I once knew of grown men that had no say over their lives, complacent and trapped in the misery of their own making. It horrified me endlessly but I would listen carefully as they tried to justify their predicament: “You must understand,” they would plead with themselves, “she’s the boss!” and we would all laugh raucously. Nothing is funny, of course, but such predicaments require humour to placate the rage. “Want another beer?” he asks right on time and I just smile and nod. I have learned a long, long time ago to leave the grown-ups alone: When you have spent a lifetime weaving the traps of misery tightly around your life, the kindest thing someone can do for you is to leave you alone to it. Sometimes, it is too late. When I get the time to be alone with my thoughts, my journal, I ask the empty pages the question that’s been bugging me all afternoon in-between beers and niceties: How does one end up trapped in such predicament? Before it’s too late for me too, I plead. The page whispers back: The horror of direct experience.
(more…)Category: Relationships
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The internet is a numbing agent
When we both said we’re done and the judge signed off on the papers, they said I should anticipate seven stages of grief: Shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and acceptance. “In no particular order,” they emphasized. It was supposed to make one feel better; You will feel like shit, no doubt, but don’t worry if it’s in no particular order. But I knew there would only be six stages for me regardless of the order. “I think I’m depressed,” I say to her. This is years before; there are no judges, just a woman with a yellow notepad I’m hoping will see my tears and prescribes me the cure. “Chemically imbalanced,” I add for emphasis referencing my Psych 101 notes in between sobs. “Trust me you’re not depressed,” she says and adds I just need to do some internal housecleaning, that there’s a little girl in there (she points to her heart) trapped with all the debris. When time’s up, I leave. I never go back. And this time around when they say I should anticipate seven stages of grief, I know I will skip one naturally: Depression. I never get depressed, I rage. Google defines rage as a “violent and uncontrolled anger,” and if you search what causes anger, Google says “intense emotions like fear, frustration, or pain… feelings of helplessness.” I don’t get angry either, I rummage through the debris and I weep. Tears are the feminine expression of rage.
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Another, another, another year (mostly) spent offline
All my dreams came true this year. I even met someone offline. I loved hearing him tell the story: “We were at a comedy show and there is this woman heckling from the sides.” I smile coyly. I am that person. They say it’s impossible now to meet someone IRL, that I need the apps. We all do, they say. I try the apps and I’m exhausted by day two. The avatars wear me out; I delete them. I will not go back. I cannot go back. It has taken me between 3 to 12 years to get here— depending on how you look at it. To get to where they said was impossible. Things are just different now, you know, they look at me with that sad-knowing smile. I smile back to placate them. There are no rules, of course, only consequences. I know that and I choose my consequences very carefully.
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There *is* something wrong with you
The first time I hear you can smoke inside the casino Downtown Detroit, I can’t believe my ears. “You’re lying,” I say to him in disbelief. He’s more than happy to show this Canadian girl what else the Land of the Free can offer, including the right to smoke indoors— in designated areas but nonetheless indoors. You smell it long before you see the people pressing buttons rapidly with a cigarette dangling from their mouth. I feel like I’m in a movie from the 70s, the only other time I have seen such things before. It’s a new feeling. He’s looking at me pleased, wondering how someone can be so delighted by such simple things. I’m wondering who’s wearing diapers so they won’t have to leave their slot machine for bathroom break. And for my last weekend in Detroit, as a farewell— knowing I will probably never make it back to this part of town again— I get all dressed up and Uber my way downtown to the casino. I sit by one of the slot machines, pull out a cigarette, and I look around. This is allowed, I assure myself. I smoke two cigarettes just to be sure. I don’t touch the slot machines. I have no desire to. I look around and wonder how people can lose so much of their lives to these obnoxiously loud machines with their dizzying bright lights. The casino feels like death to me. I only came here to exercise my right to smoke indoors. I leave.
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Maybe I’m the crazy one here
“I wouldn’t stand there if I were you!”
I’m waiting for the streetcar with my AirPods blasting Drake, Fire & Desire.
I pull one of them out instinctively, the music stops and I step off the sidewalk grates: The train rumbles beneath.
I smile at the stranger spewing the warning at me.
I used to be terrified of these things— grates and strangers.
Afraid, knowing my luck, it would buckle under my weight and down to hell I go; Afraid, knowing my luck, they would turn out no good and down to hell I go.
My next instinct is to put my AirPods back in. Do not engage with strangers, no matter how harmless they look, that’s the first lesson this city’s inhabitants must learn.
The city can swallow you whole if you’re not careful.
I need to be careful.
But despite myself, and because talking to strangers has become my favourite thing to do in-the-between moments— waiting for the bus, for my coffee, in line at the grocery store— I try my luck.
I get closer to her as I step off the grates.
“Ooo, I’m scared of those things,” she continues.
“You know nothing happens,” I tease, “People walk on these all the time.” This is the reasoning I used to get over my own irrational fear of walking on grates. I hope it might help her too.
“Are you from Toronto?” I ask. I want to keep the conversation going, Drake can wait.
“Been here 47 years,” she sighs.
Her slight Caribbean accent is warm, inviting. There is a certain youthfulness to her; the twinkle in her eyes, her smile even as she complains about how much better the city used to be. There’s too many people here now, she says, not enough resources, everything is going to shit.
“I love Toronto!” I protest.
“Meh,” she says, smiling because she knows she’s right and I’m just young and don’t know better.
Then there is that dreadful lull.
Back then, a long time ago— in my discomfort with strangers, conversations, and reality— I would pull out my phone and stare at it to indicate the conversation over, and slowly put my AirPods back in: You a real ass woman and I like it/ I don’t wanna fight it.
That was before.
When people lived in my phone and I can escape into their curated profiles, instead of facing unfiltered reality.
I don’t have such options now.
Instead I dig into my reservoir of topics-with-strangers which has grown exponentially over the years and I ask her, “Where are you going?” It delights me how simple it is to have a conversation with strangers: Do you have a lighter? Do you own this shop? Your baby is the cutest!
She’s on her way to visit her daughter who’s just had a surgery. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say and we go through the motions of pleasantries to soothe the discomfort of having to talk about unfortunate circumstances with random strangers.
“The cancer came back,” she adds.
After we’re done with the that must be tough and I’m just glad the surgery went well, I look at her wondering. She looks to be in her 60s and I assumed her daughter would be in her 30s but cancer twice sounds old.
“How old is your daughter?” I ask.
“55,” she says.
I’m flabbergasted.
My curiosity gets the best of me, and her demeanour is encouraging— friendly, warm, inviting, so I say incredulously, “how old are you?”
She has that teasing-smile, like she knows I’m about to lose my shit when I hear her age. “76,” she says. “OH MY GOD,” I shriek. She’s pleased with herself, having anticipated exactly the reaction that was coming from this stranger.
I’m so shocked I forget my manners, “You’re almost 80!” I blurt out.
She laughs, “Well if I knew you would say that…” and I’m taking it all in; the most delightful conversation with a random stranger while waiting for the streetcar at the busiest intersection of the city. The exact place one should be the most careful in talking to strangers in this over-populated, under-sourced city.
The streetcar is nowhere in sight.
I could have chosen the avatars in my phone to keep me entertained; safer too.
I take her in; her soft, supple, youthful skin suits her soft, supple, youthful energy. I like this stranger keeping me company. A lot.
I dig even deeper into my topics-with-strangers reservoir and find another all-time-favourite question I like to ask old people that seem full of life, joy, excitement—look much younger than the age they claim to have lived: “What’s your secret!?” I say.
“First thing,” she says and I’m hanging onto her every word: “Keep your heart light. Your heart has to be pure.” She looks at me as if to say, do you understand what I’m saying? I want to scream I do, I do, I do! but I don’t want to interrupt her. I smile and nod with eagerness, to encourage her to continue.
“Second,” she smiles, “you can’t let men stress you.”
I throw my head back and I laugh.
“I’m serious,” she continues, “That stuff ages you!”
“Mhm,” I agree.
She adds, “Of course you have to eat right, keep your body moving; Pilates, yoga, you know.” I know, I know, I know! I want to scream.
I wonder if this 76-year-old woman with her soft, supple, youthful skin and the matching energy is my future-self talking to me: Keep going, you’re on the right track.
Lately, I’ve been wondering.
We get on the streetcar together.
“What stop are you getting off?” I ask her, wondering how long we have left before we are strangers again.
She tells me the address and intersection.
She doesn’t have data on her phone, only a text from her other daughter with the address and intersection for the hospital.
I pull out my smartphone that’s smart enough to get me places and I look up the address for her. “You get off a few stops before me,” I show her the Maps app showing her stop and the hospital right next to it.
“Oh, thank you,” she says, “God always takes care of me.”
I want to protest, No, you are my blessing! But I politely smile and nod in agreement instead.
When her stop comes up, and the hospital comes into view, I’m relieved of my worries of her getting lost without a GPS if it’s a further walk.
We hug goodbye.
“Oh, thank you,” she says again. I don’t know if it’s for the hug, the conversation, or the Maps direction. “Take care,” I say.
I have had one too many of these moments to know I will never see this woman again.
I have had one too many of these moments to know I will always remember her: Keep your heart light, eat right, exercise.
I’m comforted by the beauty that is all around me, if only I pay attention, if only I show up for reality right in front of me.
I find an empty seat and put my AirPods back in: I need you inspired, I need you excited/ I don’t wanna fight it/ You a real ass woman and I like it.
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Do you really want this?
time spent offline is not for everyone. In fact, it’s for a very select few delusional and foolish enough to dream of a reality beyond the digital noise they say is just life now, you know. And the thing is you almost believe them. You can’t fathom what the alternative could be, if there is still one. There was Before, of course, if you’re lucky enough— old enough— to remember. But Before is no longer, is it? And even if you are courageous enough to give up your smart smartphone, your work might require it. They will even give you one at no cost to you. You chuckle to yourself: It’s true what they say, you can run but you can’t hide. The digital is everywhere. Indeed, that’s just life now.
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(Reasons to) Get off social media
One of my favourite ways I spend time with my Gen Z sister is getting on her socials and going on memory lane. We look up people from the past, present and we gossip: It is an absolute delight. “OMG, what about so and so?” I screech and she grabs her phone from my hands to look up their profile. “Here,” she passes her phone back to me and I scroll and scroll; remembering, reminiscing, making commentaries: “Omg, I remember her when she was a tiny baby!” My sister warns me to not accidentally like photos of people we have no business remembering. I’m careful and curious. It’s fun to dig, to find out what happened to people. Lucky for my curiosity and love of gossip— casual or unconstrained conversation or reports about others— people post so much about their lives on social media for our casual entertainment.
This happens once in a while.
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Angry and curious
No Older Notifications
One time, after a day spent flailing around people, going from one plan to the next, intoxicated with the feeling of being seen, heard, understood— the feeling of belonging— when I got home later that night I felt disappointed because there were No Older Notifications on my phone. I felt lonely. Despite all the time I spent around IRL people, I was sad there were No Older Notifications from the URL people living in my phone. Frustrated and fascinated by the workings of the human psyche, I chuckled to myself. As I contemplated this bizarre experience, it came to me that my brain trained over the years to equate attention and belonging with the buzz and ding sounds of Instagram likes and Facebook notifications still craved the banners and buzzing sounds signifying I am wanted, I am important. This is the reality of time spent offline. After almost seven years spent without social media, without the news, and a dumb smartphone— a radically disconnected existence in a digitally caffeinated world— I still psychologically crave the validation of the online world. I check my email too often and I glance at my phone too many times desperately hoping for notification dopamine: No Older Notifications. I used to hate myself for this. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl! I get curious now. Why?
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Better things to do
Last week, with the power out and the only light from my smartphone illuminating my tiny bathroom, I turn on the shower praying the water is still hot, lukewarm at least. Cold water sputters; I whimper. The stories from The Nightingale come to mind as if to mock me. Do you know what happens in war? The ugly rumours, the List, the roundups, the ration cards, and the too long lines waiting for so little food— and mothers who don’t eat so their children don’t starve and they still have to bury them anyway because bullets don’t discriminate— and definitely no hot water. I step into the shower. On my commute, I get lost in The Nightingale again, fighting back tears, unable to fathom the terror the human spirit can endure. Here I am, barely able to endure the agony of reading the words on paper, while tucked safely on a seat on the Subway, my biggest threat a drugged out man screaming obscenities at no one in particular, and from a safe distance, oh, and a cold shower— The power was back by the time I left for work. And I know it ends: World War II. Another story for the history books; another story told of human suffering in a long list of human sufferings: Say You’re One of Them, Things Fall Apart, Homegoing, Caging Skies, Man’s Search for Meaning, A Long Way Gone. I read, and read, and read. And when I exhaust myself and he says, “sure babe, I’m listening,” I read to him too— My Parent’s Bedroom: Choking back tears, voice breaking, holding back a scream. He’s mostly watching the road but he glances at me: What kind of benevolent God would allow such a thing?
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Reality is dangerous
Spending less time online is the easy part: There is even an app for that.
Then there is reality, the danger zone. The lull in conversations, the in-between moments waiting for your Iced Caffè Americano, the void demanding to be acknowledged at exactly 9:46pm, as if it were bidding its time patiently all day long while you used up all your excuses— work, chores, family— to avoid it.
What do you do? You run back to safety, of course. The avatars are safer. You can scroll them down, take your time curating the perfect response; backspace on the period so you don’t sound too passive aggressive, and replace it with exclamation points!!!! There, better. You can even block them if you feel annoyed enough. Brave enough. Who are those people anyway?!? After all, social media offers you the ability to like/dislike people at your convenience, from a distance with a single click, tap, scroll.
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time spent offline 