Changes

My apologies for not having posted anything particularly interesting in the last few weeks. I've been crazy busy. I've had only one day off since August, so I haven't really felt like doing much but sleeping. In September, I started subbing at a school for learning disabled kids (did I post about this already, maybe I did...). I've been there at least once a week for the past couple months. Not wanting to ditch Brother just yet, I was switching shifts with people and coming in on Sundays. Saturdays I'm still working at the yoga studio. So things have been hectic. I completely unintentionally ended up with three jobs. The last couple weeks, my phone has been ringing off the hook with calls from a various schools looking for English or Drama teachers and I've been ditching shifts at Brother left, right and center to go to interviews. So I decided it may be time to pack it in at Brother, and my last day is tomorrow. I've accepted a part time teaching contract at a school in the east end, where I work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'm going to spend this week circulating my resume to various other schools, hoping to pick up more substitution work for the next little while and completing my applications for the school board. I thought I had already finished with this, but then I received a notice in the mail that they were in fact serious about wanting my official transcripts from high school and my diploma. Silly me, I didn't think these things would matter after University...

Amidst all this insanity, I came to the realization that it was time for me to go back to school. So I've applied to do my Bachelor of Social Work online through the University of Victoria starting in January and hopefully should heard back from them soon. I discovered while ordering my high school transcripts from Alberta Education, that I never paid the fee for my diploma exams, which I had rewritten purely out of pride. I was shocked and disgusted when I received my mark back on my English exam and I had been given 77% on my essay- probably the lowest mark I've ever gotten in English. I rewrote that same exam six months later, agreeing to pay the forty something dollars to do so-- only to receive the exact same mark in the mail. For the last ten years, I have successfully quashed the desire to retake that same exam, concluding instead that Alberta Education doesn't know its ass from its elbow. This makes me feel better.

The Tender Bar: J.R. Moehringer

Once upon a time, I read everything I could lay my hands on. I'd devour books, even bad ones, simply because they were there. But as time goes on, I realize that life is too short to read bad books. Why waste my time when there are countless classics that I may never get to? Over the last couple years, I've started so many books that I've never finished, and part of me felt guilty for letting them go. But there is a time and a place fo every book you read, and if it doesn't hold my interest now, maybe it will down the road. Or maybe not. Maybe that book will never speak to me. Or maybe it is awaiting my more focused self to come back to it.

Fred and I were en route to the clinic last week-end, him for his daily wound cleaning (gross, isn't it?) and I wanted to have a doctor investigate the cause of my swollen eye. It was itchy as hell and driving me nuts, not to mention the fact that I had spent a whole week looking as though I was about to burst into tears. As we prepared to leave the house, I ducked into our office to find a good book to read during my long wait at the clinic. Fred passed me The Tender Bar and we were off.

Since J.D. Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye in 1951, the book has long been regarded as the perfect coming of age story. It's one of the only books I've ever re-read, and I enjoyed it just as much the second time around. But in The Tender Bar I discovered something different. A book that was able to capture the pull between two opposing sides of myself; my drive to succeed and my contentment to sit all at once, my artistic impulses that strive to find every possible medium (even when I'm not conscious of it), and my secret wish that I could find a more direct, obvious path through life. Every now and then, I convince myself that I am deeply interested in law and should attend law school. Not because I care about law at all, but because I want to prove to myself that I'm capable of law school. Because I think about all the travelling I could do if I were a lawyer and had the money to go where I want. Eventually the thought occurs to me that law is often an exercise in semantics and a struggle to find a loophole, neither of which appeal to me in any way. If this weren't enough to disway my application to McGill, I start thinking about how much work law involves, and how little vacation time. All the money in the world but no time to enjoy it. I can relate to the book's author. I understand how excitement to attend university can quickly fade away and your focus can shift, attention can be lost and you begin to question why you decided to be there in the first place. When I was younger, I looked forward to being in my thirties- when all my hard work at school would pay off and I would be well settled in my career. Now that I'm nearly there, I doubt that I will ever reach a point where I feel settled. I can't imagine being able to sit back and say that I had done all I set out, seen everything I wanted to, learned all that I hungered for. I've always been in a rush, but I've never stopped to figure out why. It's not as though I'm running out of time, although I suppose we all are in a way. More than anything, the book helped me to realize that things take time. I've felt frustrated lately, felt like I'm taking a step backwards in doing customer service, particularly since I swore I would never do it again. It's easy to forget that I've acquired a university degree, a year of teaching experience and begun my journey to see the world. I am headed in the right direction, and I need to remember that. I haven't chosen the most obvious career path, but I need to relax and realize that everything about life is a journey and no experience is wasted. I have all the pieces to begin my professional life, I just need to put them together.

All that said, I loved the book. Read it. Time for bed. I just got home from yoga and experienced what 70% humidity feels like. It feels a lot like bedtime.

Florescent Lighting Hurts My Eyes (and corporate air makes them swell)

Three weeks have passed since I last posted, I know. I finally recognized that my search for a teaching position was over for the season and would have to be put on hold for the summer. Despite my lengthy cv (or perhaps because of it), I have spent the last two months searching for any job that would pay me to show up... and preferably only to do that. I finally accepted a job as a tech support agent at Brother Canada in the middle of nowhere (Dollard-des-Ormeaux) and grudgingly showed up for my first day of work on July 3rd. Of course, the moment I started, the phone began to ring and all those jobs who had failed to call me back have left me messages over the last three weeks. In any case, the job at Brother comes with such perks as door to door pick-up in the morning and drop-off in the evening, along with fully catered breakfast and lunch, with the occasional snack. These are not, of course, services offered to just anybody- only those who happen to be dating Fred, provided they meet his mothers expectations. Apparently I do, so I enjoy quite the royal treatment. As for the job, it is probably the best customer service position I could ever find. The pay is not bad and the company offers its employees real perks: profit sharing, health & dental benefits, subsidized gym memberships, RRSP, financial recognition for valid suggestions and trips for the employee dubbed the best of the year. The atmosphere is largely laid back- people joke around in the cafeteria and laughter is heard in the halls. It seems there are actually companies that treat their employees well. Bulletin boards in the staff room are packed with activities planned by the social club; trips to La Ronde (amusement park), Super Aqua Club (waterslides), river boat rides to observe the fireworks competition and even a charity baseball game against a local radio station. Charity baseball games? I feel like I've tripped and fallen into a sit com. Except the pay isn't as good and my agent never called.

It all makes me feel a bit guilty that I don't want to be there. My large cubicle sits beside our customer service department; two really sweet women who talk about their kids and puke a lot. My cubicle mate, Joyce, has thus far only spoken one sentence to me. In fact, I'm not even sure her name is Joyce- I've based that entirely on the name card that is glued to her side of the wall. My ears are overwhelmed with chatter. A girl whose name I don't remember sits opposite me talking about her recent trip to Thailand. The boys talk about baseball and pretend they know what they're talking about. They seem to think 'punt hitter' is an actual baseball term. It makes me laugh. The ladies next to me talk more about puke and mucus. I try to focus on the blank page in front of me, though not a single creative or inspired thought leaks from my head. I try to force it, but all I imagine are call center stories about fax machines and silly customers. No one wants to read about that. I definitely don't want to write about that. I need to get out, and fast. The fluorescent lighting hurts my eyes and makes me drowsy, the glare off the computer screen induces paranoia, the empty pale green cubicle walls bring on an odd mix of nausea and apathy. The free coffee keeps me pumped full of mocchacinos, ensuring that I'll be conscious enough to deliver my passionate spiel about fax machines as required.

No Job, But Free Yoga

A recent lock-out at the cemetery across from our house inspired me to record the unkept state of the grounds.

At 19, when I was young and idealistic, I started a BFA in theater performance. Despite the lectures and warnings of those around me, I was determined to do what I loved, even if that meant waiting on tables for the rest of my life. I dragged out the degree, taking five years to finish it in all. I walked the stage at Place des Arts, wrapped my hands around my degree and was suddenly hit with a wave of fear. I had fought to have the day off of my crappy union job to attend my graduation and realized at that moment that I was no longer a student, but suddenly an out of work actor. I got scared, suddenly realizing what I had done. I called myself a teacher and boarded a plane to Korea, returning a year later with teaching experience and a new outlook on life. I was optimistic, enthusiastic and sure that I could easily secure work back in Montreal.

It seems I was wrong. After two and a half months of desperately looking for work, I finally landed a job teaching English at a private French school. But it was short lived. The woman I was replacing returned from sick leave and I was job hunting again. This time seemed easier, however. I was only looking for something short term- just for the summer. I hit restaurants with my cv and was sure that I had landed the first job I interviewed for. A friend of mine was a manager there, and on top of that I had run into an old co-worker during my interview who already worked there. He sat down and told his manager all the reasons he should hire me and concluded my interview by informing him of all the hoops he would jump through to get me to work at his restaurant. The manager told me that as far as he was concerned I had the job and he would call me in a couple days. No call. I left four messages, no call back. I accepted that they had passed me over, for whatever reason and hit the street again with a stack of cvs. A new Irish pub downtown interviewed me twice, finishing the second interview by telling me that training would start on Monday and they would call to confirm. No call. I called them and the very laid back manager rudely informed me that they had not made any decisions yet regarding staffing. Click. No phone call back. Next, I interviewed at a language school. The group interview started with some chit-chat, revealing that I was the more experienced of the three in our group. The owner came in, going on and on about the school's new and innovative methods, without ever revealing what was so new or innovative about what they were doing. He was unable to answer any of my questions and hardly looked at me throughout what he called 'an interview'. It was obvious that the school's new and innovative approach included brushing off experienced teachers. I had accepted that I didn't have the job before I left the office. The man called me two days later to confirm that he had hired one of the less experienced teachers. Two weeks later, he called me back to say that they were opening another new class of students and he would like to meet with me to discuss the possibility of working together. We met, talked, and decided that I would start teaching at this 'new and innovative' school starting on Monday. I turned up for a few hours to observe a few classes, in an effort to discover what was so unique about this place.

Sunday afternoon, as I sat on the bus to the the hospital to visit Fred, the phone rang. It seems the plane load of Mexicans that made up the class I was supposed to teach had decided to postpone their trip to Montreal. They would call me when and if the Mexicans in question decided to reschedule their trip. A couple days before, yet another restaurant that had interviewed me had called to offer me a job. It turned out, however, that they only had lunch shifts available now. Since I had secured this teaching job, I had turned it down.



Hearing what happened with the school, Fred's mom called her work. Her boss assured her that there would be a job for me at Brother. A week later, the manager of the customer service department called me to schedule an interview. Despite the extreme sense of condescension, all went well and she told me to expect a phone call from the HR department. A week and a half later, they called to schedule an interview. I bussed all the way out to the West Island to sit in a room with a very simple woman who felt the need to take advantage of her status as interviewer and insist that I tell her about a time when I did something I was not proud of. To my surprise, I was able to find just the right words to tell her it was none of her business, without actually saying that. They told me that I would start on June 18th. Then it was pushed to June 26th. Now the official start date is July 3rd. I've lost my patience with this company, and with the employment options available in Montreal. In no other city in Canada would a bilingual university graduate with teaching experience and a brain in her head have such trouble finding a job. I may have been idealistic at 19 when I threw myself into theater school, but I never imagined that even the customer service industry would want nothing to do with me. Either this is a sign that I'm not supposed to be in Montreal, or I'm being given a very clear indication that customer service is such a part of my past that it shouldn't even be a fall back... Just as my frustration had begun to give way to depression, my yoga studio called. They offered me a position as receptionist on Saturday mornings, in exchange for free yoga classes and towel service. Woohoo!! I may not be able to pay my rent, but at least I'll be relaxed about it.

After spending months trying to secure work in Montreal, my mind is beginning to wander. Thoughts of life in Toronto or Vancouver have begun creeping into my head. I love Montreal, but if being here means being unemployed, I've just about had it. I know that I haven't finished traveling, but I had always imagined Montreal as home. Now even that is being questioned...

A downpour in our backyard.

Tragically Nameless

These posts are getting fewer and farther between as my teaching job eats up more and more of my day. I'm really not sure why people do this. I understand that some people are passionate about it, and it baffles me. I can't imagine dedicating my life to chasing kids around in an effort to help them learn and grow, and receive so little appreciation from the kids, their parents and society. I simply wouldn't be able to justify six years of school to make 35 000$ a year. Not even summers off could convince me to pursue this as a career. Three weeks into my teaching job and the unthinkable has happened; I've turned into my Uncle. My Uncle Bob has been an English teacher in Quebec since the beginning of time (or at least my time). The summers that I spent out in Montreal with him and his family meant being subject to his comments about hating children and being fed up with babysitting. Even worse seemed to be the student teachers who weren't, in his books, sufficiently well read to be doing a stag as an English teacher. Only years later upon meeting Julien did I discover that my Uncle may hate children, but he clearly loved his job. He was one of those teachers that changed lives, but didn't want anyone to know and now I've gone and publicly ruined his reputation.

Work is going alright. I don't hate it, I just don't like it. It's difficult to see any sort of improvement and garner any satisfaction from teaching a second language as it is, pair with that the large class size and it's nearly impossible to leave feeling you're making a difference. I'm not passionate about teaching English. Maybe if I could have real discussions with them- push them to see a piece in another light, or provoke and challenge new thoughts. Unfortunately the nature of the work is that you spend most of the day trying to suppress the urge to finish sentences for your students just because it would be faster. You try not to scream as you listen to the hundreds of different excuses for homework not having been finished and actually try to make that student believe that you just listened to whatever gibberish spewed forth from their mouth. You try in vain to avoid the flashbacks to your own Elementary school days, especially when you hear yourself yelling, "Stéphanie. Assis-toi. Comme il faut. Avec les quatre pattes de la chaise à terre et tes deux pieds sur le plancher." (Stephanie. Sit down. Properly. With the four feet of the chair on the ground and your two feet on the floor.) I nearly collapsed when I heard the words explode from my mouth- shocked that it took me so far back. My tone, my pacing -it was all so familiar! I suddenly felt like Mme. Nicole Jolicoeur, my grade three teacher. It was eery. My frustrations are heightened by the disrespect of the students, their indifference to learning and their ability to complain about absolutely everything. I had slotted to spend today's class reviewing vocabulary with my grade five class today, which promised to be painfully boring for all parties involved. So rather than have me talk at them about how these words were important, I put the students in groups of four and explained they would be playing charades. The only requirement was that they preface their physicalization with the phrase, "I like (don't like) to ______," and then they would proceed with their animation. The amount of students who bothered to approach me to inform me the activity was stupid absolutely stunned me. I finally replied if they didn't like it, they were welcome to take their seat back at their desk and read the key words to themselves over and over again. They shut up.

School has changed, kids have changed and I'm glad that this path is just for the moment. Swearing is fairly common in the classroom now, the students refer to their teachers by their first names (Mme. Stephanie, Mme. Julie- although often the madame is dropped) and address them with the more familiar tu, as opposed to vous. In the past three weeks, I realized beyound a shadow of a doubt, that I don't want children. As our society seems to move further and further from values that I still hold precious, I cringe to think of how little respect and hard work will be valued in ten, twenty years. The Western materialism has reached its peak when every student in my grade six class describes shopping as a favourite activity and believes they are entitled to a Playstation3 and an iPod. I can't help but think we have gone so, so wrong.

While it is far from what I want, I know that teaching will bring me closer to what I want to do. Hopefully I can manipulate the desperation of the Commision Scolaire de Montréal into a contract that will only amount to part time hours, leaving me open to do other things. In the meantime, it is providing an eye opening experience with this next generation. This post has perhaps seemed negative, and I don't mean it that way. I'm feeling fairly indifferent about my situation at the moment- apart from having to wake up at 6am. I hate 6am.

As I settle into a routine, I'm struggling to balance my life. I don't know how people work a job this demanding and actually have a life... which explains why these posts are becoming fewer and farther between. I started Bykram Yoga last week, in a room heated to 42 degrees celsius to prompt you to sweat out all your toxins and protect your muscles from injury. I felt amazing all last week and have developed quite an addiction to it. Unfortunately, difficult as I am, I had to choose the most ridiculously expensive type of Yoga to fall for and am currenly arguing with myself about whether or not its worth the 150$ per month. My cheap intro pass expired on Monday and now I've decided to bounce around from studio to studio for awhile until I make a choice. I wonder how many cheap intro weeks one can enjoy at Yoga studios in downtown Montreal... I'll let you know.

Gainfully Employed

Montrealers have got to be the most employable Canadians. We just have to be. We enjoy the country's cheapest tuition and have the most educated population. Perhaps we're more likely to call our employers on bullshit as a result. We take more days off than the rest of the country, but that's just to keep us sane. It's difficult, after all, to turn up at a bullshit job everyday when you realize what it is. The more education you've got, the more likely you are to realize it's bullshit.

We speak at least two languages. You'd think that this would give us an incredible advantage, but that all depends really. If you are fortunate enough to have a passably French last name in Quebec, you're likely to do well. Though Bogue is passably French, it is also the term for a computer virus ... perhaps not the impression I'm trying to make. In English Canada, if you have a passably English name, you're also likely to do well. If you're a French Canadian with a last name like Leblanc, fear not, all is not lost- just pronounce it 'Le blank' and try not to shutter. Being bilingual also allows us to curse our employers in the language that they are least familiar with. This is important.

Montrealers are adept at navigating mazes of red tape and accept that we will be paid poorly for it. This also ensures that we will complain more than other Canadians, but at least we're accustomed to making a hundred calls just to get our address changed on our driver's licence. You'll find us pleasantly surprised if we're able to do it in one phone call- and suspiciously shocked if we aren't charged 50$ for such a service.

We are the fastest driving Canadians, and are thus likely to be on time for work. I say that, but we're actually painfully unreliable. And quite likely to speed away from work an hour early at the end of the day. We drink the most, leading some people (myself) to believe that we are happier in our work. We also gamble more than other Canadians, which should serve as assurance that we will continue to turn up at our mind-numbing jobs (until we win big, that is). Montreal men and women alike spend more money on their appearance than other Canadians. This makes us seem better looking. Screw the filles des roi theory- it's all about not wearing your sweatpants to work.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I just got home from an interview at a temp agency and was struck by the differences between working in Calgary and working in Montreal. Years ago, I saw an ad in the paper in Calgary for a temp agency looking for bilingual receptionists. I faxed in my résumé, sure that I wouldn't get a response since I had extremely minimal knowledge of Word, or any other computer program. I got a phone call the next day. The woman on the other end asked how good my French was... I hesitated. How do you answer that, I don't know. What do you want? A rating from one to ten? She passed the phone to her colleague and we finished the interview in French. She offered me the job and told me I started on Monday. In closing she asked if I was familiar with Word. Of course, I lied.

This morning I dragged myself from my bed bright and early. I made my way down to the temp agency and presented myself at the front desk. The young woman behind the desk passed me two thick packets- ten pages each, one in English and one in French. She pointed me to the exam room and set me to work correcting the grammatical errors in each packet. It screws with your head. They had a list of mispelled words in each one- confusing as hell when they've spelled words in the French packet the English way and vice-versa. They know damn well it reaches a point where you can't remember one way or the other. After that ordeal they sat me in front of the computer and called me on my claim that I 'knew' Word and Excel. By now they must know I lied. Just like that fancy restaurant in Westmount figured out real fast that by 'knowledge of wines' I meant I could tell red from white. In any case, the long stream of testing finally came to an end and I interviewed with the owner. It was refreshing to be able to be totally honest in an interview. She looked down at my cv and asked if I was just looking for work until I found a teaching job. I said yes. Like most French Canadians, she marvelled at how I was able to work abroad and totally misunderstood what the imminent French test was for. She seemed to think that as a requirement for further teaching in Asia, I was being asked to write a French test. Only in Quebec would such an error be made. After careful review of my grammar tests, she gave me a passing grade in both languages and informed me that I would hear from her soon.

The process took me over two hours, and I walked out shocked that I had to go through so much to get a job temping. In no other Canadian city would you be asked to do so much work, with so little in return. As I left the office, I checked my voice mail and found I had a message from the school. After all that, I start teaching on Monday. My days of lounging about are officially done and I'll have to get up at what my mother calls 'a reasonable hour'.

L'Entrevue

Last week my cursed telephone finally began to ring in response to résumés I've recently sent off. I interviewed for a job as a secretary at an advertising company on Thursday. Not, obviously, what I want to do- but I thought I'd show up for the interview and see where we went from there. The manager was super young and apologized for the thundering noise coming from the adjoining room- they were building a gym on site. They also offer ski passes to their employees- not so bad, I thought. The following day, I got up early and dragged myself out of bed and made the long trek to the Old Port. I arrived at the office and was greeted at the door by your typical middle-aged Québécois man, M.St-Pierre. He smiled and said 'Ah, Bonjour Debbie!' - not a good start. Turns out I dragged myself out of bed and all the way down there for nothing. He meant to call Debbie Bolton for an interview, but somehow called me instead (he said because Bogue and Bolton are so similar). He interviewed me anyway- and succeeded in becoming the most frustrating interview I've ever had. He asked me why, as an actor, I was applying to work as a receptionist at his télé-production company. Like any good actor, I'm quite adept at lying. I blathered on about wanting to see how things work on the other side, learning the ropes of the administration side to further my goals of one day running my own theater company. And blah blah blah. Of course, the real reason is because ACTRA is on strike and this makes it difficult to convince an agent that they should take you on. And because I have yet to perform in French, I have no French demo, and thus cannot acquire a French agent. Blah blah. So M. Le Québécois, looking over my cv with squinty little eyes, asks what makes me think I'm capable of multi-tasking since none of my jobs have required this skill. I sort of laughed and said, well- I do have teaching, management and waitressing experience. He stared at me blankly, and without missing a beat he said he didn't see how any of those jobs involved multi-tasking. Another glance over the page and he proclaims that I have too much leadership experience to work under someone else. He doesn't think this will work, and by the way- you're being very quiet, how is your French? Quiet? Hmmm... perhaps, sir, because you keep interrupting me to tell me your interpretation of my position, which frankly I don't care to hear. Of course, instead I just smiled and said "M.St-Pierre, je parle très bien français." He went quiet. Gave me an outline for a letter and asked me to write it in French, then in English and then I could go. A test, he said, of my creativity and written skills. I wrote the letter and stormed out of the office and up the street back to the metro, ranting silently the whole way. Of course, he was right- why would I want to work there? And I do have too much leadership experience (and intelligence) to work for a man who completed the interview by inquiring as to fluent I was in Mandorin. My face blank and confused, he had repeated the question- and finally it clicked- "They speak Korean, in Korea," I said.

Back home, my head throbbing from the frustration of the job hunt and damn it, how hard it is to be content when you're so darn smart. I spotted a posting for a temporary teaching position at a private school. I have an interview tomorrow, and hopefully if all goes well, I should be teaching next week. I just can't sit on my ass anymore. I'm about to lose my mind.

The Job Hunt

It's not easy to settle back into life in Canada. Nothing about it is easy. I have to repress the desire to scream at people who wait to be tipped for the bad service they provided. I try not to think too much about how we're being absolutely gouged here by big corporations, and we accept it. But there's one thing I'm having a lot of trouble getting passed- the frustration of finding a job. Here's the thing- when a bilingual, University graduate with management and teaching experience is finding it next to impossible to find a job that doesn't involve french fries, I feel there's a problem. I hate to sound like a princess- I know countless people have had the exact same frustration. But I just can't hack it. The idea of going back to a customer service job makes me absolutely ill and I don't think I should have to. Nor do I see the point in spinning my wheels and hating my life for 10$ an hour. What the hell is wrong with this place? There's a time to break free of the easy solution, or soon you're left without a choice. For some reason, people around me believe that I should compromise myself- that I should suck it up and go back to the call center that kept me absolutely and frighteningly angry and depressed for the length of my disastrous call center career. Maybe I haven't given it enough time. With Christmas and New Year's, I suppose it has only been a couple of weeks, but my frustration is nearly overwhelming. I'm considering my options and may just find myself either back in Korea or back in Calgary before long... Is it any wonder people leave here and never come back?

The End of an Era

A street in Montreal- after it was hit by freezing rain.

I feel as though I haven't properly closed the Korean chapter of my life. As though I refuse to close the book- refuse to move on to the next. Perhaps it's difficult to do until I've reestablished myself in Montreal- until I've settled into our new apartment (housewarming pending) and found started to see money coming in. Until I have my gym pass in my wallet, half of me is still living in Korea. Admittedly, Fred came home the other day to find me applying for jobs at winter camps in Korea- a month long position (flight, accomodation, food paid- plus two thousand dollars). I thought it was perfectly reasonable to want to go back- Fred didn't seem to agree. I know I've only been back in Montreal a few weeks, but it feels like much longer. It's difficult to turn my back on the easy lifestyle I had in Korea. That said, I'm also glad to be back. I walked down St Catherine Street with my brother, Travis the other day and I felt annoyed by all the people around me. Memories of the markets in Seoul seem so distant now. I'm sure I've become a very distant memory to the kids by now. I feel pressure to stabilize myself. Fred has been very supportive of me- and keeps telling me not to stress about finding work. I need to hear it since I was in Calgary just a few weeks ago and probably could have walked into any number of jobs that I was unqualified for. Such are the benefits of being bilingual in oil-rich Alberta. With the thought of Fred being called in for his transplant, possibly as soon as June- it seems it's time for me to fnd a real adult job.

Fred at Karaoke

All this said, visions of my next trip are already rushing about in my head. Fred's mother is going to India next year to visit family- and since none of her children (for some odd reason) have any interest in going- I will hopefully be going with her. If all goes well with work and Fred's health, I should be headed there soon enough. Already I can't wait.

Shameless Plug

I've been home long enough now that reality has begun to sink in. I've realized that I became accustomed to a particular lifestyle in Korea- with my apartment being paid for and the cost of living being only a fraction of the cost of living in Canada, it's easy to feel alot more relaxed about finances. My gym pass was not the luxury that it had been the year before- it instead became a necessity. I would have lost my mind without it. I began to re-examine my job prospects in Canada in a very different way. The possibilities seemed endless, with my bank account full (or as full as it ever has been). I decided that upon return to Canada, I would throw myself- head first- into writing and acting. To supplement my love of these fulfilling, yet financially unstable professions, I'd launch myself into a half-assed career as a teacher. Half-assed not because of any lack of effort on my part, but because it isn't where my passion lies.

So here I find myself back in Montreal- anxiously trying to get my ideas off the ground. The résumés are in- just waiting to hear back from the collection of schools I applied to. I'm working on putting together a demo CD to go on the hunt for a new agent, and trying to figure out how to make this writing thing work. In an effort to do this, you'll notice stage 1- becoming friends with Google. Stage 2 is also underway- thanks to the help and tips from internet-savvy friends - increasing the traffic on my page.

To that end, to all of my friends who have sent me messages over the last year praising my blog, here's your chance. To all the readers who happen upon this page and love it- help me out! Seth Godin (author and blog man) has a list of blogs worth checking out at http://www.squidoo.com/zlist. I don't know how exactly this works, but when I signed up, my blog was number 388 on the list- now it's at 15. I don't know if this is based on hits, or votes, or what. Point is- the higher I appear on the list, the better my chances of increasing traffic. My intentions are totally transparent, wouldn't you say? Check it out. More on me and life and kidneys later- now I intend to sleep.

A Severe Case of Commitment Phobia

I have always suffered from a severe phobia of commitment. From the time I moved out of my parent's home at the age of eighteen to twenty-one when I moved to Montreal, I count five apartments and twelve roommates. Alex was the only one that lasted a full year. The perpetually complex state of my revolving-door relationships must have been difficult for my friends to follow. Until I met Fred, the longest of these had lasted four months. The first of these four month relationships, was of course the infamous Rob who I believe was forced out of the apartment after promising to move to Montreal with me and revealing he believed we were 'meant for each other'. Famous last words, it would seem. The second of these was the less than infamous Daniel who was kept a guarded secret (one that mysteriously leaked out anyway, Caycee) because of the questionable age difference between us. Daniel saved me the trouble of ending our relationship at the four month mark when he announced he was moving to Ireland to pursue his Master's in Acting (or some such non sense). But Daniel had not yet boarded the plane when I met Fred. I distinctly remember telling Fajer (my roommate of the moment), that Fred terrified me because I had the unsettling feeling that he might break through the four month expiry date. It seems that uneasy feeling was right- here I sit four years later wondering how it is that he snuck up on me like that. I have come to realize that this fear of commitment is not unique to roommates, apartments and boyfriends. It seeps into every aspect of my life. I hate to make plans ahead of time- commitment phobic, you see. More than anything, this commitment phobia has affected my direction with theatre. Teachers and fellow students in school told me that I was a bit of a mystery to them- I had all the pieces to be really successful, but I was choosing not to put it all together. It's true. Putting all those pieces together means making a commitment to myself, to follow through. It means no more excuses, no more bad jobs. It means making a real commitment to theatre.
I glance at my fancy Korean cell phone and realize that the countdown it began long ago to my final days here is fast approaching. As I stumbled in late last night from a day out with Song, I began to feel the first pangs of resistance. Was I ready to leave? For months I had promised Song that I would be back, but the realization has begun to hit that this may be it. Maybe I won't be. Throughout this year, Fred and I have talked many times about returning to Asia together in the future. Part of me loves to believe that it'll happen, but another part of me wonders. I have been bitten by the travel bug- it is certain that I will find myself back 'dans ce coin', but in promising Fred and Song that I'll be back, I suddenly feel as though I'm promising to put my life on hold again. Life in Canada has been on pause for nearly a year now- my career and education plans put aside for a time while I take a year to work on me. The only thing that has changed in Canada is my relationship with Fred. It's continued to grow and change as it needs to under these odd circumstances. In saying that in two years we'll be back, implies that we'll be perfectly willing to again pause our lives in Canada and return to Asia. I'm not sure that's reality. I have found a direction this year. I have come to realize that committing to theatre does not need to mean a commitment to poverty. It doesn't necessarily mean that I am deciding to pursue acting at the exclusion of other interests.
Years ago someone told me that Sesame Street was to blame for the existence of Attention Deficit Disorder in our generation- that we had become so accustomed to receiving a full story in the space of a minute or two that this later affected out ability to focus in school. Perhaps. If this is true, than it is not only my knees that bore the brunt of my active childhood. My parents encouraged and supported my involvement in ballet, gymnastics, figure skating, soccer, basketball, baseball, swimming, synchronised swimming, horseback riding... the list goes on and on. It wasn't until I reached high school that the line was drawn, as it seemed that it was suddenly impossible to participate in everything that I wanted to. My activities were grudgingly narrowed to drama, soccer and basketball. Maybe this is where the reluctance to commit stems from. There's so many choices, so many options- why commit? Why should I choose? To be honest, I've come to realize that it is just not in my nature. There is too much to life that I want to experience, and I've acquired interests and skills in too many areas to say that 'this is it'. My reluctance to commit to theatre is exactly that. I have scattered passions, and I want to pursue them all. And I've realized I can.
Months ago I began to have minor panic attacks at the thought of returning to Montreal. The prospect of returning to customer service both infuriated and terrified me. Now I find myself looking to it excitedly- Montreal, that is, not customer service. At points this year, I have fallen into the trap of treating this year as though it's my one and only opportunity to make money. I felt incredibly guilty buying my computer, convincing myself that I should put the money aside for savings. Illogical when you consider that I'm not sure how I made it through my first degree without a computer, and I am certainly not going to do it again. I contemplated my trip to Taiwan, again thinking I should save the money instead. Fortunately logic kicked in at moments. I've waited since high school for an opportunity to travel, I'm not about to waste this opportunity to see the world. Further, this year has prompted me to see how many opportunities there are and assured me that if I am willing to go a few uncomfortable months upon my return to Montreal, it will pay off. I know what I'm going to do, and I love that I'm tossing around a hundred different possibilities, none of which involve passing out CVs to restaurants.
I seem to be rambling today. Truth of it is that my feelings about returning to Canada change every ten minutes, making it very difficult to articulate them without contradicting myself. Even with the contradictions, it's hard to communicate. Last week, my secretary at school passed me a belated-birthday present. I held back tears as I read her note that apologized for her poor English and expressed how sad she was that I would soon be going home. Kate and I have hardly spoken this year as her English is only slightly better than my Korean. I hadn't considered how difficult leaving was going to be until that moment. I never realized it was possible to feel so close to someone that you had exchanged so few words with. And even fewer were understood. My countdown tells me that I have 50 days until the end of my contract. Part of me feels like that I need more time. I wish I had fewer week-days and more week-ends before October 31st. As Song and I parted ways last night, I felt upset that I am now left with only six Saturdays before I head home. The interviews for the poor sap that will replace me are in full swing. Whoever it is will arrive in five weeks. October 31st will be an incredibly emotional day for me. Not only is it my last day at school, but it is also the two year anniversary of Tyler's death. Instead of rushing home after this emotional day, I'll be packing my bags to rush through Thailand, Laos and Cambodia (true to my nature, making things as difficult as possible) for two weeks before landing in Calgary to visit my mother and my few remaining friends. With all these thoughts floating in my head, I went to bed last night and called Fred this morning when I woke up. He was busy and we only spoke for a minute before hanging up. Suddenly the seven weeks before my departure felt like an eternity. I checked my cell phone, hoping that somehow in the last ten minutes time had sped up and it was finally October. No such luck. The end is so close and so far all at once- and time seems to be slowing down the more excited I become at the prospect of being home at last...

When Enough's Enough

I remember arguing with my dad when I was younger and I always got in trouble for the last words I would scream out before I slammed my door. I always needed to have the last word. It always made me feel like I won. Of course, often what I ended up winning was a week or two without seeing my friends. I've never been good at keeping my mouth shut and even if I can do it, there's always a breaking point. I have a great deal of patience, but when I snap, that's it. I snap.

For as far back as I can remember I've always had problems with 'authority'. Sometimes it works out for the better and sometimes it doesn't. At sixteen when I quit Red Lobster, they quickly offered me the promotion I wanted, and a raise. At IMAX, quiting got me the pay raise I was after. I walked out on my first job in Montreal to prove a point. Told off the manager and stormed out of the store. My crappy serving job at Nickel's ended when I landed work at an expensive restaurant in the Old Port. There are few things as liberating as telling your boss that you won't be in today or ever- especially when he's fired countless people days before their three month probations were up. I stormed out of Vieux Port after a particularly disgusting display of sexual harassment. I even hit the guy. I was proud of myself. My days at the call center ended with a very honest meeting where I held nothing back in explaining exactly why I was leaving.

Friday night as I left work after an excruciatingly long week, I silently fumed about the unpaid training session I was being forced to attend on the week-end. To make matters worse, the training was being held outside of Seoul and I would be stuck spending the night there. After a long week of children crawling all over me and striving to keep my patience when I'm on the verge of losing it, I dreaded the thought of this session. I knew without a doubt that this would be the biggest waste of time I had ever experienced. And it was. We met our boss at school at 10am Saturday and piled into his mini van for the two hour drive. I slept. When I woke up, I was in a large classroom with a hundred other teachers and a very angry woman from head office was listing off the rules for the conference. 1) Room keys are to be held by head office- if you need to return to your room you need to ask permission 2) Do not leave the grounds without asking permission 3) The dorms will be locked at 10pm. No one is to be out after that. I was suddenly furious. I had resolved myself to spending the week-end at this useless meeting, but I was not about to abide by a curfew. I had calmed myself all week by believing that head office would take us all out for a big dinner, surely with plenty of wine and soju. As we headed to the cafeteria and glanced at the questionable 'fusion' of Korean and Western dishes- I realized it was not about to happen. I had rice for lunch, with a glass of water. The demeaning training session involved watching two adults bouncing around the classroom for an hour pretending that they were teaching five year olds. Equally demeaning was the fact that many of the people around me were playing into it. We had two presentations from publishers about their products- which may have been helpful if I taught any of those books and my kids were old enough for any of the suggested activities. Dinner time. More rice and water. Even the kimchee looked disgusting. As I made a move for the front gate (without permission), I found a depanneur and we stocked up on soju for what would definitely be a long night. After dinner we were subject to a three and a half hour complete and utter waste of time. Each school did a role play of a fake class for the other teachers. I couldn't even begin to wrap my mind around the stupidity of the situation- a grown adult bouncing around like an idiot trying to teach phonics to seven English teachers pretending to be five year old children who are really learning the letter F for the first time. This torture, which began at noon finally ended after 10pm. We were finally released to our rooms with promises of being awoken at 7am. The teachers from my school sat and talked for a bit, drank some beer and soju and then went off to bed. The accommodations were traditional Korean style, so we slept on the floor- meaning that I didn't sleep at all. I tossed and turned until the angry woman from head office pounded on our door and ordered us to go for breakfast.

I got up, dressed and left. I couldn't take it anymore. I was supposed to head back to the conference room and be talked at for another five hours about the different Brighton schools, as though this would have a direct impact on my experience as a teacher. As though I weren't going home in two months and this training wasn't completely useless. I had hit my breaking point. After ten months of dealing with my boss's complete disregard for my contract, I just couldn't take it anymore. The health insurance guaranteed me in my contract never came through. Excuses, excuses and more excuses. The pension guaranteed me never came through. The questionable wording in the contract allowed me to believe that my vacation days were paid, but in fact they are not. My boss kept my degree from me for months, fearful that I would find another job. I finally won the argument to get it back- after three hours in his office trying to remain calm about the theft of the most expensive paper I've ever held. I should have hit my breaking point long ago, but I kept looking forward to the end and saying I could suck it up. But clearly it snapped today. I teach seven classes more a week than any other teacher. I have more baby classes to entertain than anyone else. And I've fought since I got here for one thing after another. I'm tired and ready to go home.

As I left the conference with a feeling of satisfaction, it wasn't until I got on the train to come back to Seoul that I began to wonder about the consequences of this act of defiance. In Canada I know I could talk my way out of it- I could explain myself in a way that they would understand my side. I'm good at bullshitting and usually people find it's easier to agree than to argue. Or perhaps they get confused and lost in my endless monologue. Difficult to say really. But I wonder in a culture that so values keeping up appearances and looking in control what sort of scene will result from my actions. Will there be a big blow-out with my boss tomorrow? Will he find himself thoroughly embarrassed that one of his unhappy employees jetted at the first opportunity? Will I find myself back on a plane to Canada a couple months early? I suppose these are the consequences that I perhaps should have considered before I stormed out. But really, where does it end? In spite of my job, I have had a good experience in Korea but as the end draws near I'm finding it hard to remember that. I know last week my post was also a rant about my frustrations. Don't get me wrong, I have had a really positive experience in Korea. But there are so many things that I just can't take anymore. I have never felt so trapped in my life- trapped by the prospect of being blacklisted by immigration if I bailed on my contract. Trapped by the expense of the plane ticket that would take me home. The bottom line is that a man whose business relies solely on keeping his English teachers happy should learn to do more to keep them happy. There is nothing holding me here. My family, my friends and Fred are all in Canada. I can't wait to be home and if I am fired tomorrow, perhaps it's a blessing in disguise. The ticket home might be expensive, but I'm getting to the point where the money just doesn't matter anymore. I want more than anything to sleep in my bed, in my apartment with my cats and my Fred. I want to speak to people and be understood. I want to come home from work and order a pizza. I want to go for a coffee after work. I want to be surrounded by people who know me. I want to walk down a street and feel invisible. I want to see my family. I want to lie in the middle of a big grassy field and read a book. A French book. I want to get back to my life. I have learned and grown so much this year but none of it fits yet with my life. Will I go back to school? Where will I work? What will I do with theatre? The problem with taking a year off to work abroad is that your life is at a bit of a standstill. My life in Canada is on pause, but everyone else is rushing by at normal speed. I want to be on play again.

Never Swim Alone

Dress Rehearsal - Never Swim Alone
Sean (Bill), Me (Ref), Ed (Frank)

It has officially been one year since I've been on stage, and I'm struggling to figure out how I feel about it. After Our Country's Good closed, I was unsure as to where I was headed with theatre, and recent experiences have only confused me further. Months ago I auditioned for a role with a foreigner's theatre company and was cast. The play is called Never Swim Alone, by Canadian playwright Daniel MacIvor. I was excited to be rehearsing again. It had been so long that I felt I was starting to lose my mind. I was excited because it would be my first production after graduating. I was excited because the role presented alot of challenges for me, but I was confident I could do it. I sat myself down a good while ago and had a long talk with my bad actor head and convinced her that since I had never failed at anything, she may as well stop telling me I would fail at this. I was excited to get on stage and start working, with this newfound enthusiasm and trust in my abilities. Unfortunately the periods of 'bad actor syndrome' come with the territory. There are few actors, or artists in any form- who haven't doubted their skills, their impulses or their creativity. It's not unique to me, but it's difficult to explain that to my bad actor head when she rears her ugly... head.

Swimming, swimming on the hard wood stage

Round 9: Power Lunch

At any rate, I have spent my week-ends for the last couple months at rehearsal for the show. There are two other actors, both men, both American. They seem very much alike, but they are not. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for my enthusiasm to fade away. I've become accustomed to a certain level of professionalism, it would seem. I have become accustomed to working with people who guide and coax you- help you to understand your role and the play. But here I found myself on my own. The director, Krista, greeted my questions with glares and disapproving looks. Or she'd simply read me the line again and again, as though simply hearing it repeated in an odd, shrill monotone would inspire my imagination. As though it weren't her job as the director to have some sort of vision and understanding of the play. And I still don't understand what is meant by "Act more like a 14 year old!" Do all fourteen year olds act the same? But I digress. I found myself frustrated. Or should I say find. I've managed to make sense of the play for myself- I probably couldn't articulate to someone else how I view my character, but she's there. As much as I've tried to work through the frustrations, some things stand in my way of working. I didn't have my props and set pieces until today- the dress rehearsal. I didn't have my costume- a bathing suit- until last week. But Krista seemed shocked when I said that having these elements made me feel as though I could start working. I'd become frustrated with the part, and with myself after weeks of stagnant rehearsals.

Moi- Sitting on my throne awaiting the beginning of rehearsal.

The play opens on Thursday and I feel like I've only had three real rehearsals and a lot of wasted week-ends. I am frustrated to the point that I don't have anything to say to the director, or the other actors. My bad actor head is coming back, with opening night looming only four days away. I have the first line of the play- and that scares me. Usually opening night I'm frozen with fear for my first five minutes on stage, this time I won't be easing myself in. And I wonder- why do I put myself through this? Why did I spend four years in school, mostly frustrated with the other students and the profs? Why do I continue to push myself to do this? I feel as though I should pack it in and end this sillyness now before it becomes a long, frustrating career... but then I know I've said that after every show. What is it about this work that makes me want to come back? All actors have different reasons for being on stage, and many are there because it's a guaranteed way of getting attention. For me, I appreciate that it helps me grow as a person- in each role I'm challenged to look at myself and see for real, who I am. But is this enough to keep me in a line of work that means committing to a life of poverty? Does it mean working alongside people like Krista for the duration of my career? Krista, who seems to believe that I am who I am for no other reason than to make her angry. If anyone is wondering why my parents thought ahead and sent me to French school, it was so that Krista would become embarrased and accuse me of showing off when she demonstrated for her boyfriend how poorly she could speak French. And therein lies the real issue- I am fairly sure that the immaturity surrounding our relationship stems from insecurity around her relationship to her boyfriend. She's afraid I'm going to steal him away. Hide him in my sock drawer, shelter his ears from her shrill voice and horrid Edmontonian accent, and then toss him back into her ginormous hands once I've finished with him. Women hate other women for so many reasons, and it usually has little to do with who they are, and more to do with the way they look. And so I've been labelled a threat- painted across my forehead and treated with disdain because of the imagined possibility that I might suddenly realize (after four years) that I do not in fact love Fred, but it is our migguk friend Sean who is the object of my affection. Please (she says with dripping sarcasm). The ridiculousness of the situation frustrates me to the point that I have difficulty speaking when she's around. My head fumes as I overhear her trying to show me up in this contest that I won long ago, simply by not competing. Or feeling the need to.

Me, Sean and Ed- Cast of Never Swim Alone

Our space - Kkamang Theatre in Hyehwa, Seoul

The only source of sanity and encouragement that I have had in this process has come from the actors and director of the other show that will go up just before us. I've had more useful direction and advise from Craig, and our brief talks about the play have helped me to make sense of the script in some way. He is the sort of director that is insightful and easy to work with, professional and laid back. It's too bad we didn't really get to work together. As a side, I have to credit him for the photos, they're stolen off his blog...

The show will open on Thursday, with one show Friday, two on Saturday and two on Sunday. Same thing the following week. I hope to find in these performances the reasons that I fell in love with theatre. One of the best profs I had at Concordia used to say that theatre was like a drug- in the beginning you get really high no matter what, but as time goes on, it takes more and more to satisfy you. And it's true. I have come to expect more of myself and from the productions I'm involved in, but it seems that my greatest asset can also be my greatest hindrance. I'm smart. I read the play and I understand it- I pick up quickly on the subtleties of the text, but when others fail to do the same- it infuriates me. Is this perhaps another challenge that theatre presents to me? Finding in myself the patience to accept that everyone is at a different place and needs to work in different ways? Or is it time to call it quits and head back to school, aiming to work in a field that I feel less passionately about? Is it time that I realize what I want and why? Time to settle on a direction, instead of sitting on the fence? Once again, applications are now being accepted for the role of official decision maker. Please include with your application examples of suggestions that you would make should you be engaged in this position. Thank you. Wish me Merde!

Observations of a Young Mind

My father tells me that the first sentence I ever spoke was "Get me out of this prison!" And it seems that it was screamed from the confines of my crib, rather than mumbled quietly to myself. It makes me wonder... at what age do our personalities begin to take shape? Do observations we have as children impact who we become as adults? I've never taken well to authority figures, of any form. The bars of a crib could definetely represent authority and instill a feeling of being trapped. Some people fail to recognize that they're trapped, others are hyper-aware of it. I fit into the latter category. As soon as I begin to feel that I don't have options, I feel emotionally suffocated. I've encountered this feeling again and again, but for some reason, it keeps coming back. Were these cries from the crib an early sign of where my values would lie? An indication of how I would view the world?

My family had some rough years. In fact, many of the years were rough. I'll spare you the details, but here's the basics. My parents separated when I was fourteen. As the oldest child, I was cast in the role of official go-between. To complicate the situation, I was also placed in the precarious role of third parent to Tyler and Travis. Circumstances being what they were, I fought alot. With everyone. I was without an ally, it seemed. Tyler and Travis has each other, but I was the odd man out. I wasn't a parent and wasn't a kid. At any rate, fighting insued with Mom, then with Dad. During high school, I bounced back and forth between their houses, depending on who I was less angry with. And I felt trapped. I felt I had outgrown some of the roles I was being asked to play, but was too young for others. How can you impose a curfew on the third parent? In many ways, I felt I had outgrown high school after grade ten. My preoccupations were different than the people who surrounded me. I wanted to move out on my own. I had grown up, but my age was holding me back. I still had to put in three years in high school, despite the fact that I felt ready to move on. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't- it's hard to say. My memories of my high school years are hazy... as are most of my memories. Grade twelve ended, and I moved out. I felt free, casting away the invisible bars that had kept me at home longer than I cared to stay. But then I began to see them in other places. Calgary began to feel too small, too clausterphobic. It seemed there wasn't enough space, not enough variety. I felt trapped by my options. I was studying theatre, but felt uninspired by my surroundings. Calgary and I differed in values. Calgary is a good fit for business people, but is still a stretch for artists. At least for young, idealistic artists. I thought theatre had powerful potential and should be used to change and challenge. But before changing the world, I needed to know what to challenge. I wasn't sure what about Calgary no longer fit, but I was feeling trapped. Then one day I was on the train coming back from school, and there were two young men, only a couple years older than me, dressed in suits and talking about their life insurance policies. And it occured to me that this was why Calgary no longer fit. I didn't ever want to talk about life insurance. My apologies to anyone who feels passionately about the insurance industry, but I can't imagine anything more boring. I didn't want to live in a sprawling urban city where people commuted downtown only to work, and then returned immediately to their castles in the suburbs. I didn't want to shop at the Gap or eat at Red Lobster, but it seemed other options were few and far between. What were my options? It suddenly hit me- I needed to leave. Just as I had done after graduating high school, I packed up my things and moved.

I arrived in Montreal and felt refreshed, excited. But my first year in Montreal was painfully difficult and I remember returning to Calgary for Christmas, not wanting to leave. But soon things began to change. The things that had trapped me in Calgary were absent in Montreal. When I arrived, the only Starbucks there was in Chapters. Many big chain restaurants didn't want to bother with the complications of Bill 101 (law restricting the use of the English language), so they never came to Montreal. Montreal is proudly free of Red Lobster, Olive Garden, 7-11 and other such American chains. It was exactly what I needed. Second only to New York for restaurants per capita, Montreal has an overwhelming number of choices, and most are family-owned. In fact, Red Lobster closed down in Quebec years ago because they were unable to compete with family-owned restaurants that offered better food at lower prices. Far from the apathy of the University of Calgary, Concordia students protested everything. There were posters in the hallways encouraging people to vote against a 60 cent raise per credit in fees. Coming from a school that was steadily increasing their tuition by a couple hundred dollars a year and no one complained, I loved the activity. Until one day I skipped class because there were snipers on the roof of my school. Sometimes political activity goes too far, which is something I never would have admitted in my pre-Concordia days. But I was feeling trapped here too. When I'd gone to school in Alberta, the government had handed me a big cheque in September and told me not to bother them until the following year. In Quebec, they sent tiny cheque after tiny cheque- consistently late and never quite enough. I finally found a job at a restaurant in the Old Port and lasted there for a year and a half. But when you're paying Quebec tax, a minimum wage restaurant job plus tips will leave you with enough to buy a coffee, if you're lucky. I was tired of making choices out of necessity. I didn't want to turn down auditions because I couldn't afford to miss a day of work at my bad job. So I moved to Korea.

Land of the Morning Calm. And so it is- morning is just about the only time things are calm here. My new life in Korea promised stability- paid accomodations, cheap bills and a good paying job. With money in the bank, I suddenly have options. I can save it, spend it on new toys, travel or pay back my student loans (but that's as boring as life insurance). There are so many options! Here I am, immersed in a different culture and learning more and more about myself and the world. I am living by myself for the first time. Over the last seven months, I've begun feeling like I'm coming up to decision time. At some point soon, I'll have to decide what I want to do with my life. Maybe that was the real reason I felt out of place in Calgary- everyone seemed to know what they were doing. I still haven't quite figured it out. The very thought of returning to a customer service job makes me ill. I'm experiencing a quarter life crisis here. I understand why people move to Korea and never go home. What are we going home to? Proud as we are of what we have in Canada, I think much of it comes about in media manipulation. Our health care system is not as good as we think it is. Who cares if it's free? It's just not good. Korean health care costs 25$ a month and includes cheap trips to the dentist. My friend had her wisdom teeth pulled for 7$. Once a month when it's time for me to pay my cell phone bill, I walk into the LG store and slap 10$ on the table- and I have to admit that I'm always slightly annoyed that I have to pay it at all. Going home will a rude awakening for me. But as the weather heats up- and the air- hot, humid and heavy with pollution becomes thicker and thicker I reach for my summer clothes. Then I remember that wearing a tank top will find me in the prostitute category for all those Korean men not accustomed to seeing exposed shoulders. And I already draw enough attention and unwanted conversation, so instead I put on T-Shirts and dream of cool days in Montreal. My co-workers question me as to why I'm not married, as though there's something wrong with me. Their goal is to find a man and they look at me with pity because I'm living alone. They can't understand why I would leave Canada without my boyfriend- and probably secretly suspect he doesn't exist. After all, no Korean woman would leave her boyfriend behind. And so here I also feel trapped. Trapped by customs and beliefs that go back centuries. I feel trapped in my job- many of the elements guaranteed me in my contract, have been ignored. In Canada, I wouldn't hesitate to throw a tantrum and storm out the door. But here, my employer pays my apartment. Storming out the door means I lose my 2500$ contract bonus, my plane ticket home, and my damage deposit. En plus, I need written permission from my boss to get another job in Korea. I'm stuck. But I've made it almost eight months, and only have another four ahead of me. I just happened to land myself a bad job and didn't act fast enough. I should have quit in December, but I was pacing my demands and now I don't have a choice. And it drives me nuts. I'm counting down to the end of my contract, even though it's going to be hard to leave Korea- I can't wait to be finished with my boss. I have never before felt so trapped, because in this case, there really are no choices. Turning him into immigration also means the loss of all my bonuses, so I'm forced to keep my mouth shut and count down the days. I've never been good at keeping my mouth shut... here's hoping I can do it for just another four and a half months.
The experiences I've had in Calgary, Montreal and now in Seoul have all taught me something about myself. All signs seem to be pointing towards working for myself. I can't handle authority, therefore I can't handle a boss. I'm beginning to think that what I do to make money is less important to me than the lifestyle that I enjoy. I think I would be perfectly happy doing almost anything- so long as I made my own schedule and don't have to abide by someone else's rules. As long as I never have to put on another uniform, or sit near a cubicle wall. Because the uniform and the cubicle walls are just like the bars that held me in my crib. Designed to keep you in- to keep you looking and behaving in a certain way. The uniform, the cubicles- they're dehumanizing, generic and fighting to keep you looking and acting in a way that the company has deemed appropriate. They encourage you to feel as though you're part of a team, but insist that you keep your workspace and your uniform free of personal items- anything that gives a hint of an existence outside the confines of the work environment. After all, we wouldn't want you feeling too comfortable here.