

 

I’m here to be me

not for you

 

my lens is imaginative

                        and yes I see cupcakes next

                        to the stars

                                    violin cases and Kings

                        embracing

 in smoky

                        laughs of contagious

                                                depths.

 

and yes I do muddled accents

                        muddy dirty indistinguishable

                        but I am alive

 

and maybe you should

check your pulse sometime

because

some of us don’t replace our

oxygen intake with superiority

complexes.

Et Sinon, Ca Va?

So today I Sinon, Ca va’ed and actually got a good result out of it.

 

For those of you foreign to this popular Guadeloupian activity, Sinon Ca-va-ing is the act of engaging in a short and casual conversation with a friend or acquaintance with whom you (think) you have nothing to say to.

 

The procedure usually goes along the lines of the following:

 

You spy your neighbour from the other side of the street as you make your way home from work. Although the last time you talked was approximately, mmm…twelve hours ago, you know they’ll be coming back for more conversation if they see you. Admittedly, they are wonderful, fabulous, generous, beautiful people, and you would be happy to talk to them all the time…if they would just cut out the Sinon, ca va-ing.

 

So you try and avoid eye contact and speed up your pace, thinking about the discount cookies and imitation nutella that await you for as snack back home on this blisteringly hot afternoon. But just as you squeak open your front gate, thinking you’re home free, you hear that dreaded word…your name.

 

“CAROLINAAAAAHHHHHH, CAROLINAAAAAAAHHHH…CA VAAAAAAAA????

 

You turn around, and there she is. Your neighbour. Bra-less, fearless, glowing, and full of love. But she’s about to Sinon, ca-va you, and you can barely handle it.

 

“Bonjour!” you say, acting as chipper as possible

“Bonjour” she replies, making you note that it’s been far too long since the last time you saw one another. You smile politely.

“Eh, bon, ca va?” she asks you

“Oui, ca va, ca va, et toi?” you inquire, knowing the answer before she utters it.

“Oui, ca va” she responds

 

And that’s when it begins. The Sinon ca va-ing, that is. It is always preceeded by a punctuated, awkward silence, a bit of foot shuffling and nervous giggling, a few follow up questions like “et ta collocateur, ca va?”/ “et le travaille, ca va?” and then finally, as if with violins and symbols crescendo-ing in the background, the phrase is spat out “et sinon, ca va?”

 

What drives both my roommate and I crazy about the whole phenomenon is not so much that Sinon, ca-va-ing is a repetitive and a redundant operation. It is, instead, the fact that neither individual is comfortable enough to admit to the other that there is truly nothing interesting to report. That they have been ca va-ing just fine for the past twelve hours and that truly not much has changed in their lives since.

 

The phenomenon had been driving me so up the wall lately, in fact, that I began to realize that this was—indirectly—perhaps one of the main pillars of my homesickness: the fact that there are plenty of incredible people around to talk to, but that I have a really difficult time conversing with past the formalities and small talk.

 

I began to think that it was hopeless; that I would be doomed to this spiral of Sinon-ca-vaing with fellow Capesterrians for the rest of my stay, limiting my more expansive conversations to my roommate and other fellow language assistants. This thought made me think and feel lonely.

 

And then my Step dad gave me some food for thought. Loneliness is real, he assured. And being far away from family and friends, in a different culture is real as well. But as people, most of us tend to be a bit neurotic and create our own kinds of loneliness, within our psyches— loneliness that can follow us wherever we go, unless we are prepared to address it.

 

So this is what I have been trying to address throughout the past week—this loneliness and neurosis within that tells me I am a “failure” at engaging in meaningful conversation with locals.

 

Last week, I decided to take sinon ca-va-ing head on.

 

On Sunday, a man sinon, ca va-ed some friends and I and we responded “no,” because it was raining and we had planned to go to the beach. He suggested we take cover at a pizza place, and half an hour later, we were feasting and watching a local carnival band parade by.

 

On Monday, a woman who I give English lessons to Sinon-Ca-va-ed me, and instead of simply ca-va-ing back, I began to tell her about my desire to learn the Gwo Ka (the local drum here). Two days later, I was sitting across from one of the most well known Gwo Ka players in Guadeloupe, learning one of the seven basic Ka rhythms from him.

 

My roommate seems to be subconsciously following the same trend. A gas station attendant sinon ca va-ed her last night, and—by slightly changing her response—she somehow ended up bringing home a roast chicken and French fries for dinner. (A real treat, in our crackers-n-cheese abode).

 

Moral of the story? Loneliness sucks. And so does sinon ca-va-ing. But don’t let either deter you from getting to know yourself better, meeting others, and learning a bit a about life.

Espiritu Nuevo en la Habana Vieja

Below I reflect on being a tourist in La Habana, Cuba. Similar to the preceding post, I touch on how feelings of (in)sincerity,  economic disparity and apartheid awaken a great sense of discomfort in my being. I wonder what is on the horizon for Cuba-- politically and economically. Change is in the air, it seems-- but is there a collective direction? 

For some reason I seek to isolate when uncomfortable with the imposed barriers, accentuating them even more. Desire for sincerity ironically impedes my own, creating a bubble of mistrust and redundant suspicion. Idealism and cynicism interlock, muddling my objection to simply observe and be.

 

I don’t wish to incite jealousy in anyone; I wonder about incentives alternative to money, alternative to the possibility of seemingly eternal landscapes and alternative to starch egalitarianism.

Once you have everything you think you need, what comes next?

What common struggle outside of hegemonic well-being can be shared?

 What  can create and inspire the same creative and political energies?

 

Contra-ditch

I wrote the following post after spending the day doing a guided tour of the countryside in Vinales, Cuba. I want to assure everybody that the pessimistic nature of this post does not at all reflect my entire opinion on the tourism industry in Cuba, nor does it intend to put words into anyone's mouths (especially my family that was there on the tour with me). It is instead simply a reflection on the contradictions and insincerities that tourism industries can create-- especially within a country where vast economic and political differences exist between citizens and visitors.

That one time that we spent the day walking through the Cuban countryside was. You know. What it was, in that way. In that red earth and green leaves kind of way; dry rocks and tepid skies with dry caves and no bats but plenty of wrinkles…kind of way.

 

When we went by their house—the tobacco farmers’—I became annoyed with myself. You know me- I hate faking sincerity.

 

I felt like, you know, we show up there and they’re supposed to be happy to receive us; thrilled to be performing “the ceremony of cigar making” to their affluent, camera happy audience (myself included), when really, they may feel subjected to the tourism industry’s equivalent of the Myth of Sisyphus—rolling tobacco leaves again and again and again as Sisyphus did with the boulder—with no foreseeable end or goal in sight except the chance of survival.

 

This was the way I felt two days ago—when we, as a group, reimbursed said individuals’ hospitality by exchanging money for cigars, and forcing first names and smiles.

 

It was not that I did not find these individuals charming. Indeed I did. But I felt uncomfortable at how our relation to one another felt so fabricated; you know….like the exchange that we were having was itself an elephant in the room even though that was the reason that everyone was there to begin with. (“I’ll let you appropriate my culture a little if you give me a shot at your culture’s level of consumerism”). I think I would feel much more comfortable with those sorts of interactions if everyone were ready to confront any awkwardness head-on from the beginning. You know? Like “hey, thanks for having us here. I’m North American, and yeah, I know there’s  economic tension between us, and I feel a little (a lot) awkardness having so much disposal income and knowing that my desire to smoke a Cuban cigar could greatly affect your lifestyle this month.”

 

But instead the conversations are all “oh, how long have you been living here?” and “how many cigars does your father smoke a day…” blah blah blah. So for me, it really produces the opposite effect. The whole fabrication of “a day in the life of a campesino” actually feels like to me “a day in the life of people lying to eachother.”