A Writing Pilgrimage

The marketplace’s heat and pungent spices stifled me. Everything felt foreign. It was perfect – a treasure certainly awaited me here.

*

In my 20′s and 30′s, I saved money for one purpose only – to take my next trip. Others saved for a car, a computer, their children’s education. I didn’t have children, I already had a car and my computer could always last another year. Travel. It’s what I lived for. (Before my mortgage, that is).

Through experience, I learned that one must purchase items on a trip that help sustain the magic of the trip long beyond after the plane lands in snowy Edmonton. My criteria: 1) the item must be used in every-day life (so as to always remind you there is a broader world) 2) the item must remind you of the scents, shades or sounds of the country visited and 3) most of all, it must be something that urges – no, compels – people to ask, “Where did you get that?”

Instead of answering “the Bay”, I would then share the origin of my latest adventure – Peru – Kenya – Thailand. Whatever.

So, when I entered the marketplace of Marrakesh, my shopping instinct flared alive. Here is where I’d find the magic item that represented Morocco.

It’s not an easy thing to identify – the magic item. Sometimes, one can get caught up too much in the pulse of the country, and the item can’t fit in completely back home. Examples of failed purchases include: a “sailor girl” dress from Mykonos (too girly for the Edmonton version of Roxanne); batik pajamas from southern Philippines (too cold for Edmonton nights); bright green capris from Costa Rica (too bright for Canadian fashion) and my black sundress with red flowers from Hawaii (more appropriate for pajamas).

But Morocco provided me with a scarf. A brilliantly colored green and turqoise blue scarf, laced with golden thread. Its length ran three times as long as most scarves, as it was the traditional length (i.e. it could be woven into a turban). It bordered on gaudy, as the colors were much brighter than I usually wore, but I took a chance.

And the interest I got was more than I expected. Strangers smiled at me in elevators, while crossing the street, after I got on the bus. Are they just smiling because I just looked happy? Delirious, maybe? But, no – it was the scarf. One time, I entered a restaurant and a table of women waved at me. I went over, expecting to see a familiar face as I got closer. But, I recognized none of them.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you mean to call me over? I don’t think I know you.”

One of the women smiled. There wer five of them, all in their early sixties. “No, we don’t know you. But we wanted to tell you how much we love your scarf.” They broke into laughter.

No one ever asked me where the scarf was from. But I got a greater gift. Such a little item – but it started conversations. Helped me find neighbours instead of strangers. And instead of setting me apart, the scarf from Morocco brought me closer to others.

“Really? You write fantasy and science fiction?”

I get that a lot. I’m not sure what it is – because I’m a woman? Because I’m Filipino? Because I look like I’d rather be reading Jane Austen? (which I also love).

I usually launch into an explanation of how I got hooked onto speculative fiction. I loved stories like Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables … but after I read them and tried to imagine *myself* in those settings – it didn’t work. I would have been working in the laundry, instead of picking wildflowers. Filipino girls didn’t live in the prairies back then. And if they did … well, it wouldn’t be a pretty life, I imagine. There were other books – Judy Blume, Nancy Drew, etc. – but there still were no characters like me.

So, I turned to science fiction and fantasy … they had different universes, different rules, different expectations. I could be Princess Leia. I could hold a sword. I could fight dragons. Me – exactly how I looked, exactly how I came into this world, exactly *me* – I could do all of those things. And so I read those books.

And, so when I started writing books – I was faced with the big question. Who would be the heroine? If I made her a short asian girl – would other readers relate? Would people want to read those books? I will not lie – for the first couple of years, I thought the answer was no. I mentioned her skin colour (“a warm brown”) – but I left it at that. I wanted my readers to identify with the protagonist. Because somewhere, along my journey as a writer and a person, I was led to believe that readers – people – were not interested in the experience of someone that is different.

That, my friends, is the real price we pay when racism exists.

The price isn’t someone making fun of what I brought for lunch or being told that I’m taking a *real* Canadian’s place in university classes. It isn’t being asked for five pieces of ID when I go into a bar, after the person in front of me strode in with only 1 piece of ID. (All of which have happened to me). The true cost of racism is revealed when a young writer – assumes – internalizes – that their experiences aren’t valued. Aren’t worth sharing. And then, the whole community loses out – on stories, on art, on experiences, on joy.

Thank goodness, I no longer feel this way. My characters are strongly different – and I am even writing (shocker!) non-genre fiction, with characters like me. Will Canadian readership be interested? Will it be considered a “prairie” story? No one knows unless I try it out.

An old friend asked me last week, “Can you name a female mentor that you’ve had, who is Asian or Filipino, that isn’t from your family?”

I paused. I’ve had wonderful mentors in my life – wonderful women who have taught me integrity, critical thinking, ethics, courage. But besides my mother and my aunts, only one from my professional life had been Asian. And I only met her five years ago. My friend had a similar experience. Last week, I asked that same question about mentors to some of my friends who are women and are racialized. When they thought about the answer – they all got a little sad.

I want more for the young women and men of today. I want them to be able to pick from an abundance of role models – female and male, all different nationalities, all different abilities. Limitless. Boundless. In all professions, with all kinds of dreams. We must have more.

March 21 is the International Day for the Elimination of Racism … and I hope 20 years from now, I can speak of a better world, a better future. One that Gene Roddenberry and Martin Luther King Jr. would both be proud of.

“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality…. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word. ” Martin Luther King Jr.

There are certain books out there that haunt you. I’ve had my share.

The plots of Those Who Save Us (Jenna Blum) and The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver) threaded my dreams long after I read them. But non-fiction books somehow don’t have that same impact. I’m not sure what it is. Even when the issue is compelling, I never find myself as moved … until I read I Live Here.

I Live Here is not really a book persay. It’s more of a compendium —  four graphic novellas that share the stories of refugees and displaced people. I was never able to read all four booklets at once. I’d take one out – and work my way through it – maybe taking a week to read what technically, could be read in half an hour. It wasn’t the topics that made it difficult to read. Poverty, injustice, prostitution, oppression – these were all things with which I was familiar. I wasn’t shocked to know they exist in our global society. In fact, I know my way of life in Canada is more the exception than the rule. It’s because of the presentation …  the stories have hand-drawn images, the vignettes lie on the page in hand-written text, the descriptions are shared in first person.

The presentation makes you realize these are not just stories. These stories are owned. They belong to someone. Someone living and breathing, with hopes and disappointed dreams. These are personalized accounts, not stories.

Last week, I pulled the I Live Here series out of my bookcase to lend it to a colleague. She wanted to know more about the Karen population in Burma. I read through a couple of pages and was surprised to find myself tearing up. At first, I chastised myself for being so emotional.

There’s a time and place for emotionality. Not in global politics.

Once when attending a documentary on Tibet, I had to leave the theatre before I hurt someone. There were several university students in the crowd crying – no – bawling – as the end credits rolled. I wanted to shake them for their privilege of being able to “sit there and cry” when they could easily forego their nightly lattes, philosophical midnight beer sessions and designer hiking books – and donate the money to a cause.

Tears have no place in the face of social injustice.

But, after working in a settlement agency – in the mental health field – where my job was to find money, resources, time, people – anything – to help support those who are most vulnerable – it tires you out.* Compassion fatigue they call it. I definitely had it during my last couple of months there. A colleague – who was an external evaluator – was describing to me how horrified she was to hear that one of our strongest programs was being shut down. What would happen to all these refugees we were helping? she asked.

I remember thinking in my head, “At least, that’s one less thing for me to take care of”. I was managing three programs at the time – all programs helped those who slipped through the cracks of the system, all programs relied on employees who were underpaid, overworked and suffering from secondary trauma themselves and all programs had funding that wasn’t guaranteed for more than five months. If I sound like I’m trying to justify myself … I am. I’m ashamed that I thought that way. And I was even ashamed while I was thinking it, because that was the turning point. I knew my response was wrong. But I didn’t feel that my response was wrong. And that dissonance signalled that I needed to leave the agency.

So, I did. I went into consulting. No frontline work at all. I worked for the government. Even less community work there. But, now – I am in the non-profit world again and when I pulled that series out of my bookcase six months into my new job … I shed a couple of tears … and I said a prayer of thanks.  I have returned to a less cynical perspective, a more hopeful approach.  To a belief that compassion is the first step to action.

*Not many people know this, but our federal service in charge of refugee settlement is legally restricted from funding mental health services. That makes sense doesn’t it? Rescue the most vulnerable – mothers, children, — from places of war and suffering – but ask them to adjust to Canada without any post-traumatic support??

“It was on my desk – my desk!”

My co-worker was not pleased. She had found mouse droppings near her keyboard. Actually, we also found droppings in her keyboard, once we took the time to shake it out.

I showed up with hand sanitizer and anti-bacterial wipes as soon as I heard her call. My background is in public health. I’m fanatic about making sure I don’t pick up germs. I hadn’t anticipated cleaning up after mice.

We had known there were mice in the building. Had been warned. Each area of the office had visitors at one point or another. My office was yet untouched. It had gotten worse, lately. Perhaps, the long winter? We weren’t sure.

Another office co-worker strode through the door. “It’s in my office,” she stated. (No, she wasn’t hysterical – quite calm in fact. You’d think she was a born and bred Albertan, but she actually hails from New York). “Sticky trap. Near the peanut butter. I think I need a plastic bag.”

I wanted to see. Don’t ask me why. To prove I’m made of stronger stuff? To show that I’ve met mice before?

I thrust a wal-mart bag into her hand and followed her. She crinkled her nose. “It squeals when I lift the trap”.

She lifted the flat piece of sticky paper into the plastic bag. The mouse, on cue, began to squeak. I wanted to tell her that she could break it’s neck. A simple procedure from my zoology days – pull the tail, pull the head and voila – humane ending. But this mouse was different. It wasn’t white and delicate like the mice in my lab. Or the mice that my husband feeds to his snake.

This mouse was brown. And big. And strong. He must have eaten lots of our leftovers.

The easy thing would be to take it outside and leave it there. It was cold enough. Albertan winters could kill anyone, especially a mouse. But, that wasn’t right either. It was a long death (for a mouse that is). We debated some other methods (which I won’t go into here). But, we certainly considered many options.

It seemed strange – we reviled this mouse. Set traps to get it. Were disgusted when we recognized it was earning its livelihood in our working space. But, now that we found it – we wanted to ensure an “appropriate” departure. Who knew the decision would be so painful?

In the end, another co-worker took the situation into his own hands. Or own boot, to be exact. Quick. Painless. Efficient. In the end, I think it was the best resolution to the situation. But, it certainly wouldn’t have been something, I would have been willing to undertake.

I had a hard time deciding what to write about in my blog, this week. There was no shortage of ideas – just a lack of focus.

It’s easy to think that a blog is a series of random thoughts that the author writes down. In fact, if I was a really good writer, my article should have the illusion of being “just an idea”. But for every word I write down, there’s five words that I’ve edited out – consciously and subconsciously – because I’m shaping, sculpting, carving a final product. Except that I don’t know what it will be in the end. Or even if I think I know what it will be, I have to surrender and instead go with what works best for the piece – and not for what I have stuck in my head.

Art – funny how it works that way.

Over brunch the other day, my friend was telling me how she had started taking a pottery class. Her eyes shone and her hands moved animatedly as she talked. She was in love. With pottery, that is.

“It was terrifying,” she said. “People just go in there and create. They don’t know what they’re doing. They just try it.”

And when did the real joy come to her? When she sat down at the potter’s wheel and decided to experiment with the clay – see what she liked. No pre-conceived ideas of what the end would look like. She let go.

Across from the table, I sighed. I was envious. I knew what that was – the joy of playing. That’s what my old blog used to be – when I had a blog under a pseudonym – when I could express, play, explore, with anonymity. What greater joy than to try your hand at poems, stories, ideas - and get feedback - but not have to reveal – well, who you are?

Perhaps, that’s why it took me so long to get into the groove of this blog. My name’s here. And with that – I started to be more concerned about the final product. I had forgotten the whole point of writing.

There is no point. It’s just something I do – a process. We all like to “do things”. Like running in your neighbourhood or planting poppies in your front yard. This is what I “do” on a Saturday afternoon, while others are making home-made cards or putting their tools / spices / DVDs in alphabetical order. Or repainting their basement. Or baking elaborate cakes. It’s not really the final product people enjoy – it’s the doing.

And – that’s why I love to write. Because the lessons in writing – always – somehow – transfer back to lessons in life.

2012 will be a very good year, if I remember to try and live the way I write. To remember – the joy is in the doing.

Last Christmas, I dared to suggest to my mother that we don’t exchange gifts over the holidays.

My father – the ever practical one – wholeheartedly agreed. Save money, save time, save wrapping paper – what could be a better gift? (Well, perhaps cancelling Christmas dinner for our extended family of fifty altogether, but that’s another posting).

My mother, however, was horrified. It was the equivalent of asking her not to cook, or not to call, – in essence, not to love. For my mother, buying gifts is one of her currencies of love.

One of her many currencies, in fact. She also buys cards (even on Easter and still now even though I’m over 35), tells me what to eat when I’m sick, give me leftovers, cooks and then pretends it’s leftovers so she can give it to me, and calls regularly.

My father? Well, that’s a hard one. I had to think about it … he buys me fruit (and by fruit, I mean five pound bags of apples), cuts out articles from the paper on how I can save money for my future, and finds practical household items for me at fantastic prices. Knives, can openers, measuring tape – that kind of thing. He’ll come over and fix things (though this is usually accompanied by a lecture on how I need to learn to fix things on my own) and share (in limited amounts) whatever special dessert he might have bought for himself and hidden in the fridge. Oh yes – and he’ll clean my car because he is disgusted with how dirty it is! (again, accompanied by another lecture).

He doesn’t really call to see how I’m doing. Though he’ll call to see how my career is doing.

(I had a girlfriend whose father used to call and ask how her car was doing. It was his excuse to come over and see her – checking up on the car.)

Once, when I was in the middle of changing jobs (which happens often), my dad couldn’t sleep wondering what I was going to do next. I was touched. He wasn’t too happy about it.

It’s taken me a good thirty years to figure out my Dad’s currency. Every year, I figure out something else that I hadn’t realized was his expression of parental love. But at least he’s consistent. If I don’t get a Christmas gift, I won’t be hurt. It’s when he stops bringing me mandarin oranges that I need to worry.

( I’d be interested to hear from other folks interesting expressions of paternal love!)

My niece asked me what my new year’s resolution was … and I was ashamed to tell her. My resolutions were the same old, same old – eat healthier, exercise more, get more sleep.

Why would I want to hide those goals? Because I wanted her to know there was more to life than what one eats or how many calories they burn. I mean, they are important priorities – self-care and all that – … the building blocks to a good life, but would I want HER new year’s resolution to be to go to bed by 1030 pm?

So, I asked what her resolution was.

“To be better”, she said.

“To help more,” she added. “Without asking.”

To be better – now there’s a goal.

And for me? I think I’m afraid to admit my real goal … As of December 16, 2011 I have no more consulting work.  I am now in a nine to five job that I love and that inspires me. All of the raw ingredients to nourish and foster creative writing. So – why not say what I want out loud?

Who says that artistic goals get any easier with time? Same old fears come back to haunt you  … So, I’ll say it what I said five years ago. This year, I’m going to write more. Write more consistently. And try to be better.

(Thank goodness for ten year old nieces).

In the Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling introduced the concept of Thestrals. Thestrals were creatures that could only be seen by those who had witnessed or touched by death. And of course, to those who haven’t been touched by death, Thestrals could not be seen at all. At the time I read about it, Thestrals seemed like a simple enough concept. A clever twist for a young adult fantasy novel. But, only recently have I understood how true this metaphor is in real life. 

My mom was diagnosed with cancer at the beginning of December this year. My sister told me on my cell phone as I got off the bus on a wintry night (5:00 pm) and I walked on snow covered sidewalks on my way home. At the time, I felt quite practical about it all. Having worked in cancer prevention and screening, I was very aware of the survival rates of cancer patients and knew that a diagnosis of cancer does *not* mean death. My mom is seventy-two. If she were to live another five years in good health, I would be happy. Unless the cancer had spread widely, (which it hadn’t), this disease would really have no impact on how much time I had in the future with my mother. 

But, cancer isn’t a disease that’s well understood. I had done tons of research around this even before it affected me so personally. Cancer is … as is everything unknown … scary. And for many people, cancer has meant “death”. Or, at least it reminds us that death is around the corner. Unacknolwedged and definitely uncontrolled. And that lurking reminder has interesting impacts on different people.

In University, I took a course in sociology from my favorite professor, and at the beginning of the class he said: ”If there is one class you will remember for the rest of your life after your degree is done, I guarantee it will be this one.” Fifteen years later, he is spot on. The class was “The Sociology of Death and Dying.” [I can't tell you the number of employers who later on looked at my transcript and said "what is this class here?"].

The class examined what it means to die in our society and in other cultures.  I had been immersed in the concepts of death and dying for four months and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. It doesn’t mean I want to die or I’m ok with it. But, I certainly have known that Death is a citizen of humanity. He’s here and he’s not going away. 

So when my mom got cancer, I noticed an interesting trend. The people most comfortable with me and with discussing my mom –  were those who had death touch their lives.  They called and asked directly how she was, asked if I needed anything, and reminded me that I could call on them for help. I loooked at their lives and realized: “ah yes, they’ve all lost a parent. They were not afraid to say what other people were thinking. “

You must be scared.

It is an emotional time.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

It’s ok if you think the worst and want to prepare for it.

That doesn’t mean to say that I didn’t have other friends, who had healthy parents, who weren’t supportive. They were. I am blesesed with an amazing circle of friends and family. But those who had lost someone – they had that look in their eyes of “I Know.”

And, they did know. They knew I was terrified. Tired. Emotional. Exhausted. Brave. And tired of being brave. All at the same time.

They see it too, just like Harry Potter. Thestrals, Death, Fear. Whatever.

And although I’m sure they didn’t want to welcome me to their community, it was nice to be welcomed with support all the same.

My favorite stories have been about leadership – unwanted leadership.

John Connor from the Terminator, Frodo from Lord of the Rings. Even Juliet Parrish, the rebel leader from the original V series in the 1980s. Individuals who didn’t want to lead, but had leadership thrust upon them.

And what is good leadership? You’d be surprised what the studies say. Kouzes and Posner, leadership gurus, identified five key components of leadership: Challenging the process; Inspiring a shared vision; Enabling others to act; Modeling the way and Encouraging the heart.

Encouraging the heart? Not quite what you expect.

Having discovered my ambition of wanting to be a writer late in my life, I transitioned through many jobs. MANY jobs. It exposed me to many managers and helped me create my own picture of what an ideal manager / leader would look like.

Gone are the old days of center-stage-all-the-glory Captain Kirk William Shatner leaders. It’s out. Leadership is teamwork now, giving your team members a chance to use their skills. Urge in the new and improved Captain Kirk-Chris Pine style, where the key word is “ensemble” and even Spock, the unemotional one, gets the girl.

The funny thing is, for once, the research studies support my real life experience. I work better in a flexible environment, where I know what’s expected and I’m given the freedom to fulfill it. Where, the manager is “do as I do” and not “do as I say”.

So, I wanted to see if I lived up to Kouzes and Posner ideals. They have a survey you can share with team-mates, people you report to, and people who report to you … to see whether your perception of yourself as a leader matches the reality experienced by those you work with.

The results were insightful. I was much better at some things than I thought (i.e. modeling) and had accurately anticipated that I needed improvement in other areas (i.e. inspiring a vision). It doesn’t mean I want or like being a manager or leader. After all, I’m an introvert. I prefer boundaries on my social interactions. But the whole experience made me look at my own traits (and of course, those of my characters) in a whole new way.

Too bad there weren’t surveys like that for other aspects of life. Then, we could see how much of an “environmentalist”, “artist”, “optimist”, “entrepreneur” we might think we are!

Yes, it’s been ages since I’ve posted, but that’s another blog post altogether. Hopefully, I’ll be posting more regularly from now on.

I’m writing because tonight I will be attending my 20th Year High School Reunion. Yes. Twenty years ago, I graduated high school, fresh, optimistic and ready to conquer the world.

That’s the thing about being a teenager – you think you’re smart. You don’t know that you don’t know a damn thing until maybe …. maybe …. if you’re lucky, eight years later.

What surprises me most about this event is how I’m feeling. Which is: curious. Curious – a mild emotion, not really reflective at all, nor even excited. Just curious. So different from my 10 year reunion. I always anticipated that by the 20 year reunion, I’d feel like my classmates would be so much more interesting, we’d have so much more to share, because – BY GOD – we’d be in our late thirties. And now, I think I’m curious to see if anyone has figured out life any better than they did ten years ago.

What also interests me is who *chooses* to go to their reunion. I had a friend who chose to go to his ten year reunion because he wanted to show one of the bullies / jocks / popular guys at school how much better he was than him ten years down the road. Well, la-de-dah, the bully turned out to be a genuinely nice guy, going around to all of his former classmates and introducing himself. It really ruined my friend’s reunion experience.

So, why do people go? For themselves? For others? For genuine reasons, to catch up with old friends? Or to make new ones? As a milestone? As a writer, I’d be more interested in asking people why they show up tonight rather than what they are doing now.

My life is nothing than what I’d imagined twenty years ago. I’ll be honest. But that doesn’t mean, I would change a thing. It’s kind of neat looking back and thinking – huh, I could never have even imagined this journey. Much better than saying, “my life turned out exactly as I had thought it would.”

I’ll let you know how it goes.