If you received Quebec student loans for the 1997-1998 or 1998-1999 school years, you were probably screwed. I mean, everyone on student loans has been screwed, but you were screwed a little more than the rest of us. Apparently during these years, the Ministere de l'Education backtracked on their agreement with students not to charge them interest or request payment until six months after their graduation. They started charging interest immediately upon graduation, just to get that little bit extra out of you. Quebec say fare. Or Quebec sait faire, as my Dad would say... although I was never sure in what language. They didn't account for the fact that not everybody on Quebec student loans gets a useless degree like a BFA (I can say that because I have one- you holders of BAs or BSCs, by the way, are not much better off, so be quiet). McGill law school graduate, Harry Dikranian, recipient of said screwy loans took the government to court in 1999 and has finally won his case. Good thing he was a lawyer and could book himself some 'free' (except for that nasty student loan) legal aid. In June 2008, some
80 000 Quebec students should be receiving checks for as much as 1200$. The government expects to dish out about 30 million dollars in interest repayments. So if you happened to be a loan recipient those years in Quebec, visit http://www.mels.gouv.qc.ca/ministere/info/index.asp?page=communiques&id=144
and sign yourself up to get your money back. The government claims they'll be mailing out letters to these students, but I'm sure many of them will be lost in the mail. And good luck finding this information on the ministry's English site, or in the English newspaper. Apparently only the French deserve to know about this reimbursement. I'm surprised they didn't post it only in English to minimize the number of payments!
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Monday, December 03, 2007
Snow Day II
Monday I enjoyed my second snow day ever. I always thought that phone calls at 5:30am could only bring bad news, but as it turns out, they can also bring very good news. Not having slept well Sunday night, I was particularly happy about being able to stay in bed all morning. Part of me wanted to pack up my bag and head for the mountains- another part of me realized that since I hate winter, most of me is throughly unprepared for a good snow day. I don't own a toboggan or a pair of skis, or even skates for that matter. And what I've come to call a mountain is little more than a hill with a T-bar. Even if I owned skis, that would have made for about ten seconds of excitement.
Sadly I haven't posted lately because I have nothing new to report. It seems substitute teaching is in full swing now- I look forward to my weekdays off, only to see them quickly snatched up one by one. Which is a good thing, I guess. In January I'll be starting my Bachelor of Social Work at the University of Victoria through online studies. It seems like a perfect match. Three years at Bishop Carroll High School taught me to loathe sitting in a classroom, so this seems like the perfect way around two years in a cold, dark and dingy classroom with eight hundred other people. I know what it's like. I took a class once. The 8am Psych 200 class at University of Calgary. I think I lasted three weeks. After successfully falling asleep in an exam worth 25% of my grade, I decided to drop out while I was ahead. A W on my transcripts qualifies as ahead in this case. I wish the person sitting next to me had woken me up. I mean, I fell asleep on the guy's shoulder, it's not like he didn't notice.
Hopefully more news soon... although winter usually makes me want to lounge about on my new couch enjoying our 148 satellite channels (10 of which are CTV, 8 of which are CBC and 6 of these are Global). At least I'm sure never to miss House again- we get it in five different time zones.
Sadly I haven't posted lately because I have nothing new to report. It seems substitute teaching is in full swing now- I look forward to my weekdays off, only to see them quickly snatched up one by one. Which is a good thing, I guess. In January I'll be starting my Bachelor of Social Work at the University of Victoria through online studies. It seems like a perfect match. Three years at Bishop Carroll High School taught me to loathe sitting in a classroom, so this seems like the perfect way around two years in a cold, dark and dingy classroom with eight hundred other people. I know what it's like. I took a class once. The 8am Psych 200 class at University of Calgary. I think I lasted three weeks. After successfully falling asleep in an exam worth 25% of my grade, I decided to drop out while I was ahead. A W on my transcripts qualifies as ahead in this case. I wish the person sitting next to me had woken me up. I mean, I fell asleep on the guy's shoulder, it's not like he didn't notice.
Hopefully more news soon... although winter usually makes me want to lounge about on my new couch enjoying our 148 satellite channels (10 of which are CTV, 8 of which are CBC and 6 of these are Global). At least I'm sure never to miss House again- we get it in five different time zones.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Toujours Sexy
Since I started teaching in Quebec, I feel like I've been in a constant state of shock. I was spoiled by the respectful, well behaved students I taught in Korea and I still have trouble adjusting to the differences. Fearless six year olds are a frightening thing. They know that there is absolutely nothing that you can do to them to make them work. I have witnessed temper tantrums involving ripping posters off walls, running around the classroom throwing things around, even spitting water all over the place. Each and every time I encounter one of these situations, I contemplate how happy I am that Fred and I agree on never having children. It is becoming harder and harder, I think, to point to the parents as the source of trouble. It's society as a whole.
Last year, I was shocked by the grade two class I was teaching when I noticed them giving each other the finger. That same class used the word sexy to describe everything under the sun- a word I know was never used in any of my classes... although I did go to Catholic school. Then the other day at Provigo, I passed by the deli section and saw the sign below;
It's an ad for tourtière, a traditional québécois pie, described as Always Sexy. What? Really? What is so sexy about tourtière, I wondered. Does it take a special person to make sexy tourtière? Is there a dress code? Does the beef and the pork have to be ground by sexy hands? What about the garlic? Is there garlic in a sexy tourtière? I wouldn't think so. I guess that's where these kids get it from. If a tourtière is sexy, why can't I call my classmates sexy? Why not my teacher? My eraser? The colour blue?
Embarrassing errors in Asia were understandable. English signs were everywhere, but they didn't have enough English speakers to correct and edit them before they went up. And they were too proud. In Canada, it's a completely different story. I would be interested in sitting down with the marketing team for this particular brand of tourtière, to help me understand what it is they were trying to say with this campaign. They definitely know what sexy means. So it isn't in the same category of errors as the sign I saw at La Ronde last week that said Dis is a Trill Trill Ride. To be fair, they were screwing up the French as well at La Ronde. Apparently the Office de la langue française hasn't been around in awhile. Or nobody knows how to write the French language. One or the other. Maybe a little of both.
It's unfortunate that we're getting to a point where so few people can write effectively. Can be understood. An Anglophone girl in one of my classes spelled dumb D-I-M-E. That's trouble. If she were francophone, I'd let it go. But for a girl of eleven not to be able to spell a simple four letter word, there's something that's not right.
In studying for this stupid French test that I still haven't taken, here's some French terms brought to you by the Office de la langue française. For those of you that speak French, it's hilarious. Ils sont pris de la section vocabulaire du livre de révision, qui cherche à adresser le problème d'anglicismes, barbarismes, paronymes et de synonymes dans les textes français.
Last year, I was shocked by the grade two class I was teaching when I noticed them giving each other the finger. That same class used the word sexy to describe everything under the sun- a word I know was never used in any of my classes... although I did go to Catholic school. Then the other day at Provigo, I passed by the deli section and saw the sign below;
It's an ad for tourtière, a traditional québécois pie, described as Always Sexy. What? Really? What is so sexy about tourtière, I wondered. Does it take a special person to make sexy tourtière? Is there a dress code? Does the beef and the pork have to be ground by sexy hands? What about the garlic? Is there garlic in a sexy tourtière? I wouldn't think so. I guess that's where these kids get it from. If a tourtière is sexy, why can't I call my classmates sexy? Why not my teacher? My eraser? The colour blue?Embarrassing errors in Asia were understandable. English signs were everywhere, but they didn't have enough English speakers to correct and edit them before they went up. And they were too proud. In Canada, it's a completely different story. I would be interested in sitting down with the marketing team for this particular brand of tourtière, to help me understand what it is they were trying to say with this campaign. They definitely know what sexy means. So it isn't in the same category of errors as the sign I saw at La Ronde last week that said Dis is a Trill Trill Ride. To be fair, they were screwing up the French as well at La Ronde. Apparently the Office de la langue française hasn't been around in awhile. Or nobody knows how to write the French language. One or the other. Maybe a little of both.
It's unfortunate that we're getting to a point where so few people can write effectively. Can be understood. An Anglophone girl in one of my classes spelled dumb D-I-M-E. That's trouble. If she were francophone, I'd let it go. But for a girl of eleven not to be able to spell a simple four letter word, there's something that's not right.
In studying for this stupid French test that I still haven't taken, here's some French terms brought to you by the Office de la langue française. For those of you that speak French, it's hilarious. Ils sont pris de la section vocabulaire du livre de révision, qui cherche à adresser le problème d'anglicismes, barbarismes, paronymes et de synonymes dans les textes français.
- J'ai fait une demande d'emploi (au lieu d'application).
- N'oublie pas de verrouiller la porte (au lieu de barrer).
- Mets des agrafes dans l'agrafeuse (au lieu de brocheuse).
- Voilà un bel appareil photo (au lieu de caméra).
- J'ai apporté mon acte de naissance (au lieu de certificat de naissance).
- Nous avons l'air conditionné dans nos bureaux (au lieu d'air climatisé).
- Vous devez remplir un formulaire (au lieu de complèter).
- Je descendais de l'autobus au moment où tu montais (au lieu de débarquer et embarquer).
- Lisez bien le modes d'emploi (au lieu les instructions)
Saturday, November 03, 2007
A Rant From a Tete Carre
Having lived in Korea for a year, I became accustomed to being treated like I didn't quite belong. Whether it was the blond hair or the blue eyes that gave me away I'll never know, but it didn't take long for this treatment to get old. True, it bought me plenty of attention, discounts and over-the-top service, but there are days when you just want to blend in. Now in Montreal, surrounded by the French speaking majority, the same feeling of unease is setting in.
The developments of the reasonable accommodation hearings have become as common a topic as the weather, and slightly more heated. With PQ leader Pauline Maurois's recent proposal of a Quebec citizenship card, I feel ill at ease. This card would require new immigrants to sign a contract agreeing to conform to our culture and to learn French within three years. Apparently this ridiculous proposal has now been expanded to new arrivals from other parts of Canada.
Seven years in this province have shown me that no matter how fluent you are in French, if your last name is not Gagnon, Lefebvre or Levesque you will never be fully accepted. Despite having two Anglophone parents, I was lucky enough to be registered in a French immersion school. Having learned French at school, I never picked up on the joual (Québec slang). Some of my teachers were Québécois, others were French, resulting in an accent that was neither Anglo, Québécois or French. A little confused, one might say. Upon return to Montreal, I confused both the Régie de l'assurance santé (Health board) and the Société d'automobile (Automobile association) when I turned up and requested a Quebec drivers license and health care card. Speaking in French at the Régie de l'assurance santé, they were completely confused when I told them I needed to renew my health care care but had been gone for nineteen years. The women asked if I had been in France or Belgium. When I told her I had been in Alberta all this time, she was shocked. Such experiences have proven to me that my French is pretty good. I still try to challenge myself to improve it- my written French is far from perfect and I try to make an effort to push myself to learn more.
For every time I've been mistaken for a foreign francophone, there have also been times when someone has gone out of their way to point out that my French is different from theirs and I should be ashamed. Serving a large table in my days at the restaurant du Vieux-Port, one man turned to me and asked where I was from. Before I could answer, he said your accent is not quite québécois. I explained that I was born in Quebec, but raised in Alberta and learned French at school. "Ahhh, that's what it is! An Anglophone accent!" he said, both of us knowing full well that if he really thought I was Anglophone, there would not have been a need to ask. He knows full well what an Anglophone accent sounds like. Not to mention the fact that I was there a year and a half and the management always addressed me in French. A few weeks before I left, they heard me speaking English and it was only then that they realized I was English. The other day at school, I got really angry. I was sitting at the lunch table talking to the homeroom teacher whose class I had just taught. I was telling her how terribly our English class had gone and how her students had shown no respect for me whatsoever. After we finished ranting about her class, I asked her who was sitting beside her. I taught for three months at this school last year, so I know most of the teachers. But there was someone new sitting next to her. She introduced us and the woman asked if I was replacing the English teacher. I said yes and she announced that she knew I was English from my accent. I wanted to scream, "That's not how you knew I was English! You knew I was English because I've been sitting here talking about my terrible English class for ten minutes!" I shot the other English teacher a look and she was clearly holding back as well. An unwritten rule at this school prevents the English teachers from speaking in English in the lunchroom. Whether that is because of the school full of separatists working there (who are not anti-anglo, but anti-Canada), or because they feel uncomfortable not understanding what is being said, I've never been sure. What I am sure of is how frustrating it is to have someone speak to you so condescendingly about the quality of your second language when you know damn well that they couldn't get out ten words in English. Of course, such condescension is reserved for those Anglophones who do speak French very well. There would be no point in making such a comment to someone who does have a pronounced English accent, after all, they already know they sound English.
To those outside Quebec, these may sound like petty frustrations. I once thought so too. But the longer I spend here, the more disillusioned I become. The discussion about maintaining the French language is getting not only old, but ridiculous. Saku Koivu and the Montreal Canadiens were attacked this week for introducing the team in English at the home opener. Coming from Finland, Koivu's French is minimal and he was attacked, raising a debate about whether or not players for the Canadiens should be required to learn French to be on the team. How could he spend twelve years here and not speak French? Perhaps he was a bit busy overcoming cancer to attend his language lessons. While the rest of the world is struggling to learn English, Quebec is struggling to keep it out. They ignore the fact that the international language of business is English and the vast majority of their population is unemployable anywhere else in the country, if not the world. I am embarrassed for Quebec, determined to remain unilingual. It will be a rude awakening when they realize that the basis for the reasonable accomodation debates is a reality. The immigrant population will take over. They will take over the economy because they will be the only ones that can communicate with the outside world and understand the reality of the global economy. The more I think about it, the more I want to pack my bags and move to BC.
The developments of the reasonable accommodation hearings have become as common a topic as the weather, and slightly more heated. With PQ leader Pauline Maurois's recent proposal of a Quebec citizenship card, I feel ill at ease. This card would require new immigrants to sign a contract agreeing to conform to our culture and to learn French within three years. Apparently this ridiculous proposal has now been expanded to new arrivals from other parts of Canada.
Seven years in this province have shown me that no matter how fluent you are in French, if your last name is not Gagnon, Lefebvre or Levesque you will never be fully accepted. Despite having two Anglophone parents, I was lucky enough to be registered in a French immersion school. Having learned French at school, I never picked up on the joual (Québec slang). Some of my teachers were Québécois, others were French, resulting in an accent that was neither Anglo, Québécois or French. A little confused, one might say. Upon return to Montreal, I confused both the Régie de l'assurance santé (Health board) and the Société d'automobile (Automobile association) when I turned up and requested a Quebec drivers license and health care card. Speaking in French at the Régie de l'assurance santé, they were completely confused when I told them I needed to renew my health care care but had been gone for nineteen years. The women asked if I had been in France or Belgium. When I told her I had been in Alberta all this time, she was shocked. Such experiences have proven to me that my French is pretty good. I still try to challenge myself to improve it- my written French is far from perfect and I try to make an effort to push myself to learn more.
For every time I've been mistaken for a foreign francophone, there have also been times when someone has gone out of their way to point out that my French is different from theirs and I should be ashamed. Serving a large table in my days at the restaurant du Vieux-Port, one man turned to me and asked where I was from. Before I could answer, he said your accent is not quite québécois. I explained that I was born in Quebec, but raised in Alberta and learned French at school. "Ahhh, that's what it is! An Anglophone accent!" he said, both of us knowing full well that if he really thought I was Anglophone, there would not have been a need to ask. He knows full well what an Anglophone accent sounds like. Not to mention the fact that I was there a year and a half and the management always addressed me in French. A few weeks before I left, they heard me speaking English and it was only then that they realized I was English. The other day at school, I got really angry. I was sitting at the lunch table talking to the homeroom teacher whose class I had just taught. I was telling her how terribly our English class had gone and how her students had shown no respect for me whatsoever. After we finished ranting about her class, I asked her who was sitting beside her. I taught for three months at this school last year, so I know most of the teachers. But there was someone new sitting next to her. She introduced us and the woman asked if I was replacing the English teacher. I said yes and she announced that she knew I was English from my accent. I wanted to scream, "That's not how you knew I was English! You knew I was English because I've been sitting here talking about my terrible English class for ten minutes!" I shot the other English teacher a look and she was clearly holding back as well. An unwritten rule at this school prevents the English teachers from speaking in English in the lunchroom. Whether that is because of the school full of separatists working there (who are not anti-anglo, but anti-Canada), or because they feel uncomfortable not understanding what is being said, I've never been sure. What I am sure of is how frustrating it is to have someone speak to you so condescendingly about the quality of your second language when you know damn well that they couldn't get out ten words in English. Of course, such condescension is reserved for those Anglophones who do speak French very well. There would be no point in making such a comment to someone who does have a pronounced English accent, after all, they already know they sound English.
To those outside Quebec, these may sound like petty frustrations. I once thought so too. But the longer I spend here, the more disillusioned I become. The discussion about maintaining the French language is getting not only old, but ridiculous. Saku Koivu and the Montreal Canadiens were attacked this week for introducing the team in English at the home opener. Coming from Finland, Koivu's French is minimal and he was attacked, raising a debate about whether or not players for the Canadiens should be required to learn French to be on the team. How could he spend twelve years here and not speak French? Perhaps he was a bit busy overcoming cancer to attend his language lessons. While the rest of the world is struggling to learn English, Quebec is struggling to keep it out. They ignore the fact that the international language of business is English and the vast majority of their population is unemployable anywhere else in the country, if not the world. I am embarrassed for Quebec, determined to remain unilingual. It will be a rude awakening when they realize that the basis for the reasonable accomodation debates is a reality. The immigrant population will take over. They will take over the economy because they will be the only ones that can communicate with the outside world and understand the reality of the global economy. The more I think about it, the more I want to pack my bags and move to BC.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Organ Donation
While you're waiting for a kidney you think
about the guy who told you he always wanted
to be president, or a doctor but never did. But never
did anything but sell day old bread.
You list your accomplishments, picture obituaries,
and send out emails urging your friends to drink
and drive but to remember to sign their organ donation cards.
Any day now the call about kidneys available,
any day you might stumble onto something.
While reading the paper you might see an ad
for a Matzo Ball eating contest and be suddenly certain
you'll be remembered and you'll receive a pancreas
and a perfect kidney. For you there is greatness
and both your parents are still alive to see it. Any day now
like it happened for the day-old bread store owner
who became somebody in the competitive eating circuit.
about the guy who told you he always wanted
to be president, or a doctor but never did. But never
did anything but sell day old bread.
You list your accomplishments, picture obituaries,
and send out emails urging your friends to drink
and drive but to remember to sign their organ donation cards.
Any day now the call about kidneys available,
any day you might stumble onto something.
While reading the paper you might see an ad
for a Matzo Ball eating contest and be suddenly certain
you'll be remembered and you'll receive a pancreas
and a perfect kidney. For you there is greatness
and both your parents are still alive to see it. Any day now
like it happened for the day-old bread store owner
who became somebody in the competitive eating circuit.
-Larissa Andrusyshun
(A friend of mine & Fred)
(A friend of mine & Fred)
Saturday, October 13, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Blog Action Day-October 15th
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Post for Burma
Myanmar (or Burma) is ruled by a military junta, leaving the people with impoverished and with little freedom. The human rights violations are astounding, and the Burmese people are speaking out for the first time since 1988. Though many face torture and death for their political activism, Buddhist monks have been the voice of change in Myanmar in recent weeks. Officially, pro-democracy Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi was elected by a landslide in 1990, but has never been allowed to govern. The country has benefited from increased tourist overflows from Thailand and Laos, but little of the incoming funds have touched the people.
Monday, October 01, 2007
A New Approach to Organ Donation?
Read the article, then sign your donor card!
http://blog.wired.com/wiredscience/2007/10/opt-out-organ-d.html
http://blog.wired.com/wiredscie
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Seriously?
I have had a slow introduction to the Quebec Education system. I had a temporary contract at a private school for three months last winter and have done some substitution work at a private school for learning disabled kids. At the special needs school, I noticed my first day that the classrooms were pretty old looking, the books, having been used for twenty-some years were falling apart and that for a class of ADD children, there was an alarming amount of reading in the curriculum, with very little hands on learning. The school is 75% French and 25% English, and my first experiences there were on the English side. Then I worked on the French side. With new books, new desks and even blinds for the windows! Coincidence? I've been in Montreal too long to believe in that.
So finally after a lot of running about, I finally got all the appropriate papers to the smaller school boards to apply for teaching. I'm still missing the mandatory exam, but I'm hoping I may have found a way around it. At least for now. A few days later, the Commission Scolaire de la Pointe de l'Ile (Tip of the island school board) called me and proposed two positions. They were both teaching drama, one at an elementary school and one at a high school. I told her I would prefer the high school and set up an interview for the following day, Friday. I made my way up to Montreal North and approached the address I had been given. I reached an enormous building on Henri Bourassa East and the sign on the building confirmed that I was at the right place. I made my way to the front doors, just as a student leaned out the window and yelled "Hey Sexy!". I began to question whether high school was the place for me. How hard would I have to work to get respect from the kids and the staff if I was mistaken for a student at my interview? I walked into the building and began to feel slightly overwhelmed. A group of security guards were huddled around the reception desk dealing with four awkward looking boys. I tried to get their attention and eventually asked one of the guards for directions to human resources. Up the escalators to the third floor.
The human resources lady greeted me excitedly and informed me that they had been looking for a drama teacher for awhile. She directed me to the principal's office for my interview. He seemed immediately unimpressed. For the next forty minutes, I was grilled about my pedagogical vision. I struggled to find a way to explain that it was difficult question, given that drama isn't like science or math, where students are coming in with a particular set of skills. I gave examples of exercises and activities, long term goals and tossed out the idea of each semester culminating in a final performance for the school. He seemed unimpressed. How would I go about preparing a lesson plan? According to my goals for that class. Here are some examples. I was getting flustered and frustrated that his questions seemed to be coming out of a standard interview guide, without room for understanding that the arts cannot necessarily be taught in the same way. I struggled between helping him to understand how important the dramatic arts are in the school curriculum and sounding too artsy. I soon discovered the reason for his hesitation, his barrage of questions and his insistence that my plans need to be more concrete. I was being interviewed to teach nineteen classes of thirty students each. I suddenly understood and became quite uneasy. With six hundred students, how likely is it that I would even learn all of their names by the end of the year? How effectively would I be able to help them reach the goals that I had set for them, if I only see them for seventy-five minutes every nine days? Most importantly, with nearly six hundred students to keep track of, how quickly would I lose my mind?
And so continues the quest for the perfect job- or at least a tolerable one. ..
So finally after a lot of running about, I finally got all the appropriate papers to the smaller school boards to apply for teaching. I'm still missing the mandatory exam, but I'm hoping I may have found a way around it. At least for now. A few days later, the Commission Scolaire de la Pointe de l'Ile (Tip of the island school board) called me and proposed two positions. They were both teaching drama, one at an elementary school and one at a high school. I told her I would prefer the high school and set up an interview for the following day, Friday. I made my way up to Montreal North and approached the address I had been given. I reached an enormous building on Henri Bourassa East and the sign on the building confirmed that I was at the right place. I made my way to the front doors, just as a student leaned out the window and yelled "Hey Sexy!". I began to question whether high school was the place for me. How hard would I have to work to get respect from the kids and the staff if I was mistaken for a student at my interview? I walked into the building and began to feel slightly overwhelmed. A group of security guards were huddled around the reception desk dealing with four awkward looking boys. I tried to get their attention and eventually asked one of the guards for directions to human resources. Up the escalators to the third floor.
The human resources lady greeted me excitedly and informed me that they had been looking for a drama teacher for awhile. She directed me to the principal's office for my interview. He seemed immediately unimpressed. For the next forty minutes, I was grilled about my pedagogical vision. I struggled to find a way to explain that it was difficult question, given that drama isn't like science or math, where students are coming in with a particular set of skills. I gave examples of exercises and activities, long term goals and tossed out the idea of each semester culminating in a final performance for the school. He seemed unimpressed. How would I go about preparing a lesson plan? According to my goals for that class. Here are some examples. I was getting flustered and frustrated that his questions seemed to be coming out of a standard interview guide, without room for understanding that the arts cannot necessarily be taught in the same way. I struggled between helping him to understand how important the dramatic arts are in the school curriculum and sounding too artsy. I soon discovered the reason for his hesitation, his barrage of questions and his insistence that my plans need to be more concrete. I was being interviewed to teach nineteen classes of thirty students each. I suddenly understood and became quite uneasy. With six hundred students, how likely is it that I would even learn all of their names by the end of the year? How effectively would I be able to help them reach the goals that I had set for them, if I only see them for seventy-five minutes every nine days? Most importantly, with nearly six hundred students to keep track of, how quickly would I lose my mind?
And so continues the quest for the perfect job- or at least a tolerable one. ..
Monday, September 17, 2007
Reasonably Québécois
If Quebec Montreal Quebec Montreal Quebec a reasonable province, two hundred thousand Montreal
In light of these lapses of judgment, forgive me if I question the goals of a body established to discuss the issue deemed reasonable accommodation. Do I believe that newcomers to
My old roommate, Fajer, on the cover of a Quebec weekly
drawing attention to the reasonable accommodation debate.
The world is changing. Economics and communication are moving people more than ever from one edge of the globe to the other. It is not just
As the reasonable accommodation debate heats up, I cringe. In a province that has never been known to be reasonable to any sort of accommodation, I fear the judgments that will soon flow freely.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Adventures in Vars, Ontario
The last couple weeks have been chaotic. Carrie arrived for her first visit to Montreal, Thelma and Francis arrived for their wedding. Fred and I stepped up to the plate as tour guides and tried to give Montreal a fair showing, which doesn't take much. On Thursday, Carrie and I hopped into our rented Hyundai Elantra and sped off in search of Thelma's farm in Navan, Ontario. Armed with our MapQuest directions, we were sure to get there in one piece. We bravely faced the streets and highways of Montreal, marked not only by potholes, but also by the littered remains of cars that just couldn't go on. Ontario license plates scattered across the harsh terrain- drivers that couldn't handle the stress of driving the streets of Montreal. We sped towards Ottawa and finally an hour and a half later made a quick right onto Rockdale Road in the direction of Navan. Arriving downtown Navan, we realized that MapQuest had failed us (or rather we had failed MapQuest- apparently you need to give it a complete address). The directions were incomplete, so we dialed the farm, hoping that Thelma would be able to give us directions...
The night that changed the relationship between Thelma and I began with Rob and Syd, a lot of homemade wine, and a hot tub. Rob and I had already been dating for a couple months, and Thelma and Syd started dating that night. We were up all night and in the morning, Rob drove me to work and took the car to drive Thelma home. He'd never been to her house before, but I assured him that it wasn't far from where my mom lived. And it isn't. But Thelma's famous sense of direction (or lack thereof) resulted in a good hour of driving around SW Calgary until finally one of them saw something that looked familiar and were able to figure out where to go from there. Thelma had been living in that same neighbourhood for most of her life. This was the girl that I called to get directions from downtown Navan to her farm.
First off, Thelma informed us that she didn't in fact live in Navan, so were in the wrong place entirely. Carrie and I laughed and bickered through the nonsensical directions we were given. Thelma told us the addresses on her street weren't sequential, so not to bother looking at them. The house can't be seen from the street, so don't bother looking. We were told to look for a green mailbox, brown cows in the pasture and a corn stand on the corner. As you can imagine, there is no shortage of brown cows or corn stands in the Ontario countryside. After a heated argument about whether or not there was a fire station on Thelma's street, we discovered that she in fact lived in the town of Vars, and not Navan. Is it any wonder MapQuest and I had a fight about what town her street was in?
We eventually arrived. For the next four days, the Bearbrook Resort Inn was home to us at the incredible inflated rate of 100$/night. That night, we took Thelma out for her Bachelorette party with a group of her high school friends. Despite her best efforts to remain sober, Thelma had a few too many martinis at eighteen. For half the night, she sounded a bit like a broken record- proclaiming that she had too much to do to deal with being hung over the next day. By the time we met up with Francis's stag party, she was having fun and had forgotten about her list of things to do. On the way back to the farm, we enjoyed our last 4am breakfast run for quite awhile and dropped Thelma off at home. We told her we wouldn't leave unless she promised to go right to bed, she promised, so we drove back to our 'cozy' room at Bearbrook. I discovered the following day that my good friend Thelma, who I'd known for eighteen years and was about to stand beside as maid of honour, was a liar. She stayed up for hours after we dropped her off- making center pieces and finalizing the seating arrangement.
The wedding was beautiful, despite all of our fears that there was too much left to do. Thelma finally learned how to delegate the day before the wedding and everything came together. The ceremony was relaxed, simple and beautiful all at once. We were attacked by mosquitoes and Francis, ever the gentleman, was chastised during the ceremony for slapping his bride's forehead to save her from a bite. Both Thelma and Francis were so happy all day and it made me think. When I get married, I think we'll elope.
The night that changed the relationship between Thelma and I began with Rob and Syd, a lot of homemade wine, and a hot tub. Rob and I had already been dating for a couple months, and Thelma and Syd started dating that night. We were up all night and in the morning, Rob drove me to work and took the car to drive Thelma home. He'd never been to her house before, but I assured him that it wasn't far from where my mom lived. And it isn't. But Thelma's famous sense of direction (or lack thereof) resulted in a good hour of driving around SW Calgary until finally one of them saw something that looked familiar and were able to figure out where to go from there. Thelma had been living in that same neighbourhood for most of her life. This was the girl that I called to get directions from downtown Navan to her farm.
First off, Thelma informed us that she didn't in fact live in Navan, so were in the wrong place entirely. Carrie and I laughed and bickered through the nonsensical directions we were given. Thelma told us the addresses on her street weren't sequential, so not to bother looking at them. The house can't be seen from the street, so don't bother looking. We were told to look for a green mailbox, brown cows in the pasture and a corn stand on the corner. As you can imagine, there is no shortage of brown cows or corn stands in the Ontario countryside. After a heated argument about whether or not there was a fire station on Thelma's street, we discovered that she in fact lived in the town of Vars, and not Navan. Is it any wonder MapQuest and I had a fight about what town her street was in?
We eventually arrived. For the next four days, the Bearbrook Resort Inn was home to us at the incredible inflated rate of 100$/night. That night, we took Thelma out for her Bachelorette party with a group of her high school friends. Despite her best efforts to remain sober, Thelma had a few too many martinis at eighteen. For half the night, she sounded a bit like a broken record- proclaiming that she had too much to do to deal with being hung over the next day. By the time we met up with Francis's stag party, she was having fun and had forgotten about her list of things to do. On the way back to the farm, we enjoyed our last 4am breakfast run for quite awhile and dropped Thelma off at home. We told her we wouldn't leave unless she promised to go right to bed, she promised, so we drove back to our 'cozy' room at Bearbrook. I discovered the following day that my good friend Thelma, who I'd known for eighteen years and was about to stand beside as maid of honour, was a liar. She stayed up for hours after we dropped her off- making center pieces and finalizing the seating arrangement.
The wedding was beautiful, despite all of our fears that there was too much left to do. Thelma finally learned how to delegate the day before the wedding and everything came together. The ceremony was relaxed, simple and beautiful all at once. We were attacked by mosquitoes and Francis, ever the gentleman, was chastised during the ceremony for slapping his bride's forehead to save her from a bite. Both Thelma and Francis were so happy all day and it made me think. When I get married, I think we'll elope.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
I Feel Fall
It seems summer comes and goes a bit faster every year. Yesterday I woke up early to make my way to the yoga studio for my weekly reception gig. I tossed on a sarong and some flip flops and left the house, only to be greeted by crisp fall air as I opened the door and stepped into the sun. This first breath of fall is always accompanied by a feeling of dread. I love the fall, but there is always the knowledge that it is about to lead into a cold, long winter. Every winter spent in Montreal makes Vancouver look a lot better.
The last few weeks have been hectic. Today I'm enjoying my first day off since Thelma's wedding. As I have trouble tolerating my position at Brother, I'm desperately seeking a way out- which seems to have led me to substitution work at a school for learning disabled kids. They've taken me on for French and English work, so I've actually gotten quite a few days from them already. If I can find another two or three schools to substitute for, it should become a full time job.
I walked into my classroom on my first day and analyzed the room. On the far wall, large windows looked out onto the playground and the basketball court. The left side was lined end to end with computers, available for use once the kids finished their work. On one wall was a blackboard, and the other was lined with the very same Houghton Mifflin Mathematics books that I remember using in grade six. I checked the publication date; 1980. With all the school board reforms, it seems they are still clinging to the set of now dilapidated books. The large windows were a great distraction to me throughout the day, as students filed by on their way to gym class. The classes are small, usually no more than twelve kids but the work is difficult. It takes a lot of patience, both with the kids and the school itself. Not having been there long, it's hard for me to really get a feel for how their system works, but apart from the small class sizes, it doesn't seem terribly different from a normal school. I wonder about the method. If students are incapable of learning in the conventional classroom, wouldn't it make sense to try other approaches? Perhaps less lectures and more hands on learning? With so many of the students describing themselves as stupid and using a missed pill as an excuse for bad behavior, I wonder what kind of titles are assigned to these kids away from the school and if being here was made to feel like a punishment for bad behavior.
Both my brothers having grown up with learning disabilities, the situation is not entirely foreign to me. But I can't say I ever remember my brothers describing themselves as stupid. I wondered how they ever got anything done in one classroom that I worked in. The chorus of 'I can'ts' was so loud that even I had trouble believing these kids were capable. If the message that you've been fed for so long is that you can't do it, how will you ever get it done? The experience made me wonder how specialized schools such as this one should exist. If even five of the twelve students in your class believe themselves incapable because of their difficulties, will this attitude not catch on with the other kids?
So many thoughts, so tired though. With substitution work, Brother and the yoga studio, I haven't had a day off in nearly a month. So tired!! Time for bed, more later!
The last few weeks have been hectic. Today I'm enjoying my first day off since Thelma's wedding. As I have trouble tolerating my position at Brother, I'm desperately seeking a way out- which seems to have led me to substitution work at a school for learning disabled kids. They've taken me on for French and English work, so I've actually gotten quite a few days from them already. If I can find another two or three schools to substitute for, it should become a full time job.
I walked into my classroom on my first day and analyzed the room. On the far wall, large windows looked out onto the playground and the basketball court. The left side was lined end to end with computers, available for use once the kids finished their work. On one wall was a blackboard, and the other was lined with the very same Houghton Mifflin Mathematics books that I remember using in grade six. I checked the publication date; 1980. With all the school board reforms, it seems they are still clinging to the set of now dilapidated books. The large windows were a great distraction to me throughout the day, as students filed by on their way to gym class. The classes are small, usually no more than twelve kids but the work is difficult. It takes a lot of patience, both with the kids and the school itself. Not having been there long, it's hard for me to really get a feel for how their system works, but apart from the small class sizes, it doesn't seem terribly different from a normal school. I wonder about the method. If students are incapable of learning in the conventional classroom, wouldn't it make sense to try other approaches? Perhaps less lectures and more hands on learning? With so many of the students describing themselves as stupid and using a missed pill as an excuse for bad behavior, I wonder what kind of titles are assigned to these kids away from the school and if being here was made to feel like a punishment for bad behavior.
Both my brothers having grown up with learning disabilities, the situation is not entirely foreign to me. But I can't say I ever remember my brothers describing themselves as stupid. I wondered how they ever got anything done in one classroom that I worked in. The chorus of 'I can'ts' was so loud that even I had trouble believing these kids were capable. If the message that you've been fed for so long is that you can't do it, how will you ever get it done? The experience made me wonder how specialized schools such as this one should exist. If even five of the twelve students in your class believe themselves incapable because of their difficulties, will this attitude not catch on with the other kids?
So many thoughts, so tired though. With substitution work, Brother and the yoga studio, I haven't had a day off in nearly a month. So tired!! Time for bed, more later!
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Tantrums
I'm afraid I may be allergic to corporate life. My eyes are again swollen for no apparent reason and I blame sitting in front of a computer all day under florescent lights. Years ago I used to pride myself on being able to effectively handle any type of customer, however difficult. Talk them down from their high horse and get them to realize how ridiculous they sounded carrying on about this or that. A year and a half out of customer service and I've lost not only my patience, but also my words in such cases. I sit there, valid arguments forming in my head, but they just won't roll off my tongue. I just can't get past the fact that these people are calling me for help, but yell at me when they don't like the answer I give, the questions I ask or the speed at which my computer operates. I just don't care. I find it baffling that some people have nothing better to do then call up customer service and yell and scream and carry on. All I can think is how spoiled we are. I feel like screaming, "Don't you think there are more serious problems in the world worth yelling about than whether or not your fax machine is working?" Maybe if these people would yell just as loud about things that really matter our world would be a better place. I listen to the other agents, swearing and making a stink with the customer on hold, about how stupid the caller is and I think it's not the stupid questions that bug me. The very fact that technical support exists, at least on the level at which I work, is not because people are not smart enough to understand what they've bought, it's because they're too lazy to try. Too lazy to open the book and follow the basic instructions. Dependant on other people to solve their problems for them, rather than taking a moment to think about the situation. Did I check to see if it were plugged in? Did I turn it on? Is there paper in it? Instead they pick up the phone, dial the 1-800 number on the box and yell about the poor quality of the product, scream about the stupidity of all the companies employees and carry on like a two year old having a tantrum over a side of brussel sprouts. I've become much more adept at dealing with children having tantrums, I realize. Often times all it takes is a cocking of the head, a glance in their direction or a certain tone when calling their name. Their outbursts are also more acceptable, understandable and rarely show the same disrespect as you get from adults. I've intensified my search for a teaching job and will hopefully find something permanent for September. I just haven't the energy to commute to the West Island five days a week, leaving the house at 7am and if I head to yoga after, arriving home only at 9pm. I haven't the energy for the job because it isn't even in the direction of where I'm headed and I hate that this is all I have on my mind on a beautiful Saturday morning. Other than my work and the subsequent swollen eye, I feel fantastic. I feel super healthy thanks to my yoga classes this week and I am happy to see that the hole in Fred's belly is very close to closing. Last Sunday marked our five year anniversary, which is pretty amazing given all that we've gone through together. And the fact that previously I wouldn't have last four months before running away screaming, terrified that I was teetering on the edge of a committed relationship. I have friends in town for the next couple weeks, preparing for Thelma's wedding in Ottawa. I haven't seen Thelma in two year, so it'll be great to hang out and get some Bloody Caesars in us. Hopefully we have the good sense to stop before a Caesar induced hang-over!
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Les yeux grand ouverts
Thank you to everyone reading this page regularly, I've just noticed that my page has reached ten thousand hits, which excites me. Secondly, I've decided to begin doing some of my posts in French- below you'll find the first one, with I'm sure, atrocious spelling. My apologies to the French language for the bastardization, it's been over ten years since I've written anything in French...
J'ai décidé que je devrais, de temps en temps, faire des postes en français. Jusqu'à maintenant j'en avais pas fait parce que j'ai tellement peur de faire des fautes d'orthographes. Mais finalement j'ai réalisé que je serais jamais plus comfortable si je ne prends pas quelques minutes pour écrire un petit mot en français. Désolé d'abord si vous trouvez mon texte plein d'erreurs. Ça fait quaizement dix ans que j'ai pas écrit plus de vingt mots en français.
Je ne peux pas dormir. Ma tête est plein d' idées et de pensés qui m'excitent en même temps qu'ils me font peur. Après trois semaines de retour au service à la clientèle, et c'est assez. Ça me tente pas. Ça m'intèrese pas. C'est pas un job bien difficile, mais c'est plate. Je me lève à six heures le matin pour me rendre tout au bout de l'île avec la mère de Freddy. Je passe la journée à lire mon livre à mon bureau, agacé des appèles qui dérange ma lecture. J'écoute les conversations banales de mes collègues et ça m'ennuie. Je pars le soir, trop fatiguées pour mettre sur papier toutes les idées que j'ai eu pendant la journées, toutes les situations qui m' ont inspiré. J'ai faites des demandes d'emplois pour quelques écoles cette semaine et j'espère d'entendre des bonnes nouvelles dans les prochaines jours. Imagine combien de temps j'aurais si je travaille seulement jusqu'à quatre heures! Si j'avais pas à passer deux heures en auto pour me rendre à un emplois qui vaut vraiment pas la peine. Je veux bientôt commencer à faire la révision des articles que j'ai l'intention de soumettre aux journals et aux magazines. Une étape à la fois, premièrement, il faut que je me couche. Il est trois heures et demi du matin et je travaille de bonne heure au studio de yoga. Bonsoir...
J'ai décidé que je devrais, de temps en temps, faire des postes en français. Jusqu'à maintenant j'en avais pas fait parce que j'ai tellement peur de faire des fautes d'orthographes. Mais finalement j'ai réalisé que je serais jamais plus comfortable si je ne prends pas quelques minutes pour écrire un petit mot en français. Désolé d'abord si vous trouvez mon texte plein d'erreurs. Ça fait quaizement dix ans que j'ai pas écrit plus de vingt mots en français.
Je ne peux pas dormir. Ma tête est plein d' idées et de pensés qui m'excitent en même temps qu'ils me font peur. Après trois semaines de retour au service à la clientèle, et c'est assez. Ça me tente pas. Ça m'intèrese pas. C'est pas un job bien difficile, mais c'est plate. Je me lève à six heures le matin pour me rendre tout au bout de l'île avec la mère de Freddy. Je passe la journée à lire mon livre à mon bureau, agacé des appèles qui dérange ma lecture. J'écoute les conversations banales de mes collègues et ça m'ennuie. Je pars le soir, trop fatiguées pour mettre sur papier toutes les idées que j'ai eu pendant la journées, toutes les situations qui m' ont inspiré. J'ai faites des demandes d'emplois pour quelques écoles cette semaine et j'espère d'entendre des bonnes nouvelles dans les prochaines jours. Imagine combien de temps j'aurais si je travaille seulement jusqu'à quatre heures! Si j'avais pas à passer deux heures en auto pour me rendre à un emplois qui vaut vraiment pas la peine. Je veux bientôt commencer à faire la révision des articles que j'ai l'intention de soumettre aux journals et aux magazines. Une étape à la fois, premièrement, il faut que je me couche. Il est trois heures et demi du matin et je travaille de bonne heure au studio de yoga. Bonsoir...
Saturday, July 28, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Hangul
I just stumbled upon an excellent site to learn the Korean alphabet. It even talks! Check it out.
http://www.indiana.edu/~koreanrs/hangul.html
http://www.indiana.edu/~koreanrs/hangul.html
Saturday, July 21, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Happy Moving Day!!
I awoke this afternoon with familiar aches and pains running throughout my body. It was July 1st. It was not only the late night move that we had pulled off last night that was causing me such pain, but also the memories of how every first of July has been spent since moving to Montreal in 2001. I long for the days when Canada Day meant BBQs at a friend's place, or double time pay at a crappy job. But ever since my first moving day, everything has changed. The very thought of July 1st sends shivers down my spine and thrusts me into a cold sweat. I run through the endless list of things to do, complete with ways to avoid the day altogether. Inevitably, I realize I was forgetting something and continue to panic until the day has finished and I'm sleeping on an unmade bed surrounded by unpacked boxes. The feeling of being completely overwhelmed gradually subsides over the days and weeks that follow, until eventually most everything has been unpacked and found its place. By then, school has started for all the students and other concerns take over as the summer comes to an end. Before I know it, Christmas has come and gone and I awake one morning to find that its a new year. In the midst of the coldest, most miserable month of the year, there is a knock at the door and a postal worker presents me with a registered letter. My hands shaking, I sign his clipboard and nervously turn my attention to the slim envelope. Tearing open the envelope, I gaze down at the enclosed papers. Notice of lease renewal. My landlord needs to know if I intend to renew my lease until the following year. But it's January- how could I possibly know what my plans will be for July? Return by February 28th. Hmmm... one month to ponder what I will do for the next year and a half. I have three choices, none of them pleasant. I can;
or C) decide that I want to put myself through another July 1st move.
A is the easiest option and suckered me into spending three years at my crappy St-Henri apartment. B is unpleasant and too much trouble. For the 2% that my landlord is allowed to raise the rent every year, I'm not about to take him to court over it. I couldn't be bothered. Rental court is buried somewhere deep in the East End, where Anglophones don't like to go. Option C. This is the option that makes my blood run cold. Before agreeing to a July 1st more, it is absolutely essential that I understand what hell it is to move on this day. I would have two months to find an apartment. If I haven't signed a lease by April, it's likely that I'll find myself scrambling to sign the lease for the first apartment I can get in to see, for fear of being homeless on Canada Day. My moving truck needs to booked by May, at the latest, otherwise I'll be stuck renting an overpriced U-Haul, rather than an overpriced Discount truck. I can expect to pay about 300$ for a four hour shift with the truck. If I happen to return the truck five minutes late,I can tak on another 200$ late fees. Then I need to book friends. This needs to be done early, particularly since Montrealers answer their phones very tentatively after June. We are familiar with the tone of voice associated with calls for moving help and our hang-up reflexes more developed than other Canadians. I will spend any spare time over the next few months calling my cable, internet, hydro, gas, phone, medicare and licensing offices to report my change of address. I can expect to spend a lot of time on hold. In May, I need to start hoarding boxes. Grocery stores and pharmacies stop handing them out, some even putting up signs to tell their customers that they are not sharing their moving day boxes. As the end of June approaches, I'll be spending every free moment running about to pack up my things. I'll be expected out of my apartment at noon on July 1st, to allow the new tenant to move in that afternoon. No move ever runs smoothly, and Canada Day moves are no different. As people run here and there, desperately trying to be out of their apartments at 12:00pm and still stay within the four hours with the truck- the architecture of Montreal helps to further challenge your average mover. Appliances being carried, ever so carefully down flights of spiraling iron stairs. Old doorways, mysteriously too narrow for couches to pass through. Already memories of the previous July 1st have faded and I can't remember how I got the couch in to begin with. Hopefully I never again live downtown, where I had the added challenge of dealing with the Canada Day parade that shut down the street Fred was living on.
This year,Fred and I were bracing ourselves for a July 1st move. Luckily, however, a bigger apartment opened in our building and we were able to transfer our lease and move in December. We thought we had dogged the bullet. But inevitably in May, the phone rang and our good friends, Claire and Matt told us they had rented an apartment in our building. For a moment, we were excited by the prospect of having friends in the building. Then we realized what that meant. Another move on the first of July. But Claire and Matt had slightly different plans. If they took a van on June 30th, they knew they could get a longer block of time at a cheaper rate. If the old tenants hadn't left yet, they could leave things at our place overnight. So the van was rented from 7pm, to be returned by 6:30am or pay the nasty 200$ fee. To move Claire and Matt from their
3 and 1/2 downtown (complete with steep staircases) to their new 5 and 1/2 up the street in Côte des neiges, it took the four of us working until 6am. At 6am, Claire returned the van and Fred and I went downstairs and crawled into bed. At nine there was a knock on the door. Matt and Claire hadn't quite finished and had planned on renting a car to pick up the last few things. It being July 1st, there were no cars available. Fred called his mom and asked her if she could drive them to clear out the last few things. They did another three trips, and they finished completely at 2pm.
The separatists really have an amazing thing going here. If this is your typical Canada Day, is it any wonder that the Quebec's national party the week before is so successful? I think it's pretty safe to say that Montreal is probably the only city in the world where its residents spend their national holiday with couches strapped to their backs in blistering heat, too tired to appreciate anything but the cold beer and pizza that follows any move... unless of course you finish moving at 6am.
A) choose not to answer the letter, automatically renewing my lease until July 1st of the following year, and automatically agreeing to any rent increases specified in the notice.
B) refuse the rent increase and agree to present myself at the rental board court room to argue my case.or C) decide that I want to put myself through another July 1st move.
A is the easiest option and suckered me into spending three years at my crappy St-Henri apartment. B is unpleasant and too much trouble. For the 2% that my landlord is allowed to raise the rent every year, I'm not about to take him to court over it. I couldn't be bothered. Rental court is buried somewhere deep in the East End, where Anglophones don't like to go. Option C. This is the option that makes my blood run cold. Before agreeing to a July 1st more, it is absolutely essential that I understand what hell it is to move on this day. I would have two months to find an apartment. If I haven't signed a lease by April, it's likely that I'll find myself scrambling to sign the lease for the first apartment I can get in to see, for fear of being homeless on Canada Day. My moving truck needs to booked by May, at the latest, otherwise I'll be stuck renting an overpriced U-Haul, rather than an overpriced Discount truck. I can expect to pay about 300$ for a four hour shift with the truck. If I happen to return the truck five minutes late,I can tak on another 200$ late fees. Then I need to book friends. This needs to be done early, particularly since Montrealers answer their phones very tentatively after June. We are familiar with the tone of voice associated with calls for moving help and our hang-up reflexes more developed than other Canadians. I will spend any spare time over the next few months calling my cable, internet, hydro, gas, phone, medicare and licensing offices to report my change of address. I can expect to spend a lot of time on hold. In May, I need to start hoarding boxes. Grocery stores and pharmacies stop handing them out, some even putting up signs to tell their customers that they are not sharing their moving day boxes. As the end of June approaches, I'll be spending every free moment running about to pack up my things. I'll be expected out of my apartment at noon on July 1st, to allow the new tenant to move in that afternoon. No move ever runs smoothly, and Canada Day moves are no different. As people run here and there, desperately trying to be out of their apartments at 12:00pm and still stay within the four hours with the truck- the architecture of Montreal helps to further challenge your average mover. Appliances being carried, ever so carefully down flights of spiraling iron stairs. Old doorways, mysteriously too narrow for couches to pass through. Already memories of the previous July 1st have faded and I can't remember how I got the couch in to begin with. Hopefully I never again live downtown, where I had the added challenge of dealing with the Canada Day parade that shut down the street Fred was living on.
This year,Fred and I were bracing ourselves for a July 1st move. Luckily, however, a bigger apartment opened in our building and we were able to transfer our lease and move in December. We thought we had dogged the bullet. But inevitably in May, the phone rang and our good friends, Claire and Matt told us they had rented an apartment in our building. For a moment, we were excited by the prospect of having friends in the building. Then we realized what that meant. Another move on the first of July. But Claire and Matt had slightly different plans. If they took a van on June 30th, they knew they could get a longer block of time at a cheaper rate. If the old tenants hadn't left yet, they could leave things at our place overnight. So the van was rented from 7pm, to be returned by 6:30am or pay the nasty 200$ fee. To move Claire and Matt from their
3 and 1/2 downtown (complete with steep staircases) to their new 5 and 1/2 up the street in Côte des neiges, it took the four of us working until 6am. At 6am, Claire returned the van and Fred and I went downstairs and crawled into bed. At nine there was a knock on the door. Matt and Claire hadn't quite finished and had planned on renting a car to pick up the last few things. It being July 1st, there were no cars available. Fred called his mom and asked her if she could drive them to clear out the last few things. They did another three trips, and they finished completely at 2pm.
The separatists really have an amazing thing going here. If this is your typical Canada Day, is it any wonder that the Quebec's national party the week before is so successful? I think it's pretty safe to say that Montreal is probably the only city in the world where its residents spend their national holiday with couches strapped to their backs in blistering heat, too tired to appreciate anything but the cold beer and pizza that follows any move... unless of course you finish moving at 6am.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Door to Door War; A Film by Jared Eves
A short film by Jared Eves, a friend from Calgary. Check it out.
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