Thursday, November 16, 2023

 

P O S T C A R D S   to   S A M A R A 


    A number of years ago, I spent some time teaching ESL to young adults from various countries in Toronto. This experience, following two years of teaching English in Japan, was a bridge to obtaining my teaching qualifications for the public school system. During that time, I took a brief trip to Vancouver to visit family and friends, as this was where I grew up. And so one afternoon I was walking with an old friend along the ocean shore in an area called Deep Cove, almost the farthest eastward reach of North Vancouver, shadowed by the Coastal Mountains. And it was there that my friend and I spotted a small plastic jar drifting near the shoreline, with what looked like a piece of paper inside. Intrigued, we managed to retrieve it from the water, and we twisted it open with some degree of anticipation. We then unfolded the paper to find some crudely drawn pictures and writing, scribbled by a four-year-old girl named Samara, with notes added in the margins by her mother, describing the unfortunate loss of a stuffed animal named Whale Shark. The note revealed that this toy, clearly well loved by Samara, had been lost, and the message in the bottle was a plea for help in finding the stuffed animal. In order to placate her daughter, the mother had told Samara that Whale Shark had gone to the ocean to find a wife and have babies. As well, the mother asked that, if anyone were to find this note, to send a postcard to Samara telling her that he loves her very much, and to sign it with the name Whale Shark. With a quiet sense of wonder I placed the note in my pocket, not quite sure of what to do next. 
    
    This event turned out to become a catalyst, upon my return to Toronto, to take some form of action to resolve Samara’s dilemma. Given my work situation at that time, an opportunity presented itself to me. With a series of blank postcards that I had previously purchased in Japan, I decided to ask a number of my ESL students, upon returning to their various home countries, to attach a local postcard to mine, place a stamp on it, and send it to Samara. Each of these was written in the same handwriting, my own, from Whale Shark to Samara. And each of these postcards described wondrous adventures across the oceans of the world, and a quest for a wife and family. Over the following year, these postcards were then sent from various points around the world, from my former students in Asia, Africa, South America, Europe and beyond. 

    Ultimately I had to leave that teaching job, and so I had one final postcard sent to Samara, telling her that I was going deep into the ocean to look for a wife and family, and that she might not hear from me for a long time. That was, reluctantly, the end of my correspondence to Samara. 

    At various times over the intervening years, I have tried to locate her, each time unsuccessful, and thus I have never discovered if any, or all of those postcards reached Samara, who would now be in her mid-30s. But the thought that maybe, just maybe they did, keeps me hopeful. And hope is a good thing. 

    Quite recently I became aware of a story with interesting parallels to my own. Legend, or fact, tells of an event in the life of Franz Kafka. According to the account of a woman who lived with him, while residing in Berlin, Kafka visited Steiglitz City Park one day, and happened upon a young girl who was crying over the loss of her doll. Kafka saw in this an opportunity, not unlike my own, to affect in a positive way, someone previously unknown to him. Kafka calmed the young girl by telling her that the doll had gone on a journey to see the world. The doubts of the girl were assured by Kafka’s promise that he had a letter from the doll, and would bring it to her the following day. And this he did, and continued to do so for the following two weeks. Each evening, Kafka would write another letter from the doll, and then read it to the girl the following day. Finally, as a means to bring some closure to their interaction, Kafka gave the girl another doll, although clearly different, and assured her with a final letter that said, “My travels have changed me”. And, as truth or legend has it, some years later the girl found a note hidden within the doll, which read, “Everything that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form”. 

    And so now, in these most uncertain times, with a pandemic transforming the world, and political upheaval in so many places, there remains something that both gives and heals, and that is kindness. And both the giving, and the healing of kindness are reciprocal. It is, in a way, both selfless and selfish. Franz Kafka likely slept better each of those nights, despite whatever concerns troubled his mind, most likely aware of the effect of his act of kindness. And this is so for me as well, resting better in the assurance that one seemingly simple act can have a significant effect on the life of another. And thus, whether or not my postcards reached Samara, it remains my hope that love has returned to her in some form, even if different. 

    It is also my hope, in these times of great change, and possibly great loss, that this will be true for us all. I’m tempted now to find an ocean, and a small plastic jar, to wish it so. 




Samara's Letter










 

A  D A Y  F U L L - F I L L E D 


 The Tragicomic Musings of a DD Teacher 
(Originally written in 2018)


(DD is an acronym for Developmentally Delayed, an umbrella term encompassing a variety of disabilities, such as Autism, Down Syndrome and Learning Disabled. Most of my students are non-verbal, or limited in their ability to communicate verbally. Most DD classes are 6 - 8 students, with additional support.) 


    Our day formally begins around 8:30, which is, however, long after the questions have begun… What kind of a day are we in for? What unexpected adventures await? What sorts of on-bus calamities have occurred even before the students have arrived? 

    The answers come soon enough as two of The Three Stooges, Jayden and Tristan, arrive on scene from their bus. Jayden, a slight child whose stature defies his power, is a fireball of a boy who changed my teaching life dramatically a little more than a year ago. He arrived as a transfer from another class, having inflicted a concussion upon his teacher at the time. Nothing has been the same since Jayden arrived. Tristan, on the other hand, is a relatively mature boy with a good heart. He greets familiar staff with an over-enthusiastic hug, and asks me, more frequently than necessary, how I’m doing. Given time, he could be a good leader, but for now, he’s a follower. 

    And so, with the best of intentions, we welcome each other with a formal handshake, and appropriate greetings. If I’m late in my arrival outside the classroom, these two seek me out in order to begin our day. Routines. 

    Slapstick comedy quickly ensues as the opening act warms up. It begins with a relatively harmless stepping on a toe, but soon ramps up to a whirlwind of loudly dramatized “Owwww!” vocalizations, accompanied by a theatrical hopping on one foot. Attempts to quell the ensuing nonsense fall on deaf ears. 

    The next step, removing outerwear and unpacking, generally proceeds without incident. Generally. But if Jayden isn’t in a good frame of mind, then the first issue of the day arises. He may simply lie on the floor with coat, scarf and backpack in place. Or, he may attempt to climb the storage shelves, eventually reaching unsafe heights, and defiantly opposing any sort of calming or removal measures. 

    This would be the first of the day’s “Choose your Battles” moments. And this was a lesson I learned the hard way some time ago, challenging Jayden, and ending up requiring a tetanus shot from an aggressive bite to my forearm. Yes, he bit me. Kicking, hitting, scratching and spitting can also be part of his defensive arsenal. He’s also rather clever, as he has, over the course of more than a year, developed and executed a Master Plan. Details to come. 

    With these two settled, sort of, I anticipate the next entrance. At this point, my assistants are awaiting the remaining bus arrivals. In the meantime Jayden begins the daily and often-repeated question: “Where Fadhil? On the bus?”. Again, and again. 

    Next on the scene is the aforementioned Fadhil, the undisputed star of the show, and the third Stooge. He’s a child with Down syndrome whose heart is larger than his girth, which is quite substantial. This is when Jayden comes to full life, with big warm hugs for his best friend, accompanied by cries of “Okay? Okay?”. “Yes, Jayden”, I reassure him, more than once, “Fadhil is okay”. 

    Though Fadhil is technically non-verbal, he’s an effective communicator, and it isn’t long before one readily understands his vocalizations, although there are times when he launches into a lengthy monologue, and I long for subtitles. Jayden then proceeds to become Fadhil’s personal valet, removing his outerwear and unpacking his bag, all the while accompanying his task with hugs, kisses and ”Okay? Okay?” This includes, like half of my students, the release from a heavy canvas harness, which is zipped up the back. It’s a constricting device, hooked (mostly) securely into a bus seat, and meant to deter any unnecessary or unsafe movement while in transit.     
   
    Following this established arrival routine is yet another daily ritual, which I refer to as Show and Smell. This is when, with great aplomb, Fadhil opens his lunch bag, and then his thermos, to reveal The Lunch of the Day. Despite the fact that his lunch consists of either chicken nuggets or chicken and rice, every single day, Fadhil takes an inordinate amount of pleasure in sharing the contents of his thermos with all present, which of course requires leaning in and smelling the celebrated meal. And it’s then that he awaits a suitably enthusiastic response. 

    Next on the scene is Mahado, a girl with nonverbal autistism who indeed, like each of the students, has her own unique personality. Her mission, upon arrival, is to seek out her favourite toys, which are usually big and plastic. The day we first met, a little more than a year ago, she arrived with a plastic toy chainsaw. 

    It is usually an effort to get her to remove her coat, and unpack her bag, diverting her intentions of seeking her toy of the day. And we’ve discovered, over time, that the removal of said toy will usually and suddenly result in loud guttural sounds, sometimes biting her hand, or hitting herself in the chest or head with considerable force. And this show of strength and aggression is on occasion directed toward myself, or my assistants. Choose your battles. 

    Soon after Mahado has found her place, though not necessarily a fixed point, Batool arrives, a deceptively diminutive girl who walks with an uncertain swagger. A random gesture stands for a greeting as she is aided in getting ready for the day by Camille, one of my assistants, who fortunately has a fine gift for managing Batool and her impulses, among other things. 

    Our next item on the agenda is washroom visits for Fadhil and Batool, these days a relatively uneventful affair, though not without a degree of coaxing to counteract some stubbornness. There was a time, however, when this seemingly simple step in the day was fraught with a great many obstacles, part olfactory and part physical, and repeated throughout the day. Oh my, how far we’ve come. 

    The next act is Circle Time, where, grouped on the carpet in a variety of chairs, we look at the calendar, the weather, and a series of engaging learning music videos, finally finishing off with the Story of the Week. Circle Time is often akin to a game of Wac-a-Mole, where after one child pops up and is (sometimes forcefully) seated, another pops up in their place. Up, down, up, down. 

    It’s about this time that the last player arrives. Ruweyda is, oddly, bilingually non-verbal. She has echolalia, characterized by repeating phrases, sentences and sound effects she has heard, and memorized. Ruweyda’s source material is popular media, particularly Dora the Explorer, (hence the bilingual reference), and The Cat in the Hat, among a variety of other things. She’s very good at it, and with a little imagination, one could be watching TV. Ruweyda is classified as a “runner”, as at any available opportunity, she will run, and she’s fast. Despite a mostly blocked doorway, she has escaped on a number of occasions, causing myself or one of my assistants to break into an immediate and full sprint in pursuit of this athletic child. Thus in transitions, she’s held fast with a firm grip on her forearm. Gym time, however, creates unforeseen challenges, with too many exits available. The occasion that she actually left the building will remain undescribed. 

    And so Circle Time resumes. Over time, most of the group has come to take a lead role in each of the various songs or activities. Fadhil is in full command of Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes, whereby one cannot rise to participate until he has given the necessary vocalizations and gestures. And Jayden is our weatherman, enthusiastically responding Yesss! Or Noooo! to the weather questions in the song with leaps and shouts. Ruweyda is our Rock and Roller, dancing with considerable style to a high energy counting song, all the while watching herself in the reflection of a window. And Tristan is our enthusiastic dancing potato, using his lanky limbs to move to the One Potato, Two Potato song, shaking his hips wildly between upward leaps. Meanwhile, one of our minor players, Batool, is content to remove and throw her shoes, and then her socks at anyone or anything nearby. And Mahado, who moves to the beat of a different drummer, will spontaneously rise from her chair and whirl about, sometimes seemingly speaking in tongues, or, she’ll stare longingly into the eyes of Tristan, who is mostly oblivious to her attention. 

    Snack time is the next act, a relatively calm experience with the group seated around a large table. Calm, at least, until Mahado or Ruweyda, or both, decide that the snack in front of another is better than their own. This is when the lunge occurs, a lightning fast movement to reach across the table to pilfer a cookie, or juice box, or goldfish cracker, or… And when that’s just not enough, Mahado has been known to reach into the garbage can to retrieve someone’s leftovers. 

    When snack time is done, the students move to their independent work areas to complete three literacy activities, from lettering to puzzles to small motor tasks. I use the term independent loosely, as most of the group requires constant supervision and guidance. The ones who stray from the script are Jayden (no surprise there) who pops, as though spring-loaded, from his seat to share his efforts every few minutes with Fadhil. The real purpose of Jayden’s frequent trips to Fadhil’s desk is mainly to poke him, or step on his toe. This is the latest phase of Jayden’s Master Plan, one that began about a year ago. With frustrating frequency, Jayden would step on the toes of Fadhil and Tristan in order to get a reaction. This, over the ensuing months, underwent a very subtle shift to where Jayden now simply extends his foot ever so slightly, causing the other two boys to take the bait and step on his toe, thereby making Jayden no longer the bad guy. The Master Plan revealed. 

    Fortunately, Sydney, my other assistant, is The Heavy, an imposing figure whose primary task, though one of many, is to manage Jayden, a task that he performs most effectively. 

    The other rogue performer is Batool, who takes great pleasure in launching puzzle pieces, activity sheets, or anything else at hand, from her desktop when she’s grown tired of the current activity. Luckily she’s willing to take part in the gathering of these objects. Meanwhile, Ruweyda will continue to fill the “quiet” with her animated chatter from whatever show or iPad source she has recently watched. When their tasks are complete, or as close as they can get, the students find a free choice activity such as Lego, play dough or a jigsaw puzzle, an area where my students are increasingly adept, particularly Fadhil, who through patience and persistence, has become a puzzle master. This is despite the fact that Ruweyda has bitten off many of the tabs from the pieces. She enjoys putting various things into her mouth and bites, chews, and occasionally swallows them. Like the marble that went down her throat a few months ago, thankfully a relatively innocuous object, considering it’s a small glass sphere. That is, once it’s gone down. This was not a pleasant experience for her, or us. And we were never informed by her mother of its exit, if in fact it did so. 

    Soon, it’s lunchtime and the table antics continue. Ruweyda and Mahado in search of better options, Jayden eating anything and everything all at once, all the while cajoling Fadhil, and Mahado eating her lunch, in whatever form, with her fingers, occasionally squeezing her juice box into her noodles or rice to make a sort of sweet soup. Meanwhile, Fadhil is carefully and methodically eating one of his two lunch options, and Tristan is (usually) carefully guarding his lunch from the predators, who will sometimes circle the table like birds of prey. As this is all going on, Batool is being fed her lunch through a G-Tube, or gastric tube, by a public health nurse who comes to our room each mid-day, as she experiences difficulty swallowing solids. Unlike Ruweyda, who has no difficulty, whatsoever. 

    The remaining time for the lunch break is occupied in various ways. The boys love, and live for their iPad time, lounging in all manner of body positions, at times across and intermixed with each other throughout the room, usually peacefully. Any guilt over electronic pacifiers ebbs quickly away in consideration of the alternative. Let sleeping dogs lie. 

    When not attempting an escape, Ruweyda entertains herself with jigsaw puzzles or creative iPad camera performances, often utilizing split screen options. The number of selfies on her iPad, many quite innovative, almost had me consider opening an Instagram account for her. 

    Meanwhile, Mahado is engaged with various sensory bins, usually coloured rice or pasta, which she manipulates with great interest, usually leaving remnants scattered about the floor. Her alternate choice is a video of The Wiggles, a cheesy but popular children’s band, which she is able to watch repeatedly, and repeatedly. Finally, Batool, when her feeding is done, continues in her path of destruction, stalking the room seeking things to scatter about the floor. 

    Though lunch break is often peaceful, allowing us time to breathe and occasionally get some work done, it also requires some degree of helicopter teaching, hovering and awaiting potential difficulties, occasionally resolving disagreements, and in particular attempting to avert Ruweyda’s escape attempts, and the launching of Batool’s various projectiles. 

    When this period of relative calm draws to a close, the students are taken to Gym, Music or Library by different teachers, and I go off to my other job, that is Art teacher to grade seven and eight students. Now that’s a contrast. 

    The remainder of the afternoon unfolds much like the morning. Snack time; a virtual sequel to the morning’s snack and all it entails, followed by work time; focussing on number-related tasks, and all it entails. The difference, however, is the frequent approach of The Witching Hour, that time, as any parent knows, when things go south. Jayden takes the lead role in this performance, beginning with frustration with his tasks and increasing misbehaviour, which on a good day involves only pestering the other boys excessively, and occasionally yelling or swearing. On not so good days, however, physical restraint for Jayden may be called for, and ultimately removal from the classroom. Enter Sydney, our saviour. Applying physical restraint to Jayden is a considerable challenge, despite significant differences in size and weight. Even at rest, his body positions match that of a contortionist. So for me at least, it is with appreciable strength and speed, along with elevated heart rate and temper that he comes under some sort of physical control. 

    But, oh, we’ve come so far in a year and a half. 

    The final act of the day involves getting six active children dressed and ready to get on their buses, and go home. This is generally a series of steps that are coordinated by Sydney, and supported by a Tristan and Fadhil, our helpers. Difficulties arise when Jayden clearly doesn’t want to cooperate, or Ruweyda wants to wear someone else’s backpack, or Mahado is upset, for whatever reason, or Batool is sending things flying. However the most challenging task is to defy the laws of physics when attempting to do up Fadhil’s zipper on his winter coat, and harness. He’s a big boy, but fortunately passive during the process. This final task often requires support from an able assistant. Many hands make light work. Our finishing touch is The Goodbye Song, a catchy video song that gets all, or most, of the kids ready for their departure. Rituals and routines, again. This is Fadhil’s swan song, his final performance as he vocalizes, with great gusto, key refrains. Finally, as the curtain is about to close, it’s bus time, and our entourage makes its way down the hall to the front door, usually, though not always, without incident or drama. When that special moment arrives, when each child is securely seated on their bus, a deep and collective sigh can be heard. Then it’s back to the classroom to set the stage for the next day’s performances.








A Momentary Absence of Equilibrium 
    
    A little more than two weeks ago, I fell from my bicycle while solo riding a trail deep in some wooded city parkland here in Toronto. This is an activity I’ve been doing for decades, in a wide variety of places. This trail wasn’t particularly steep or challenging, and my speed wasn’t beyond control in any way, but in a brief and fateful moment, my balance was lost and I fell a distance of about eight feet sideways and downward on a slope, landing in the dirt with considerable force. 

     It took a few moments to fully realize what had happened, and where I was. My recollection now is only the moment before, and then the collision of body and earth. The downward flight was not imprinted in memory, for reasons unknown. 

     It then took some more time to muster the strength to extract myself from soil, and bicycle, to come to a standing position. That changed quickly to sitting, on a nearby fallen tree, as I knew I wasn’t ready yet for any movement toward recovery or escape. With an awareness of where I was, that is alone on an isolated and lightly traveled trail, I realized I had to remove myself from my current situation and seek assistance. As my lower body was relatively unscathed, walking was not a concern, though the difficulty of removing the bike and returning it to the trail was, though yet unrealized, a harbinger of things to come. 

    After about a 10 minute walking journey to what I knew was a travelled park road, I reached my stopping point, and sat to rest. My intention was to check my phone for a maps location, and to call family for help. Well, my maps app was of little assistance, showing only unfamiliar lines in a blankly coloured field. Previously I had only ever reached this area by trail, so I really had no idea how to get to my location by car. I then found an opportunity to ask for help from a fellow cyclist who was trail riding with his son. Utilizing his more effective maps app, I could see with some degree of clarity where I was, and where my vehicle was. It was at this point that a combination of adrenaline, stubbornness and to a lesser degree, foolishness came to the fore. “I can do this”, remarked my altered self. And thus off I set, beginning with an uphill walk, gingerly steering my bike while also looking out for a passing car with a bike rack, in the hope of a hitch to where I needed to go. Alas, that was not to be, so I carried on in the direction I knew to be an end to this journey. 
 
   Without scale, a map can be deceptive, and thus my anticipated destination turned out to be a greater distance than intended. After some time, I grew tired of walking, and so I threw caution to the wind and mounted my bike once again in an attempt to shorten this ordeal. The unholy trinity (adrenaline, etc.) prevailed again. And, well, that was interesting. Legs good, arms bad. My right arm, at the time the stronger of the two, was tentative and shaky at best, steering me with faltering accuracy along sidewalks, weaving past curious pedestrians as I ventured on. 

    Ultimately, I reached my destination and my vehicle, to soon realize I was incapable of lifting my bike up onto the bike rack. With good fortune, a man loading his dog into his car at the trailhead assisted me in this task, though not without considerable verbal direction. This was clearly something not in his muscle memory.

    And so then, again, common sense was not in attendance, as my present thinking was, if I’ve come this far, surely I can drive home. I’ve mounted the summit, so it should be downhill from here. In theory, this made sense. In practice, however, maybe not so much. My vehicle is a standard transmission, which means a stick shift, which means two arms working independently. The final leg of this journey, approximately 20 minutes, was a delicate balance of difficult shifting, fairly painful steering, and a constant worry of the potential, and terrible timing, of an accident. Or another accident, more accurately. 

    But, thankfully, home is where I made it, with more than considerable relief. After a brief relating of the events to my family, my intention was to rest this out, with the apparently naïve thought that I’d be just fine the following day. My wife, however, had other plans, and called my nephew’s wife, a doctor, who promptly answered the call and arrived a short time later. Her brief prognosis turned out to be uncannily accurate, and she advised me to visit emergency very soon, although somewhat to my dismay. So off we went, my wife as driver this time, to Sunnybrook hospital. 

    Seven hours later, on that Saturday evening, I left with a cast on a fractured right wrist, a splint for a broken finger on my left hand, and an ultrasound scheduled for a torn rotator cuff on my left shoulder. The only redeeming aspect of that duration of time was the ultimate, and consistently positive attitude and energy put out by the hospital staff. I mean, how can I be pissed at these people who are so intent on relieving my discomfort? I left not angry and frustrated, but assured. 

    So here I am, more than two weeks later. A replacement cast on my wrist, here for six weeks. A replacement splint on my broken finger, on for… I don’t know. And an ultrasound on my shoulder with physiotherapy underway, for maybe 8 – 10 more weeks. As well as more therapy once my wrist cast comes off. Returning to work appears to be a long way off. 

    But the power of healing continues, which I find in some ways quite remarkable, given how I felt over the course of the first week. Every movement in my upper body was filled with pain and discomfort. Sleep was most difficult, even with a moderate amount of medication. I’m not so young anymore, so I’m really rather impressed by my body’s ability for healing. 

    Since my fall, I’ve become limited in so many ways, and this is a source of frustration for one who is accustomed to independence and self-sufficiency. My big three: cycling, photography and cooking have each come to a skidding stop. And so I’m attempting to find opportunities for interest and engagement, as I navigate this all-new territory of limited mobility and diminished opportunities for activity and recreation. 
 
   And I find myself, two weeks later, in a situation well beyond the “usual” surreal nature of this pandemic we currently find ourselves in. One day to the next is even more of a blur than before. I find myself standing idle, unsure in that moment of what to do, an occurrence most uncharacteristic. Being unable to do the things I’m used to doing to keep myself engaged and contented, I’m floundering, in search of ways to centre myself in a return to some sense of normalcy. 

    Over the course of riding a bike for many decades, I’ve gained experience, and as the years progressed, I’ve grown more cautious. My falls, as I recollect in my adult life, can be numbered on one hand. And each of these was minimal in repercussions. The reason, or reasons, for this fall remain elusive. Tiredness, inattentiveness, or just poor timing could each be factors, but regardless, this is a reminder of how easily fortunes can change. In a fraction of a second, my life, and the lives of those near to me, was altered quite dramatically. 
 
   This will pass, as it’s been so often said, but the distance between then and now seems vast. I do take solace in my continuing healing and increasing mobility, and in the fact that my injuries could be much more significant. And I will find my way, and my equilibrium, given time, patience and determination.





Thursday, September 16, 2021

WORKING (I Did It for the Money)

A chronological account of my varied employment history, and in part, why I am the way I am.

Getting the Worm

The Province Newspaper - 1970

My introduction to the world of work began at the tender age of 12, or was it 13? It was then that I inherited a morning paper route from, I think, one of my older brothers. (One of many things I was handed down over the years.) This required rising from my bed at 5:30 a.m. to mount The Beast, a bicycle unlike any other. With a frame too large for my own, and a massive steel cage on the front end to hold my daily load of papers, The Beast required a double kickstand to ward off the effects of gravity. So off I would go each morning, pedalling a couple of miles to join a cast of scruffy characters in a wood shack where we were given our supply of Vancouver’s morning daily. Aside from the advantage of earning a little cash, the aforementioned characters also expanded my vocabulary, and began to teach me the ways of the world that you don’t learn in school.

It's 5:30 a.m. Do you know where your child is?

Citizen Boy

The Citizen Newspaper - 1971

After too many early mornings, I changed jobs to delivering a weekly local paper in my own neighbourhood. The highlight of this experience was being assigned the moniker “Citizen Boy” by a neighbourhood teen each time I arrived at his door for collections. With Orson Welles in mind, I wore this as a badge, until I realized it came from someone whose nickname was Fish. I never knew why.

As well, this job gave me the unique opportunity to be slugged by the local bully. “This is for your older brother!” he exclaimed one day as I made my rounds, just before his fist met with my cheekbone.

“Which one?” I mistakenly replied,” I have two.” SLAM! went fist to cheek again. It was then I decided to refrain from telling him I had a younger brother, too.

Hold On Tight

Hanlon’s Floor and Window Cleaning - 1972

I got this part time job from a friend whose father owned the company. Other than some pocket money, there was nothing significant about this experience, though I did learn the proper technique of using a floor mop (figure 8s) and how to handle one of those crazy spinning floor polishers, which was all about balance and concentration. Those occasions when either of those was lacking would send this humming machine careening wildly in all directions.

I recall going to my friend’s house at the appointed hour, where we would be loaded into the back of a van with various pieces of large equipment. Off we would go to the job site, hunched down near the floor to keep from falling over during turns and accelerations. Seat belts, or even seats for that matter, were not part of the experience.

Get ‘Em While They’re Young

Youth Crew Summer - 1972

At the suggestion of my mother, I applied to a program called BC Parks Youth Crew. This is a summer job where young men were given the unique opportunity to travel to remote locations and work hard for six days a week for a modest stipend. Sort of a summer camp for poor kids. Despite being exploited, it turned out to be a great experience. I spent two months at a provincial park called Bear Lake, located just north of Prince George, and way north of anywhere. The place was aptly named due to the proliferation of black bears, one of which greeted me one morning outside our cabin door. “Uh, guys...we have a visitor.” Generally speaking, they were harmless, unless you found yourself between mother and cub. Fortunately I never did.

Good friendships were formed, and experiences had, that I still recall fondly. It was not all work and no play, as we had more than a few adventures, (some well past curfew), such as a canoe trip where we constructed a plastic sheet sauna next to a glacial river. Imagine 16 sweating teenage boys ripping out of a large plastic tent, naked, screaming, and diving into an icy blue river. Yahoo!

The Crew, and I'm front row far left.

Fries With That?

Western Teak - 1973

For this part time job, my friend George and I had the task of assembling and delivering various pieces of teak furniture. It was then that I learned just how heavy teak furniture really is. Each Saturday began with a stop at McDonalds to pick up a couple of extra large orange pops for the boss, so that he would have something to mix his vodka with. This would not be the only time an employer had issues with the bottle.

I Can Handle It

Schlage Lock - 1973

Joining my friend George once again, I experienced work in a real live factory, where for eight hours a day, workers would place pieces of metal under a large punch, hit the button, and BANG!, suddenly a doorknob would appear. Fortunately, George and I were given the job of Material Handlers, which meant keeping the people at the machines stocked with, well, material. This allowed us to be on the move, and avoid the absolute and relentless monotony of the machine work. This would be the first of a few jobs that over time helped me to appreciate the better jobs I would later do.

Workin’ at the Car Wash

Shell Station - 1974

Nothing significant or particularly memorable about this short term job, which required operating and maintaining a mostly automatic car wash. I was, however, entertained by the opportunity to use the word nipple on a regular basis, that being the small steel receptacle for lubricant in large machines. Ah, the things that amuse the teenage mind.

Stitches and Itches

NorWes Building Materials - 1974-1977

This job kept me in cash for a few years of weekends and summers through high school and college. I was then what is now called a “Sales Associate”. I guess Clerk just wasn’t good enough. Any degree of ability and knowledge having to do with building stuff I owe to this experience. I also got a great discount on tools and things, some of which I still use more than 30 years later. No outstanding memories, other than discovering just how much a head wound bleeds when, while stepping backwards to check the label on a tall box, I tripped on one fork of a forklift and hit the back of my head on the other. Lots of blood, three stitches, and an itch I still feel.

Don’t Look Up

Paper Recycling Mill - 1977

With plans of “finding myself” in Europe, I took a full-time job as a forklift operator in a paper recycling mill. Obviously I didn’t hold a grudge toward the machine. As luck would have it, I was assigned the biggest and fastest forklift, which meant I always won when we raced through the towers of baled paper. I appreciated the bulk of my machine the day one of these bales, weighing hundreds of pounds, fell on top of it while I was operating. Whew! The smell of wet cardboard still recalls those days.

Gravity, The Scene Stealer

Severins’ Restaurant - 1979

Feeling a bit lost after six months in Europe, I began what was to become a series of jobs in the food service industry. After a few months earning my stripes as a busboy, I graduated to waiter. On the first night in my new role, I had served half of a party of twelve their main course. After loading and shouldering my tray in the kitchen with the other six plates, I wound up to kick the door open, only to discover that friction was not my friend that night. The floor was wet and my shoes were smooth, and I suddenly found myself flat on my back with food and plates everywhere. Then, to my dismay, the chef replaced the meat onto new plates, served out some fresh vegetables, and sent me on my way. My perspective on restaurant kitchens has never been the same.

Vertigo

Cargill Grain Elevator - 1980

I was A Man with a Plan. I had applied, and was accepted to the photography program at Ryerson Polytechnical Institute, in Toronto, a long way from my home in Vancouver, and a long way off financially. In search of quick cash, I travelled, in deep winter, to Alberta with my friend Ian to work in the oil patch. While waiting for an opportunity to open up, we took a job helping to construct a grain elevator in a town called Lacombe, where my grandmother lived. This required rising very early, donning all available winter clothing, and heading out in the cold morning light to slam nails into large planks laid horizontally atop one another high above the ground. Not a particularly pleasant experience, and fortunately short-lived.

Well, Well, Well, Well...

Beta Well Service - 1980

A few weeks later, opportunity knocked with an interview and training with an oil well service company. Soon I had joined a crew and began to discover just how dirty and dangerous this work was. Our job was to go to an existing well, park our rig over top the hole and service whatever problem existed. My job as a roughneck included attempting to pound stakes into frozen earth (terra extra firma) with a sledge hammer to secure the rig. On other days, I had to keep the oil from getting into my facial orifices as it spurted from the well on occasion, and I had to regularly keep reminding myself that it will be worth it. And thanks to my mostly Newfie crewmates, I learned all manner of new words and phrases that I haven’t been able to use appropriately since.

After about five months of cheap small town motels, laundromats with “No Oil Clothes” signs posted, and a considerably stronger physique, I left Alberta, bound for Toronto, with a reasonable amount of money in the bank.

My parents came to visit the rig one day.
Dad took the photo while Mom posed next to me.
The Things We Do...

Security Guard - 1981

Yes, it’s true. I was a night watchman, hired to, well, watch the night. The combined expenses of the photography program, rent, and sometimes food, left me in need of income...desperate need. So desperate, in fact, that I took a job working weekend nights in adjoining apartment buildings in a less than desirable part of Toronto. And so I would arrive on Friday night wearing my stately blue uniform, with a bag of books and a head full of wishful thinking, intending on using any available time to complete my homework. In reality, I would too often wake with the impression of book edges in my forehead, wondering how many of my hourly rounds I had missed.

Lemmon and Matthau?

The Coach and Four Restaurant - Summer, 1982

In search of adventure between school years, my girlfriend (now my wife) and I crossed the country to Victoria, B.C., where I got another restaurant job. This time, in keeping with the city’s heritage, it was a “British” place. Chips with that?

Not a particularly fine restaurant, operated by two gay men, one of whom would swish through the dining room while his more rough-edged partner drank from his beer hidden in the paper towel dispenser in the kitchen. An odd couple indeed.

All Greek To Me

Anesty’s Restaurant - Summer, 1983

This restaurant experience turned out to be brief, but significant, as it was the first and only job I have been fired from. Anesty’s was a busy Greek restaurant in downtown Toronto. I was hired to wait lunches, and so I set about familiarizing myself with the menu. Apparently I didn’t become familiar enough, as one very busy lunch I ordered keftedes instead of dolmathes, and the chef went ballistic on me, cursing and shouting at me in unintelligible Greek. At the end of my shift, I was fired, after helping myself to a generous serving of humble pie.

Hip and Happening

Earl’s Tin Palace - 1983

In a predominantly young and cool uptown neighbourhood, I got another waitering job at Earl’s Tin Palace Restaurant and, after 10 p.m., night club. Wine spritzers, big hair and 99 Red Balloons (remember that song?). This job kept me fluid (in more ways than one) through my last year of school.

Another Serving of Pie?

The Bay - 1984

After graduating from the photography program, I returned to Vancouver to stake my future. My future, however, wasn’t quite ready for me, so I reluctantly took a short term job selling pens at a department store. Somewhat higher on the food chain that security guard, but definitely not where I wanted to be. I didn’t last long.

But What Does It Mean?

QED - 1984

As I edged closer to my chosen profession, I took a job in an audio-visual company called QED. And I never found out what the acronym meant. Well before the digital age, much of my time was spent preparing title slides for slide shows (remember those?), and duplicating training videos for McDonald’s. Everything at McDonald’s has a correct procedure. And I wasn’t lovin’ it.

Working for The Big Fish

Derik Murray Photography - 1985-1987

After many months of hounding, I was hired as a photographer’s assistant, and eventually became studio manager (bigger title, slightly bigger salary), at a busy photography studio in Vancouver. “I’m a big fish in a small pond”, was how my employer described his business. In addition to working on some big budget photo shoots, and gaining some really good experience, I survived an intensive six month project coordinating the documentation of the ‘86 Expo, later to become a coffee table book. I signed off on so many documents that my once legible signature became a slightly wavy line. Unfortunately I eventually became burned out and decided to depart on a new adventure.

After editing thousands of images for the
Expo book, I went a little crazy.

And Now For Something Completely Different

Berlitz, Japan - 1987-1989

The fall of 1987 found me on a plane bound for Nagoya, Japan, where I was to become an English teacher to all manner of Japanese people: businessmen, housewives, and students of all ages. Over the course of a year and half spent as a gaijin (foreigner), I developed a rudimentary command of the Japanese language, a constant fascination for the sometimes bizarre culture, (every day was a wide-eyed adventure), and a decent income. It was a great life experience, and for at least six months following my return, most of my sentences began with, "Well, when I was in Japan..."

This experience provided me with two memorable opportunities. The first was spending twelve days crossing the Pacific on a cruise ship, while teaching a small group of Japanese students. Sailing from Tokyo to San Francisco, it was twelve days of nothing but horizon, punctuated only by the rescue of sixteen Taiwanese fishermen, whose vessel was slowly sinking. And secondly, living in Japan turned out to be a great springboard to adventures throughout South East Asia, where I spent six months following my teaching time in Japan.

From The Japan Times Newspaper,
and yes, that's me.

Once a Giant

Bert Bell Photography - 1990-1992

I returned to Canada, and Toronto, to get married, and to try to resume my photography profession. I was hired as studio manager for a photographer who, at one time, was a giant in the industry. That was then, and this was now. In a fickle industry, his reputation had unfortunately deteriorated, and was further tempered by an excess of Absolute vodka. Still, it was a very good professional experience, and gave me great stories to tell.

On My Own

Freelance Photographer - 1992-1994

After two (more) years in the passenger seat, I realized it was time to get behind the wheel, so I stepped out on my own. Over the course of two years, I worked on my portfolio, made a lot of calls, knocked on a lot of doors, and got a few good jobs. Just not enough. I was married now, and thinking of a family, and freelance income just wasn’t substantial enough. I never really rounded the corner to success in photography. Besides, I had been stung by the teaching bug in Japan, and that became my new direction.

Back to Class

Hansa School of Languages - 1995

For a few months, I taught ESL to young students from, well, everywhere. Unfortunately, this particular language school possessed no curriculum and no resources, other than a photocopier. I cringe now at the “lessons” I taught. A unique opportunity, however, did occur. While visiting Vancouver, I found a message in a bottle at the seashore. In this bottle was a plea from a young girl who had lost her stuffed animal, a whale shark. In her mother’s handwriting, she asked if anyone had seen her whale shark, to send a letter letting her know it was okay. I decided then to begin a series of postcards from her whale shark, written in my hand, which I then gave to a series of students returning to their home countries, to attach to a local postcard and send back to Canada. So, over the course of the next six months, this young girl should have received postcards from all over the world describing the wondrous adventures of her friend, the whale shark.

Each time I have visited Vancouver since, I have been tempted to call her, now many years later, to reveal the mystery. But, I like a good mystery.

Finally, A Real Job!

Toronto District School Board - 1996-2010

With the support and encouragement of my wife, I entered the Faculty of Education at York University. This event happened to coincide with the arrival of our twin boys. These were the two most difficult things I have ever done, and they occurred simultaneously. It was a very busy year, and continued so, as I was hired by the Toronto District School Board a year later. That was fourteen years, three schools, three grades, and about 400 students ago. And it has been an adventure, indeed. At times I long for more creativity, but it’s not a bad gig. Good benefits, good hours (usually), and a healthy amount of time off. This noble profession comes with many challenges and many rewards, though the rewards mostly tend to reveal themselves over time, with the challenges more immediate. I’ve found a teaching focus in visual art, and we’ve done some interesting projects such as murals, big sculptures, and so on.

But What’s Next?

Who knows? A return to photography remains an option. I do miss it, though the industry has changed radically. Everyone owns a camera, in one form or another. And lots of people call themselves photographers. Maybe when I retire from teaching, I’ll re-invent myself once again. Who knows?

  P O S T C A R D S   to   S A M A R A       A number of years ago, I spent some time teaching ESL to young adults from various countries in...