The End of Stability

I sit at a café on St-Catherine Street- coffee in hand, and watch those passing by the open door. A cool breeze wafts in, mellowing the overpowering stench of perfume that is overtaking my nostrils- assuring me that spring has once again arrived in Montreal. Skeptical Montrealers leave the house in winter jackets, with gloves and tuques- fearful the weather is trying to trick us once again. Hopefuls take to the city's terraces and convince themselves that outdoor beer is here to stay. The bike lanes are open, and rollerbladers far braver than I are taking to the streets to enjoy every moment of sun. The city's notorious pot hole problem/collapsing streets make rollerblading unthinkable for those of us with a brain in our heads.

I awoke this morning at 8:00am, having promised my grade six class that I would come and see their fashion show presentation. I took the bus over the mountain and looked forward to othe long walk from the bus stop to the school. The bus dropped me off at Parc Lafontaine and I made my way through the hoards of cyclists, rollerbladers and strollers till finally I reached the school. It was my last day at l'École St-Joseph. The teacher has returned from sick leave, leaving me to contemplate, once again, where I'm headed. At the moment, I am relishing in my return to unemployment. Montreal is the best city in Canada in which to be unemployed, and there is no better time than the summer.

As the last week in this teaching position drew to a close, I'm suffering from very mixed feelings- as I so often do. On the one hand, I quite like having money in the bank and not worrying about what magic tricks I'll need to pull off to pay all my bills. On the other hand, I fear that such stability is sending me in the exact opposite direction of where I would like to be. You have probably noticed that my posts have become few and far between since mid-February, for a few reasons. For one, working forty hours a week is quite exhausting and has killed any creative impulses I once had. Secondly, the reality of teaching in Canada seems to mean never seeing an end to the work on your desk. I'm not a fan. This may be the most I've ever made, but it isn't very good. I can't imagine what sort of insane person would spend another two years in school to obtain an education degree (that cannot be used outside of Quebec) to make 35,000$/year, with poor benefits and be considered, by the children and their parents, to be a glorified babysitter. I'm so glad that I had the opportunity to see the reality of the profession in Canada before I was tempted by the promise of summers off. Schools have changed. The older teachers predictably discuss each day the differences between my generation and this one in the classroom. They fear the coming of age of these students, many hoping they won't be around to see them children in their adult years.

This experience was invaluable. I realized that I am far too impatient with nonsense and excuses to teach children for a living. I just don't care enough. You didn't do your homework? Whatever, your loss, not mine. English is useless, you say? Okay, sure. You're off to a great start in life. Call me in ten years when you want to work in Toronto. In any case, all this chasing children around and pretending to care wore me out and distracted me from what I would rather be doing- writing and acting. Worse than distracting me, the experience drained me. When I was teaching in Korea, I was exhausted from listening so carefully to everything being said and trying to make sense of it. From reading very slowly aloud every message on the photocopier, hoping that eventually I would understand why it wasn't working. From bouncing kids on my knee and being poked in the eye with little fingers. Teaching here is exhausting because of the atrocious amount of work. It's never ending. And like I said, draining.

So I have the summer to contemplate. The Commision Scolaire de Montréal is still anxiously awaiting the scores from my French test so they can hire me on full time for next year. I've come to terms with the fact that my procrastination is based in fear and I'm going to register for an online refresher course in French grammar, which will do me good. My agent has been put on alert to find me some good work for this summer, and I'm awaiting the announcement of next season's auditions at the English theatres. I snapped last week after another health scare with Fred and bought myself my expensive, over-priced yoga pass. I decided if there was anything that could take my mind off the upcoming transplant for an hour and a half a day, it was well worth the money. Today will be day six of my Bikram routine and I'm loving it. I feel amazingly healthy and my winter tummy is quickly melting away- or should I say thankfully. I'm off to yoga class and promise to be more active in my posts. It would also help if my computer would stop trying to speak to me in Korean- which looks very little like Korean and a lot like this ?????????????????????????????????????????????. There's nothing more obnoxious than having every button and tab on a web page full of question marks. Hopefully the next post will also be more direct, as we say in theatre. I struggle with being shockingly indirect, for which I blame the ADD. But summer is the time for ADD and summer is very, very close. I plan on spending an obsene amount of time under a tree reading a book.

This was the biggest patch of grass I found last summer in Seoul... It was not a comfortable place to read a book.

Honesty

It's officially been over a year now since I've been sharing my thoughts and opinions with you. What's interesting about internet communication is that it makes everything more and less intimate at the same time. It's easy for people to write things that they wouldn't normally, because the interaction isn't immediate. The consequences of your response aren't tangible. There's no accountability. It's interesting how the written language- how the art of writing is evolving as a result. The goal of any artist is always to break down barriers- to challenge. Sometimes we set out to challenge a particular thought, opinion, or view of our society. Other times we set out to challenge ourselves. Many artists take themselves far too seriously to ever admit that any part of what they do is for self-gratification. But of course that plays into it. No one would do it if there was nothing in it for them. The possibility of fame and fortune drive many to LA- hoping for a chance at making it big. But for others, it's a way to express the voice that drives us. The inner monologue of the writer, the endless string of scenes in the actor's head, the images of the sculptor.. Inevitably one day we are forced to confront what terrifies us most. And it's different for everyone.

The adrenaline an actor feels as she steps on stage is related to survival instincts. Your body reacting against the public exposure which is about to take place. You can't help but reveal yourself. Your issues are laid out for all to see- and this is the gift the actor gives to the audience. The gift of honesty. All the masks are laid aside as the actor presents himself to you. It's our instinct to keep our weaknesses hidden, however. To dance and distract from them as though no one will notice how cleverly we hide aspects of ourselves. The goal is always absolute honesty.

Here I am, back in Montreal. A 150 page account of my travels stares me in the face and I realize I'm at a crossroads. For a year, I've written weekly about all that I experience in my adventures in a different country and culture. Back at home, I lack external inspiration. Now it's coming from within my head. Within my relationship. Within my family, my home. There are topics I've avoided writting about this year- things that hit a little too close to home, aspects of myself that I've never wanted others to see. But now these subjects seem unavoidable. I've never been able to admit to vulnerability, always wanting to seem invincible. Yet here I find myself unable to ignore the fact that Fred and I have been together four and a half years. Somehow I have trouble acknowledging that it's real- that it's love, and it's serious. After a year in different countries- on opposite sides of the world, a year of daily phone calls and loneliness, I suppose I can't hide it anymore. It is real.

Last week, after only two weeks back in Montreal, Fred and his mom and I met with a transplant specialist at the Royal Victoria Hospital here in Montreal. Ironically the last time I was in the building was when I was born- the memories are a little fuzzy. The surgeon, apparently incapable of reading not only his own writing, but the entire chart itself, gave us the options available to Fred. After an hour and a half of discussing timing and the importance of waiting for the right moment for a transplant- the surgeon realized that he had missed a test result and that Fred's kidneys were not in fact functioning at 45%, but at 25%. Ooops! So with that, Fred was officially marked down on the transplant list- making him the third AB blood type waiting on a kidney and a pancreas. We left the hospital in silence. I had nearly passed out in the doctor's office- a reaction brought on by my engagement with my own mortality, I suspect. Or perhaps just my inherent distrust of the medical profession rearing its ugly head again.

And so, for the next six to twelve months, Fred and I will jump at every phone call until he gets 'the call'. He'll have one hour to respond. As someone who's never been hospitalized (knock on wood) and who's only visits to the hospital have been for sports injuries- a transplant is huge. If they were my organs, I'm fairly certain that I'd tell the doctor to shove it. My experience has always been that bed rest and an ice pack cures everything. It's so hard for me to wrap my mind around what's happening right now- it's all just so foreign to me.