Confessions of a Scattered Mind

• I was never the kid who won colouring contests. I always wanted the prize, but I just couldn't take it seriously. Couldn't focus on the task long enough to care. Couldn't color inside the lines- because I've always had a problem with authority (as my parents, my high school drama teacher, or any number of my co-workers and supervisors will tell you- experiment- take a poll). It has even been suggested on numerous occasions, in a-not-so subtle fashion, that I may benefit from some time in the military. To cure me, of course, of this problem with authority. The lines on those damn colouring sheets stood for something. They were borders- boundaries, not to be crossed- an instruction manual to a young child. A rule book for those too young to read. And don't even get me started on colour by number. As a follow up to my observations about the creative habits of Koreans, I experimented this week with what I have termed 'subversive colouring'. Yes, that's right. Subversive colouring. I passed out Cinderella colouring sheets to my Sr. Baby Class (my four year olds) - with pictures of those cute mice, Gus-Gus and good old what's his name. Now wait- hold that thought (the thought was Gus-Gus)- I should probably explain that if I am the most popular teacher at school, it is for three reasons (none of which have anything to do with my teaching abilities):

  Reason 1: I am still the only blond, blue eyed teacher. If I run out of things for the class to do, I can't go wrong with letting them play with my hair. And in fact they spend more time staring at the odd colour of my hair and eyes than they do their books- so I guess this is a full class in itself.

  Reason 2: I am the only teacher at the school who did not study education, and in fact did a theater degree, making me much more prone to stupidities in class time. Which of course, results in less actual study time. Crucial to the survival of the four year old mind.

  Reason 3: I inherited the previous teacher's super-pack of colouring pencils when he left. It comes complete with sparkly pencil crayons. And that's why they love me.

  Anyways, stop distracting me- you're as bad as the kids. So, I pass out these colouring sheets and I sit down with the kids to colour. And of course, the moment the super-pack of pencil crayons are on the table- they're fighting over the brown- because, as we all know- mice are brown. I drew great attention to my colouring by making a big production out of choosing a different colour for each part of the mouse's body (avoiding all blacks, browns and greys) and in the end it looked more like a patchwork quilt than a mouse from a Disney movie. They hated it. I thought I was going to lose an eye- they were very upset with me, insisting that mice were only one colour. Even when I told them that my mouse wanted to be twelve colours. Screw English class- I'm on a mission. If I teach these kids nothing but subversive colouring and covering their mouths when they cough, I'll be happy. I have eight months left. Is this possible? Perhaps ambitious- but I'm confident it can be done. I'll keep you updated. Oh- wait, and summersaults- they love summersaults.

  Last night I found myself at the Canadian bar in Little America to say good bye to my friend Michelle, who will be leaving for Newfoundland soon. We were about ten people- six Canadians, three Koreans and one American. The Korean girls began questioning me as to my impressions of Korea, and the more I talked, the more questions they had. The cultural differences never cease to amaze me. It took me awhile but I finally realized that not only have I seen only two Koreans with facial piercings, but I have not seen anyone with crazily dyed hair. No tattoos. One of the Korean girls asked my friend Glen why he had his ears pierced- and he quickly informed them that he had taken out seven of his ear piercings when he came to Korea, but chose to hold on to the remaining two. They looked appalled, confused. We tried to explain that this was normal in Canada- I told them that I had had my eyebrow, tongue and belly button pierced at one point. But the poor girls looked like they were going to pass out, so we stopped the body piercing discussion and moved on to tattoos. Tattoos are illegal in Korea. Not actually having them, but to sell the service is illegal. Last summer, apparently- one of the parents at Glen's school had shown up to parent day in a tank top (it was forty degrees outside)- and the tank top revealed that he had a large tattoo of a dragon on his back. Glen's boss came running over- instructing the staff not to speak to this man, as he was a criminal. He leaned over to Glen and whispered,"He sells DVDs at Youngsan". The criminal did not deal drugs, did not make his living stealing or through any horrific acts of violence. No, he is one of thousands of vendors in the city who blatantly disregard copyright laws and sell bootlegged DVDs on the street. Hardly criminal activity, in my opinion, as these booths are blatantly set up on nearly every street corner... As the hockey game started on the screen behind them, the two girls turned their backs to it and declared that they hated sports. And so began our next discussion- leaving them to question the femininity of any woman who would choose to spend her time playing soccer, instead of shopping. They seemed more horrified that I used to play soccer and basketball than by tales of Canadian body piercings. As I finished my poutine (with mozarella cheese, not squeaky Lac-St-Jean curds), a plate of nachos appeared on the table. The Korean girls asked if I would have any, but I said no- having just polished off a massive poutine. They smiled knowingly and said, "Ah, you're on a diet- aren't you?". There is something seriously wrong with this country when Koreans keep telling me that I need to lose weight. I realize that it has been four months since I've seen all of you- but I assure you, I have lost a few pounds at the gym- not gained any. I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. I just can't get over the absurdity of these questions. One of the girls replied, "Oh, I guess in Canada, you're average." When the plane landed at the airport, and I first stepped onto Korean soil, I had no idea that I was entering the land of 110lb fatties. Given that they had come just short of saying straight out that I needed to 'lose a few pounds', I was shocked by their next question; "Is it true, that Montreal has the world's most beautiful women?". It seems the reputation stretches far and wide. So what's the deal? If I am the average size for a Canadian woman- and they consider me fat- do they believe it possible for the most beautiful women in the world living in this 'land o' fatties? Despite my fears that there are some serious issues with female body image in this country, I find their honesty refreshing. In Canada, we steer clear of comments about someone's appearance, unless we know them well. Even then comments will be tentative and carefully worded. Koreans will be blatantly honest with you- and are just as likely to say that you're beautiful as they are that you're fat. And they acknowledge that you can be 'fat' and be beautiful, or thin and ugly- relationships that we seem to have trouble with in Canada...

  I have begun to think about the environment in which these kids will grow up. Their personalities, their strengths and their weaknesses are beginning to take shape. And I struggle to remember what I was like at that age. Being that I don't remember the end of the movie I watched last night, I have difficulty remembering what I was like at the age of five, which I was shocked to discover, was 20 years ago. As far as I know, I was exactly the same, just slightly shorter. And I do mean slightly. As I watched my boss's son the other day, it occured to me that he could be an amazing dancer. At the age of four, he already shows incredible rhythm. I wonder- did my teachers predict a particular career path for me? Did it come to pass, or did I take a different route? If we were to meet on the street today- would my kindergarten teacher feel a sense of satisfaction- having predicted what sort of person I would turn out to be? I ran into my grade seven homeroom teacher, M Dreyfuss, in Dorval airport last year. It had been ten years since I last saw him- but he recognized me, and strangely enough- didn't seem at all surprised to run into me on the opposite side of the country. Perhaps my teachers always knew that I would take advantage of my years in French school and move to Montreal. My years at Concordia proved to be, for many reasons, some of the most difficult years of my life. And now, having taken a giant step away from the situation, I seem to be able to see myself more clearly. For those who do not reflect on themselves, theatre school can open the door to an inflated ego. And to those who are prone to reflection- well, it seems you begin to do so even more. At nauseum. After spending four years in theatre school beating up on myself mentally- because not only do I over-analyse, but I'm also a perfectionist... not a good combination. I suspect, or have begun to suspect as of recently, that I am far too modest for my own good. Or perhaps it's not modesty- maybe I've finally recognized that I am impossibly hard on myself. I am very aware of my weaknesses- and yes, it seems others are as well, since they seem to feel the need to share their observations with me (and to those of you who have done so- well, thanks but I already know, please keep it to yourselves). But as people, as a society, we so often focus on the negative that we fail to see the positive. In ourselves and in others. To the point where we begin to lie to ourselves and to others. I am very quick to say that I am mathmatically incompetent- quick to make jokes about my naivete when it comes to the sciences, or these things we call computers. But I have difficulty admitting- as many of us do- that I also have strengths. Or I fail to see them as such, and toss them aside saying "Oh, but anyone can do that." In an age of mediocrity, are we afraid of succeeding? Am I? Of following what we know we're good at? Of committing? To commit to something is to take a risk. It's a lot harder to succeed if you don't commit, but if you fail- it hurts a lot less. I've always had commitment problems- I can commit to things that have little risk involved. Or little risk for me. But few things in life have little risk- or at least, few things worth having. And so here I am, determined to move past these commitment problems and begin to make them. My mother has always told me that she was first in her class in all subjects- all the time (and holds to this despite concrete evidence that there were some serious problems in the math - and by concrete I mean old report cards- my mother doesn't throw anything away). Maybe there are still things I can learn from my mother. If we shape the image people hold of us, why do we so often focus on the negative, if what we really want them to see is the positive? Year after year, Oma (my grandmother on my father's side) would lecture my father at report card time about his marks, and always insisted that he was capable of more, as she had always been in the top three students in her class (it was later revealed there were only three students in her class). Regardless of the fact or fiction behind these tales- the fact that they were recounted tells more about these two influential women than the (debatable) truth. They painted a picture for us to see. Though I did not know her well, all the stories of Oma point to the conclusion that she was waiting for her tale to be uncovered. For Oma, it seemed, was her second nickname- falling second to 'The Brat'. There is no doubt that by my mother and grandmother are intelligent people. And they've taught me something. To balance out years of dishonesty with myself, in being too hard on myself, I'm swinging the other way. I should be indulging in this trait that has been passed down through both sides of my family- from one generation to another. I have inherited this trait- this storytelling trait and I should take full advantage. Our family doctors insist on knowing every detail of our family past - our histories of cancer, diabetes, pneumonia, arthritis, epilepsy, drug addictions, alcoholism... the list goes on and on. Are we ever asked about the positive attributes that run in the family? Has anyone ever asked you if members of your family exhibit stubborness (this is positive, in my opinion), or determination? Indepedance or intelligence? Musical or athletic abilities? Not likely. Or at least, no one's ever asked me. Always questions about our medical history- and be careful, by the way- if you choose to skip the chit chat and answer - "Oh no, Doctor- no history of illnesses of any kind." Because if you forget the next time you're in, and happen to mention that you have diabetes in the family, or cancer- you'll find a certain impatience in your doctor, as she feels shocked and betrayed by your lies. Not that I speak from particular personal experience. My doctor no doubt has charts drawn up in an attempt to predict which hereditary illness will claim me first. Psychologists want to know about all the emotions that have been passed down to you from your parents, and grandparents and great-grandparents. And they don't want to hear of the positive ones. Positive emotions don't make for very good business. If I have to be reminded of all the unfortunate things that have been passed down to me by my ancestors, why can't I relish in the good things as well? And so, from this day forth, I choose to see myself with delusions of grandeur. At least for now. Unhealthy? Call it what you want. It's no less healthy than refusing to look at your own strenths. And exaggerated stories also make for better stories. Now if I could only remember the realities of my childhood, I would begin to elaborate and exaggerate these stories... but with my memory, it appears I'll just have to begin re-writing these stories altogether.