There’ll be days like this

When did this blog turn so sad?


When I started it a few months ago, I had a different idea.  It was supposed to be a happy blog.  About the things I like, the things I enjoy doing.  Like swing dancing, for example.  About my life in Canada -which I love!


Why do I feel compelled to write about all these awful things? why can’t they stay 6 feet under?  I guess that as much as I have tried to bury them, they refuse to be forgotten.  They’re like Zombies!


Very well.  I shall continue writing about them.  Perhaps if I do, one day they will get tired of haunting me and they will leave me alone.


I started thinking about death right after my mother died.  Ok, one may argue that it was way before that I guess but it didn’t become a conscious thing until then. And I don’t mean death in general, I mean my own death.


I lost all my desire to live -which was never very big to start with, right after that nefarious October in 1983.


Funny thing, I have always been perceived as a happy person.  Even as a child.  Just a couple of weeks before my mother died, one of the nuns commented on what a happy girl I was and what a happy family I had.  I just smiled.  I’ll never forget how I felt inside when she said that.  I wanted to scream “if you only knew”  I wanted to scream “please help me”.  I couldn’t.  I didn’t say anything.  I just smiled.  I had carried my burden, my shame in silence for so many years.  And I continued to do so until now.  I changed schools.  I distanced myself from most of my friends and made new ones.  Friends that didn’t know anything about my past.  Till this very day, nobody in my family talks about those things.  My mother is very rarely mentioned.  My father even less.


But I also continued to smile.  Go figure.  It’s never been a fake smile…. ok, almost never.  Most of the time my smile is genuine.  I truly enjoy a lot of things.  I am two persons in one.  The happy, cheerful girl that loves to dance and do sports and many other things.  And the sad, lost little girl who wants to find her way home.  Very lonely and scared.  The little girl that doesn’t know how to take care of herself. The little girl that doesn’t understand why mommy and daddy are not around.


And that kills me.  Sometimes – like now, the pain is unbearable.  The loneliness, the fear.  Those days I feel I can’t keep on going.  Those days I think even more about death.  Those days I resent the doctors that kept me alive when I was born a premature baby.  Those days I beg Death to come get me.  Those days I hope for some miracle that would put me out of my misery.


The tragedy is that I am a happy person by nature. Or I would be, were it not for the special circumstances of my life…. 


Well, my mama didn’t need to tell me there’ll be days like this.  I found out all by myself when I was still a child.

What makes the Summer Solstice Girl sad

Children dying of preventable diseases (like of lack of potable water or starvation, for example).


War, hunger, torture, inequality of any kind. Violence, specially against women and children. A child that has lost her parents because an absurd war.  A child that is not loved because of her gender.


Mistreated animals (what is wrong with people?)


Not being able to help a friend.


Polluted rivers, lakes and oceans.


People killing other people in the name of God.


Animals disappearing from the face of the earth because of man’s greed and obtuseness.


Stepping on an earth worm that has been washed out of the lawn by heavy rain.


Caged animals (again, what is wrong with people?).  Incidentally, my mother used to keep birds in cages.  Very beautiful there were and they also used to sing and chatter all day.  But that didn’t make me happy.  On the contrary, all their beautiful songs sounded very sad to me.  It seemed to me they sang about their desire to fly to the sky.  About their lost freedom.  I used to sneak out at night an open the cage door so they could fly away.  I was around 6 or 7.  After that she just gave up on the idea. Never had a caged bird again.  My poor mother :P


This article made me cry today.  South African reserve’s last rhino butchered for her horn They cut off her horn and let her bleed to death.  LET HER BLEED TO DEATH.  I wonder how would they feel if someone cut their penises off and let them bleed to death… not that I’d condone such an act but it just makes me wonder.  A very sad Summer Solstice Girl here :(

I AM RUDE (or so I’ve been told)

This is a note I posted on Facebook on Friday, January 18, 2008 but I think it goes well with my first post here so I decided to import it to my brand new blog. So, there!

__________________________

Being an immigrant is not easy! that is such a cliche and yet it is also such an understatement.

Even in a country like Canada where multiculturalism is regarded as a National value as stated in Section 27 of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, our cultural differences keep us apart from Canadian-born Citizens.

I am sure I am not the only immigrant who’s had problems with Canadian-born people due to nuances of the language. Sometimes I wonder if I ever gonna fully master the English Language. Sure I have an outstanding vocabulary, my spelling is almost impecable, I can buy groceries, read signs, go to school. Heck, I even have got A+s in graduate courses and yet Canadian-born people and I cannot understand each other. I say white and they hear black.

I think my German ancestry doesn’t help either. People in my family are very well known for their sterness. We are not sweet people. And we tell it like it is.

Hmmmm…… telling it like it is. This is what causes me grief the most. In my experience, people here don’t say what they think. Opinions are considered rude… or at least my opinions are… and those of a lot of other people as I have witnessed many a time. The funny thing is that in Colombia, you talk, they kill you. In Canada, you talk, they consider you rude and they ostracize you. Not much of a difference since human beings are social animals. You take away the community from us and we die. A killing is a killing even if it is a social one.

There are many things I just don’t understand. One of them is having to apologize when I speak up my mind. Or even more, why do Canadians are so easily offended (see quote from Page 29). Another one is having to to apologize when someone pushes me on the street or step on my toes the way Canadians do, just to give an example.

The first year I came here, I read this book by the Ferguson Brothers called “HOW TO BE A CANADIAN* *(even if you already are one)”

I though it was funny but only after six year of living here I am starting to fully understand it. My favourite Chapter is Chapter 16: Twelve ways to Say “I’am Sorry” How to be Canadian- in the worst way

[quote]

1. The simple Sorry
The most basic use of “I’m sorry”. Can also be Shortened to the simpler “Sorry” or amended to the slightly more loquacious “Sorry about that”. Using primarily after making unwanted physical contact with another person in a public place.

2. The Essential Sorry
The most common variation of “I’m sorry” and the one you will most often use. Can also be shortened to the simpler “Sorry” but formal usage is preferred. Used primarily when someone makes unwanted physical contact with you in a public place.

Example: When someone steps on your foot as you get off an escalator.

[/quote]

When I first read this I thought “you’ve got to be kidding me” . Then I realized that people actually do that all the time.

And the book goes on with the other ten.

Another very illuminating chapter is Chapter 2

[quote, page 29)

Canadians are very easy to insult. Case in point: Ian (one of the Ferguson Brothers and co-author if the book) was once in an elevator in downtown TO, and the only other accupant was a dear old lady […] The elevator doors where about to close when a smartly dressed young woman came running up. The elderly lady immediately stopped the doors with her cane and called out, “Come in, Sweetie”. The younger woman got on and glared out at the older woman. “I think that was very rude” she said. True story. Ian was agog. What would this well-tailored, ill-mannered woman possibly have to be insulted about?[…] Well it turned out that she was of Swedish extraction, you see, and she thought the old woman was makin a racial slur. “Sweetie/Swedie”. Get it?. And no, we aren’t kidding.

[/quote]

It is a great book really. It has taught me so much about being Canadian!!!!