I recently heard a radio report from a mother whose daughter just left for university. She was feeling depressed because her daughter was starting off on a new adventure in life and she was now left to finish off her life with no foreseeable adventures in her future. This shocked me. What was this woman thinking? Why was it that when her children flew the coop , that she did not think she could do the same?

When my children leave home- I will be leaving too!! I will get back my more adventurous live that I have forfeited while my children grow up. I know many mothers worry about the empty nest- all I can think about is how I will regain my singular freedom. That is not to say that I begrudge my children the restrictions they place on my life. I wanted them, and want to keep them safe and am unwilling to take the risks I used to take while they are still young. But in the back of my mind I am also waiting for the day when they take flight so I can too.

The Indian Problem

The Indian Problem

“I don’t know why those people are complaining. They got an education. They would have nothing if those schools hadn’t taken them.” This was a comment I was recently treated to while discussing the fact that the Nunavut Territorial Government was not as successful an experiment as had been hoped when the territory was promulgated in 1997. I believe that so many of the people who were meant to administer the “self-government” did not have the educational background to do an adequate job. Hence the above comment that those that got education in residential schools should count themselves lucky.

Well, to the best of my knowledge most kids in middle and high school do not appreciate the educational opportunities they have been afforded. How could the native peoples of Canada be expected to appreciate their educational experience when it was accompanied by sodomy, beatings and cultural annihilation?

What people fail to realize is that even though the residential schools have not been in operation for years, the abuse that occurred there has been passed on from one generation to another like a maladaptive gene. Abuse begets abuse. The scars on the grandparents’ hearts manifest themselves in the often abusive lives lead by their children. It takes a great deal of work to break this cycle and very few people can. When they do, it is a personal triumph but in this case an entire class of people have been affected and a few success stories don’t attract attention away from the general trend.

This issue may be of concern to many Canadians no matter their ethnicity. But for me, I have always taken a special interest in Native problems. My Great Great Grandmother was Iroquois. I never met her and saw but a few pictures of her, but her Indianess is writ large in my mythology of the clan.

Skinny Bitch

Today my neighbour came knocking on my door to pass on some clothes from her daughter. Said daughter was through with the attire and as her mother politely told me, I was the smallest person she knew. She didn’t use skinny, in some circles that has a negative connotation- as in the above title SKINNY BITCH.

If you are a woman, you have no doubt looked at another woman and thought those exact words to yourself. I know I have. I have not always been as thin as I am now. My early years were set at 15 to 20 pounds more than my current weight; perhaps even more than that. I was not a fan of the scale so I cannot be certain. I was never overweight but I was certainly not as svelte as I am now.

In my current incarnation I feel I have to defend those sisters that like me fall on the low end of the BMI index. My first defence is that I suffered, and suffered greatly to attain this weight; and I am not talking about dieting.

I have a medical condition, that when it flares up, makes it very difficult to eat. Food brings stabbing pain and has me doubled over and crying on the floor. And no it isn’t some psychosomatic anorexic side affect. 6 years ago I had emergency surgery because the pains indicated a bowel so twisted that gangrene was setting in. After the surgery I could not eat for one month. That will make you one Skinny Bitch; and indeed bitchy. When you are hungry and know you can’t eat because it will give you pain that makes you wish you were dead- well food becomes a bit of an enemy.

Although my health has been better and I have not been hospitalized for 7 months, a long stint out of hospital for me, I still have a daily battle with what I can eat and how much.

Perhaps, you think that my case is extraordinary; but I will demonstrate that it is not. A friend of mine once complained to me that everyone considered her a skinny bitch, but like me it was through no fault of her own. This woman had a digestive problem- chrones /irritable bowel/ or colitis- I can’t remember which- painful, hard to treat and a fast ticket to slimville by way of pain and suffering.

People that have the reverse problem with food don’t care to hear about those who eat and eat but can’t gain weight. But please think a minute before despising the sprites that pull size 2 off the rack and complain that it is too loose. That person may not have desired to be that size but may have had it forced on her like an NG tube in the E.R.

Love and lust, but no sex

Sat here in my too tight jeans, thinking about the smell of my sheets; I perused the poemhunter. I reviewed my favourite poem by Hart and investigated poems on the topic of murder. Having written one on the murder of an old friend; it is a topic that interests me. I found a new poet to pursue who is aptly named Mark Slaughter. Unfortunately my name does not lend itself to such ironic futures.

After reading about the blade, I sought out poems about the shaft. Much to my surprise under the topics index one may find love and lust, but no sex. This disturbs me. It’s a topic that occupies my pen frequently. Are poets and fans of poetry supposed to be too sensitive to read and write clearly on this basic human function? Does it have to be covered with other words, hidden in the semantics of lesser prose? Sex, Sex, sex- see it didn’t burn your eyes out or blacken your soul.

Work Ethic and Me

I love my job. If I was asked to do this pro-bono I would. But today I have run straight into the one part of my job I dislike: the lack of work ethic in my co-worker.

The argument he makes is that we don't get paid enough to do good work on this project. That his good work is worth more than what he is currently being paid. For me, no matter what the wage is, I take pride in the work I am doing and do the best job that I can.

As a teacher, I did not think that my students who paid me 300 baht deserved any less of an education than those that paid me 1000. If anything, they deserved more for they were spending what little free income they had to try to better themselves.

In addition to being cast as a rube for working hard for $10 an hour I was also told that the work which I had done was shallow and would take said co-worker a week to do that same work which has taken me 3 months.

This is my drama for the day. Funnily enough, when I was in Thailand I often heard my fellow expats complain about the work ethic of the Thais. I'll have to admit I was occasionally one of the complainers. But now that I am home I see that it is not just a Thai waitress that will give you a glass with a lipstick smudge; it's the whole world.

Triple T's: The Tired Thirties

I recently read that most women consider their thirties the decade in which they would best describe themselves as TIRED. I always feel tired. I would need to drink 10 cups of coffee per day to not feel tired.
In the past most people would have called me energetic; often to the point of being hyper. I don't know whether to blame it on the children or my age, but now hyper is out of my repertoire.
I hate being tired- so much so that I banned it from my spoken vocabulary for a time. In the end I had to suspend the banishment because there was just no other word to use.
I used to have dreams of raising children with instructive, educational games and organized home based lessons in a second language. Now I am just happy if the food gets on the table 3 times a day.
I have the mother's guilt that there is never enough time to spend with my kids. And I have spent most of the past 5 years at home. It's never enough. I rarely feel like I have the time to enjoy them and that is something I regret but I just don't have the energy for it.

Go Google Yourself

Today I did my not so routine Google check of my name and aliases. I found that I continue to be most widely available in relation to my Thesis: Sport, Tradition and Women in Competitive Muay Thai. My name comes up along with this title on websites in English, Thai, and Japanese.

My next claim to fame is my writing life which has left a minor footprint as a noted member of The Bangkok Women Writers Group, and as a back cover blurb writer:

“Turmann shows us what he’s capable of by creating a new genre of literature: Quirky Southeast Asia Fiction. Well drawn characters, occasional stunning plot twists…a fascinating read.”
Lois Ann Dort, 2Magazine

Most interestingly my name comes up in a very ridiculous fashion on someone else's blog.

So the donors are offering up to return the yo-yo straight in front of oncoming traffic. The same yo-yo for the plan. For Lois Ann Dort of the DNA and by spending over longer periods of time to execute another, only to return the yo-yo fall gently from the philosophically reflective to the events in the songs Blue Jazz, White Jazz and Milneburg Joys. Such three-star innovations are widely imitated these days None This is often not the problem and the pen flatter, not vertical, and this is an entrenched Madison Avenue establishment called La Goulue.

This really feels like it is out of a Murakami novel. That or it is the proverbially monkey with a typwriter. Whatever it may be I find it interesting to have my name linked with DNA out there in the cyber-world.

Now that I have researched myself, I have to say that I am satisfied with what I have found.

However most of my mark was made in that other life I lead, the Thai incarnation. I guess it is no wonder that I miss those days where I felt like I was on the fast track to becoming someone. I miss the opportunities that were opening up to me in Bangkok, but I don't regret my move. I need to push past the every day and open up my writing life here. Everything is impermanence.