Why English is Blue

Have you ever thought of a subject and instantly thought of a colour that goes with it? Well, I have. And I swear it’s not just me.

“When you think of Math, what colour do you think of?”

“Colour? … red, I guess?”

“Red? Yeah, I think math is red too. What colour do you think science is?”

So goes an exchange my brother and I had over our dinner in September. At the start of every year, I choose my binders for my subjects and I inevitably favour some colours over others. Why? Because Chemistry is yellow, that’s why. English Is blue, Math is red, Art is red, Biology is green, and Physics is orange. That’s just how it is. I’ve always been conscious of my colour preference when it comes to my subjects, but I seem to grow more aware of it as the years go by. So this year, I’ve decided to ask other people to see if they assign colours to their subjects as well. My typical conversation goes like this:

“Hey, when you think of English, what colour do you think of?”

“Uh…”

“English is blue right?”

“Yeah, English seems blue to me.”

This has led to completely unbiased and objective results that show my own personal colour preference seems to be universally correct 50% 100% of the time. Whether or not my results are accurate, I still found that most people associate their subjects with one colour or another. Although I understand that different opinions do exist in this world, I happened to chance upon a person who uses three unmarked red binders. I am unsure of this person’s colour preference, though the issue here isn’t learning more about colours, but asking why someone in their right mind would use such a terrible system to organize their life.

Still oddly piqued about the apparent colour-subject correlation I seem to have found, I decided to try and figure out a plausible reason for why I would so strongly believe English is a blue subject (out of my own self-interest and no way related to my lack of ideas for a good article). After spinning around on the office chair I have at home, a flash of inspiration slammed right into my head and I fell onto the ground.

Actually, no flash of inspiration came and I spent the next few minutes desperately trying to stop the world from spinning. I’ve forgotten when I came to my conclusion, or whether I knew it straight from the start and I just thought it would be more interesting with office chairs. At any rate, I had figured out where all this subject-colour weirdness came from.

Remember when you were still in elementary school, and teachers gave out those silly Duo-Tangs that were absolutely horrible for storing your work? Based on Freud’s theories on childhood development They even came in colours to help spot our subjects easily. See where I’m getting at? I decided that all these colours we think of when we think of certain subjects may have been a result of using certain Duo-Tangs we were given when we were younger. That would explain why some people have different views from me, because they went to different schools.

Actually, I don’t believe this at all, because I remember clearly disliking my red English Duo-Tang in elementary school. And everyone thinks English is blue. It just seemed like a convenient explanation.

Well, it seems as though these colour associations will stick with me the rest of my life. English will always be blue, Math will always be red – or you can try and destroy these biases like my brother did. By giving all his subjects the wrong colours on purpose. If you do, I will cry inside and mourn the loss of an English binder that shall always be blue. And I will never forgive you.

_________________________________________________________________________________

This started out as an article for my school newspaper, but after being shuffled around for a while and turned down, I decided it'd still do great as a blog post.

Facebook

So, It finally happened.

I got Facebook.















If I haven't accepted your friend request yet, I'm sorry. I don't really plan on using the account for much other than the reason I got it in the first place, which is to communicate with the other Algonquin seniors (who are helping to run a trip to Algonquin Park for the grade 10's in May). I was asked to create an account, and I understand why it's important, or at least convenient, or people to contact me that way. And I don't want to be difficult: I mean, why should it be so important an issue anyway? What good is it to be stubborn over this?

In any case, I hope all of you who have been bugging me for years are pleased. Just don't expect me to keep the account after May is over.

Flyby

Autumn suddenly descended today. I've been smelling it a little in the mornings for the past couple of weeks, but it usually disappears by midday. When I got off the bus today, it just suddenly struck me. A foggy drizzle enveloped the streets. A few trees lining the sidewalk had turned shocking, dripping shades of yellow, while others were aging, sad shades of brown.

From my vantage point out of my window, there are a couple of deep reds off in the distance. The birds, too, have noticed. A chittering, restless flock of birds descends into the backyard. They're preparing to migrate. Many of them peck at the ground, settle on pear-tree branches, stir the nearly detached leaves.When they take flight, they launch in tandem, several hundred fluttering wings beating their way into the air. I'm astonished at their speed. Even after they have left, several lone birds flap their way furiously towards nests and roofs. Gathering food, probably. They slice the air like I have never seen before. They brake sharply and gracefully, casually displaying their careful mastery. 

It's very humbling, to know the Earth is spinning on whether or not you like it, regardless of your insecurities, bitter failures and sweet triumphs. The world is indifferent, but it is not without elegance and inspiration.

-----

Okay, so I wasn't going to post this, because it sounds really depressing. I was in an irritable mood at the time. In the end, I thought it could stand on its own as a piece, so why not post it, then?

The title is a reference to the kind of space mission where probes skim past planets without orbiting or landing. I think it originally had to do with the birds flying past my window, but I also liked the idea of tiny probes flying past these massive planets locked perpetually in their own rotation and orbit around the sun. 

(If you can't tell, I'm taking Astronomy, and we're in the middle of our planetary exploration unit.)

Post-Secondary

I attended the Ontario University Fair, along with Halalcohol, this past Sunday at the Metro Toronto Convention Centre. I'm sure some of you went as well, or have at least heard of it. If not, the event is already over, but you can find more information on their website.

I'll be honest. Up until now, post-secondary education seemed very far away. Something I knew I would eventually have to think about, but I was happy to put it in the back of my mind for the moment. And while I can't say going to the fair has made me any more sure about the direction in which I wish to take my future, it's certainly made me start thinking about it earnest.

The fair only included universities from Ontario, yet I still felt overwhelmed at the amount of information available. Plus, the fair was geared towards students who knew what programs and universities they were interested in, people who had specific questions about the campuses or classes. At every booth there were alumni, teachers, and students milling about talking about their experiences and their school, and asking the ever-present question, "What program are you interested in?" Alas, I went in with next to no idea of what I wanted to do, past that it should be something math and science-y.

In the end, I returned home with probably 20 kg of material (viewbooks, pamphlets, program booklets, a million pens, and one USB) and only a slightly better idea of where I want to go. But it's better nonetheless, and this time next year, I'm going to walk into that fair, and when someone asks me "So what programs are you interested in?" I'll be able to match them with a question of my own.

High Arched Brows

I realize I have not posted in a month. I also realize I have not posted this short story yet, so in an effort to appease my guilt and as an excuse to take another month's hiatus, here it is.

-

It was the two of clubs that led to my tragic demise. Not the disdainful Queen of Hearts, flourishing the yellow daisy she grips between pallid fingers; not the sly Jack of Spades, with his twirled moustache and golden locks. It was the meagre two of clubs.

I stand here, rigid and resilient. With my stony gaze and high arched brows, I scan across the garden square. Past the slender grape vines that twist their way around gold-wrought fences, past the ivory fountains and their glittering jets of water. I send my regards toward the horizon, where the sky and land converge.

Beneath my feet there is a glass bench where a middle-aged woman sits by herself, right on the edge. Her cheeks flake powdered rouge and her lashes are damp with mascara. In her hands she clasps a tartan purse over knotted legs. Why she doesn’t make herself comfortable I don’t know. But my job is not to understand. It is to contemplate the horizon with heavily-lidded eyes and parted lips.

I sat on that same bench centuries ago, when it was still a bitter set of plastic panels. There were no grape vines or rhodium pathways, no fountain. All I could see was a single-lane road: cracked and dusty tarmac stretching from east to west under the kindling summer sun. I sat alone on that bench in rugged jeans, arms and legs sprawled wide, head tossed back. I didn’t care how profusely I was sweating, didn’t care for the angry burn blooming across my neck. I’d come to a point in my life where all that mattered was the food on my table and the god I struggled to hold in my mind.

If I hadn’t been dreaming up in the clouds, I might have seen her coming, walking down the road with her bleached denim shorts and broken heart tattoo.

She asked me what I was doing.

I didn’t know, so I told her she had on too much mascara.

She laughed and sat next to me. I didn’t need to pull the classic move. My arm was already by her shoulder.

We talked for a long while, about deep things and shallow things. Our shadows ebbed away into darkness.  Finally, she nodded at me and reached out her hand.

We wed the next day. I was so grateful, so alive. I said my prayers for a whole month and a half. I thought I’d be able to start over again with her by my side, pick up the pieces of me that I’d casted away.

She smiled for a couple of years. Made the bed when we got up in the afternoons. Then she disappeared. I didn’t know where to look, so I went back to the bench, lay flat, and dragged myself a little higher into the clouds. I don’t know how long I spent out there, but it wouldn’t have made a difference whether I stayed an hour or a millennium.

There is a marble sundial just visible from the corner of my eye. I have watched the shadows wax and wane exactly three hundred sixty-five thousand times, and not once have they brought remarkable news. Eight-thirty means the tourists are gone for the day, but they will simply return again tomorrow. Five to eleven signals the gathering clouds, but within hours they will clear. I watch the world cycle through endless seasons of laughter, tears and conflict, each as insignificant as the last, and I begin to wonder if I am any different.

At night, when the last of the delicate starflowers has closed, I can smell the dust beneath the soil. I can smell the heated breeze and the odd musk that settled on my last visit.

I caught him before he came. I wasn’t dreaming that day. I saw him through the dust storm, walking my way. He was a travelling magician, I think. Thin, with a silver blazer and wide, grey eyes. I remember those eyes. They were the kind that never seemed to focus. He nodded at me, walked a few steps, and halted with his back turned.

“Gone, is she?”

I got up off the bench and stood to face the wind. “Aye. She disappeared the day I promised myself a new beginning.”

“A different life? Is that what you seek?”

I don’t understand how we came to that agreement, him and me. I was a starved and sore hound and he had a fresh, raw pound of meat. I thought it over until I couldn’t think anymore.

“Deal.”

He carried no paper on him, so he handed me a playing card, and I signed my life away on a miserable two of clubs. I saw the sparkle, the reflection in his eyes. His pupils faced mine in earnest now, and finally, I understood that for me, nothing would ever change.

I saw the world with these lifeless eyes of mine. Living legend I was, crowned with the stature of Judas and Brutus. My name rolled off every tongue, yet none ever suspected my master. He took the cash and I kept the blame. Teamwork, he called it. Whether they erected my statue in honour or in horror, I do not know. Then again, knowing was never my job: gazing at the horizon with my high arched brows is.

The woman below my pedestal has left. The sundial has completed another revolution. The sky is once again blue. Another day has gone by. What is new? A thousand years I have asked myself this question. A thousand times I have arrived upon the same answer. The flowers still bloom and wilt with the seasons. The women still wear too much make-up. The magician’s descendants will continue playing their clever little game. A thousand years from that fated meeting, absolutely nothing has changed.

Much Ado About Calculus

School has started, yet again, and the reason I'm writing this beginning-of-the-year post now, when we're already a couple of weeks into the semester, is actually quite simple. And pathetic. 

It's because I'm spending, on average, three or four hours each day doing math homework. I've probably written enough pages to fill a standard sized workbook, and we've only had two weeks of class. I don't really have anything to complain about; it's an interesting course, and I'm not losing (that much) sleep over it. But it does mean that I have next to no free time. Because what time I have left over after slogging through thirty, forty, or occasionally seventy-one math questions is spent chipping away at a list of literature. This wouldn't be so terrible if I didn't have to take notes on them. 

Enough whining. There are children in developing countries desperately wishing for an education like this. And I'm going to have to learn to manage my time properly sooner or later. What better time to do it than now? 

The thing is that I don't feel like I have interests anymore. No, that isn't quite right. I still have things I'm interested in: I want to read things and write and draw and experience all sorts of new things. They've just taken a backseat to proving why arccot(x) = π + arctan(1/x), if x < 0. (Which, by the way, I figured out while mulling it over on the bus. I don't know why it took such a long time to puzzle out, because the solution was pretty obvious after doing the other questions.) I'm always thinking about finishing up so I can start doing something enjoyable when I'm working, and it never seems to happen. All these productive things are sitting on my plate, waiting for me to eat them, but I'm already full after the three other courses. 

It's going to be 11:30 soon, (which I would have considered very late a year ago) so I'm going to wrap this up quick. With all of these busy things going on and not much room for much in the way of personal pursuits, I'm really hoping that all these opportunities in my way will not walk right past me because I was in too much of a disarray to notice. In the meantime, I'll try to clear my thoughts, prioritize, and bide my time for an afternoon to use at my own discretion. 

L'éducation

A man walks into a thrift store. He points to the desk in the front display and asks for the price. The cashier sends an employee over to examine the price, which turns out to be $100 dollars.

But the man wants to know how much it will cost after tax. The cashier hesitates. She tells him the tax is fifteen percent.

The man asks again for the cost after tax, clearly unable to do the math. The cashier hesitates. The tax is fifteen percent. The desk costs one hundred dollars. Fifteen percent of one hundred dollars is...

She pulls out a calculator and punches some numbers in. "It costs a hundred and fifteen, sir," she tells the man, who nods and buys the desk.

Meanwhile, the fresh faced employee hailing from Toronto who just happened to catch the exchange is oscillating between excusing herself to the bathroom to laugh wildly and excusing herself to go to the bathroom to cry profusely at the appalling state of arithmetics her coworkers and clients seem to possess.

---

This is not a joke. There is no punchline. This actually happened to me on Tuesday.

Someone wanted to know the final price with 15% tax on a $100 dollar item and the cashier had to pull out a calculator in order to find it. It's not even a weird number like 13%, not that this should matter when it's $100 dollars, but it takes a little longer on, say, $8,00 versus 15% on the same amount.

Was it just an unfortunate turn of circumstances that I caught this butchering of elementary-school mathematics? Perhaps it was something I should just forget. These people were old, and, uh, old people forget things. Sometimes.

---

This is also an incredibly old post that I'd started up sometime when I was still in Québec and didn't have time to finish. I was going somewhere in that last paragraph, but I've completely lost the train of thought by now, so I'll just post it up for the sake of not throwing away. I don't really like throwing things away, even if this is technically just an arrangement of electrons.

By the way, can someone teach me how to put things under a cut? (Is that what they're called?) When it only displays the first few paragraphs of the post, and the reader can choose whether or not to click the link to the rest. I'm sure I can search it up, but I'd rather have a teacher.

And I promise to write an actual blog post relevant to current events, as soon as these old half-finished skeletons are out of my closet and I have time that's not borrowed from the next day (a line which I'm toeing right now. It's already 11:59 as I type, and it'll probably be past 12:00 when I go to sleep.) I've actually had ideas, for once, I just haven't had time. But more on this later.

Dans les arbres

"Arbre en arbre," I say, slowly and with careful attention to roll the r's as best as I can. "On a monté sur les parcours entre les arbres. Il était, um, trés haute," wincing at the misused auxiliary verb. Lucie doesn't, so I conclude by snapping the end off a baby carrot.

"Oh, oüais, à Québec?" she asks. Lucie is my mentor for the duration of my six weeks here. She eats a grape, processing the seed carefully. It goes into a small plastic container. She has grapes everyday for la pause, as far as I'm aware. For the first few days I stuck by her side and learned the ropes. Now I occasionally prowl the floor and sort donated items by myself.

I nod yes. There's more that I want to explain about our trip last Saturday to Arbre en Arbre, a winter ski resort turned tree-trekking attraction in the summer, but I can't even organize my thoughts in English, and so I give up on the French. In any case, la pause is over, and I have to remonter en haute to surveiller la plancher.

Arbre en Arbre was the very first weekend activity of my stint in Québec, and even now, six plus weeks's worth of rumination and several forsaken blog posts later, it's still my favourite.

The activity involves, obviously, trees. A lot of trees. Obstacle courses made from rope, wires, nets, planks of wood, and a variety of other possibilities are constructed between the trees, about two or three storeys up from the ground. The most common types of connection between trees were les passerelles, which translates as bridges, but are more like tightropes. There were also hanging planks of wood that you could skip across, as well as a number of ziplines.


In order to add some variety, things like nets and, oddly enough, a skateboard on a wire trajectory, also feature in some of the courses. Not only was the view spectacular, the courses themselves were both fun and challenging. I especially liked the tightrope bridges and the ones with wooden planks spaced so far apart you have to jump for them.

There were, of course, stringent safety procedures. Everyone wore harnesses, each with two carabiners and a clip-on pulley attached. The carabiners were attached by rope to the front of the harness, near the waist, and had to be very carefully used. This could get a little annoying. First of all, the two carabiners had to always either be clipped into an appropriate line, or in your hands. At least one carabiner had to be attached to a safety line or hook at all times, so they had to be transferred over one at a time. Second of all, they had to face opposite directions once they were both clipped in, to avoid any panicky actions accidentally releasing both clips at the same time. And lastly, they were not to fall below the waist. This was particularly annoying while ascending ladders, because the carabiners had to be moved one at a time in small increments of a step or two. But, like most thing, I got used to it, and I appreciate that they stressed the safety so much. There's no way I would have been jumping around on wobbly logs and shaky ropes twenty metres off the ground if I didn't trust the harness system to hold me up.

I must say, I almost gave up on this post. It's been more than two months since I went to Arbre en arbre, and it seemed kind of silly to post about something that had happened so long ago. I was busy, school has started, and I'm even busier now. But this one post has been sitting here this entire time, waiting for me to stop being so lazy and get it finished, already. How was I going to manage my time better this year if I couldn't even finish one measly blog post in the span of two and a half months? So, here you go, it's finally here, and hopefully I'll be able to draw breath long enough from treading in math-infested waters to write another one soon.

Time and Time Again

There are 31 536 000 seconds in a year.

Yet here's the catch: it isn't as if I have those 31 536 000 seconds and you do too. If that were the case, we'd be able to pool it all together, wouldn't we? We'd be able to ultimately cheat time, and obviously that's not possible. But you and I, we both knew that already.

So why is it that we let time slip away, all the while knowing that it is the most precious entity in the world? Is it because we think we have all the time in the world to do whatever we want? Is life ultimately procrastination stretched to its limit? Perhaps we're not even entirely conscious of how much time we waste - all the time. We talk about how we spend time doing this and that... as if, like money, we can earn it all back in the end. Yet the truth of course is, we can't. We can't earn it, gift it, do anything with it except watch it slowly ebb away.

What can we do, except hope that we'll have enough time to live our lives to its maximum capacity?

Let's live those 31 536 000 seconds to the max this upcoming 2013 year, or even this school year, and strive to achieve something, anything, say, once a week. Something worthwhile enough that we'll be able to say we used our time wisely. Because really, we'll never know how much time we have left.

***

Okay, so, it's been ages since I've written anything at all, and this one in itself was a bit iffy, but it's just a thought that came up in Physics today, when part of a question asked us to calculate the number number of seconds in a year. Sorry if the ending seems... a bit depressing and abrupt? There may be a followup post to this one, if I ever feel up to it.

Also, the Alaska post has yet to be written... Hopefully it will also be coming soon, although I bet most of you have long forgotten about it by now.

But anyways, I hope this post has given you something interesting to think about.

What's Red and White and Red and White and Red?

Canadians in a blender of course! Aren't I so funny? Hahahaha.

Anyway.

So it's a hot summer's Sunday and you've made a last-minute decision to visit Centre Island. A nice cool swim with the whole family sounds like a great idea, doesn't it? But the thought of packing for a such a trip makes your head spin. The lawn chairs need to be brought in from the patio. The camera batteries need to be charged and the memory card unloaded. You've run out of sunscreen, your volleyball is deflated and your six-year-old son broke that plastic sandcastle bucket during last year's trip. How will you ever get everything repaired, re-bought, and packed in ten minutes?

Fear not! The Americans have come to the rescue under the guise of being Canadian! And if you don't know what I speak of, everything will make sense in just a few hours. This trip might be possible after all. Simply pack your bathing suits, some towels, and a simple lunch. What's that? You can't find a bag or a box or a cooler or anything to store those in? And you've run out of reusable bottles and bottled water? No need to worry, everything will be fine.

So you've unwisely followed this idea, and the closer you come to the lakeshore, the more nervous you get. How can you possibly have a good time with virtually nothing packed? You manage to find a free parking spot and begin a ten minute walk to the harbour front, juggling a tangle of clothing and towels while your husband attempts to keep a stack of sandwiches balanced precariously over a container of diced fruit. Within moments you realize how brutally the sun is shining and question whether it would have been a better idea to stop at Shoppers for a new bottle. It's too late to turn back now.

While you are worrying about dying prematurely from cancer, your husband speaks up. “Are you sure this is the right way?”

You stop dead in your tracks. You absolutely are not sure this is the right way. Nor can you check, because you have no map with you.

“Look, a bullseye!” your son shouts and runs up to a red and white target painted on the ground nearby. “I bet it's this way!”

You decide that there's no harm in following, and, after all, targets are what you're supposed to aim for, right? You see another up ahead. After following several more targets you exhale enormously with relief. There is the dock, right in front of you. And there is the row of ticket booths.

The ticket booths. Your heart skips a beat. You didn't bring your wallet. How can you pay for a ticket?

You notice several young women all wearing pink shorts and white t-shirts with a big target on the front. Perhaps they are employees. You approach one. “H-how much is it to ride?”

You hope faintly that if it's less than twenty-five cents per person, you might be able to scavenge some change from a fountain or something.

“It's free. Target is paying for your ride today.”

Free? As in no money required? Did you hear that correctly? What kind of otherworldly god is this Target? You must have been blessed for your generous volunteering at corporate events last year. Either way, you keep your mouth shut, nod your thanks, and step into line behind a large crowd. Your son runs off to a nearby bench, where he throws himself against a little white cushion with a red target.

“Interesting,” your husband says with raised eyebrows.

When the ferry pulls into the dock the first thing you notice is that the boat is covered with targets. Inside, there are more of those cushions. You're tempted to take one but they're firmly bow-tied to the seats, so you take the passive-aggressive approach to deal with your frustration, conveniently ignoring your son while he beats up the cushion with a series of rapid-fire punches.

Once you're back on land, you follow the crowd past a sign that says "Bullseye Beach." You wonder what all this obsession is with bullseyes and some higher deity named Target. Perhaps it is a new religion that has infiltrated North American culture with the potency of a pre-pubescent male singer.

It certainly seems so when you arrive at the beach. It's like a shooting gallery. Everywhere you look there are targets. You can imagine a running commentary going on inside your head that seems a little too realistic to be imaginary.

Welcome to Bullseye Beach! You're carrying quite the load! Would you like a complimentary drawstring bag to store those clothes in? And how about a nice free shopping bag for the food? You must be thirsty, after taking such a long trip. Why don't you relax with a drink from our juice bar, on the house? Of course, you'll need to grab a complimentary water bottle first. Oh, and you don't have any sunscreen on, do you? Take this bottle and put it on straight away! Don't forget these free sunglasses, either. And while you're waiting for the sunscreen to take effect, why don't you sit down on a couch, under the shade of one of our canvas tents? We offer a variety of magazines that you may peruse to your heart's content.

Here at Bullseye Beach, we're committed to offering you the best experience ever known to humans. That's why we'll stop at no end to serve your every need, want, desire, demand, wish, fancy, and passion. We offer an extensive variety of engaging activities. Swimming is now more convenient than ever, with our on-site change stalls. No need for the awkward towel-around-the-waist, or running halfway across the beach to get to the washrooms.

If swimming isn't your thing, there is plenty more to do. Put your abilities to the test at our activity station, or play volleyball by our net. Keep the kids busy with a complimentary sand bucket and shovel. They can even enter our castle building contest!

Tired? Grab one of our folding chairs, beach mats, or recliners and set up an umbrella (all yours to keep!) wherever you wish. Watch our sailboats (with target print sails) glide by in the distance. Just lean back and allow the music, courtesy of Virgin Radio, to sink in.

Hungry? Come eat at one of our picnic tables. And for dessert, why not enjoy some free ice cream from our very own ice cream truck?

Leaving so soon? You haven't even experienced the best part yet! Come pose by the two giant logos over here. We'll take your picture, print it, and package it in a nice greeting card, all for free! There you go. Have a nice complimentary return trip!

***

There were also duffel bags, but I only saw an employee carrying one, so they might not have been available to the public. Also interesting was the fact that we stumbled upon the wedding of Mike Layton and Brett Tryon, and while we correctly guessed it was some sort of wedding taking place (the only clues were white tablecloths and flowers), we had no idea it was them, or that they were getting married.

Also, don't you love how consistent my narrative style remains?

White Waters

I just love coincidences. See, I can call them symbolism and pretend I'm a highly complex character in a stunningly well-written literary novel who, by the end of a two month time span, makes an equally stunning and provocative judgment about the world.

Now since I've got you on the topic of coincidences and we're also talking about the Olympics and this post is getting a little satirical, I thought I'd just share another completely coincidental, Olympic, and satirical observation/discovery. Also, just putting it out there, this post does not reflect my views on anything in particular.

I spent some of Tuesday at the library, glossing over the collection of books they had there. After skimming through a whole volume of DIY water landscaping (which had really pretty pictures of fountains and waterfalls and ponds, all installed in people's backyards), I ventured deeper into the collection of adult non-fiction. My eye was caught instantly by a bright book sitting on the featured display. Whiter Shades of Pale the title read. By Christian Lander. What could this be? I looked for the description.

If you thought you had white people pegged as Oscar-party-throwing, Prius-driving, Sunday New York Times–reading, self-satisfied latte lovers—you were right. But if you thought diversity was just for other races, then hang on to your eco-friendly tote bags. Veteran white person Christian Lander is back with fascinating new information and advice on dealing with the Caucasian population.

"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" was what went through my head as I wrenched the book open.

After spending a summer volunteering with a certain half-white friend, I'd become obsessed with pointing out our cultural differences. Such as her kitchen. We would play impromptu games of "guess-the-spices-I-have-in-my-spice-cupboard" and "guess-the-small-appliances-I-own" in which I discovered she had about three ice cream makers, a snow cone maker, two food processors (a big one and a "mini" one), a cocktail shaker, a milk frother (I still don't really know why you would want your milk frothed), and a whole bunch of other things I can't remember at the moment. Also, a seventy dollar pepper mill, which secretly makes me envious (come on, I can't be the only one who runs into the kitchenware aisle just to test out all the pepper grinders!). So, getting back to my point, what a coincidence that such a book landed in my hands. It was as if the world was just begging me to read it and figure out more questions to annoy her with.

The very first section I read convinced me to take the book. It was about swimming, and why white people like to swim, despite numerous tragedies at sea such as shark attacks and sunken/lost ships. But read this:

Another theory of why white people enjoy swimming so much is their ability to completely dominate the sport. Of course, this domination doesn't come from years of training and crushing competition; it owes mostly to the fact that white people only have to compete against other white people. This is in turn because even at the highest levels, nonwhite competitors are mostly limited to a few overeager Chinese Olympians or some adorable underdog from a third-world country who just learned to swim. 

Swimming at the Olympics is actually another example of how good white people are at figuring out how to maximize the few ways in which they can eke out athletic dominance. White people have helped ensure that you can win medals in swimming for different distances, relays, and, most important, different strokes. So white athletes can win upwards of five medals for doing the butterfly and the backstroke, but in track, a sport long abandoned by white people, they could not obtain additional medals for running backward or doing a crab walk.

As amusing and truthful as such a comment seems, I didn't take Lander's words very seriously. Until today, when I finally filtered the medal breakdown by athlete. Let's take a look at the top ten rankings, which consists of fifteen athletes because five are tied for 9th and two for 10th. Unsurprisingly, Phelps is at the top. He's followed closely by Franklin and Schmitt, both of whom are swimmers. All swimmers and all white. As a matter of fact, an overwhelming eleven of those athletes are white swimmers. Oh, there's also that "overeager Chinese" swimmer in the mix, which amused me much more than it probably should have.

Now before the accusations are fired, I should say that I don't have anything against anyone or any group of people, and I'm sure Lander doesn't either (considering he's white). Just thought it was an interesting observation and a satirically golden theory. If anything, I'm just thoroughly annoyed at CTV for interviewing Missy Franklin seven thousand times. "But her parents are Canadian!" Okay, we get it, now leave the poor girl alone and start talking with some actual Canadian athletes.

Oh, and as for the book, it's okay, but it's not that great. The swimmer entry was the funniest I came across, and the rest is either too white for me to understand, not my humour, or just not as funny. I can't really tell which it is. There are some other golden entries, however. I like the writing style: very modest, almost academic, with just a little bit of attitude. And as the summary suggested, it's written as a guide for nonwhites with tips on how to take advantage of/piss off/become friends with white people. I thoroughly enjoyed the "How to Win Arguments with White People" flowchart, which I will not spoil.

Scattered Thoughts on London 2012

I don't know about you guys, but the Olympics always manages to suck me into watching hours of competitions each day. (Admittedly, even while writing this post, the TV is on in the background.)
There is just something about these competitions that is exhilarating: watching athletes compete to become the best of the best; cheering on Canada on every medal won.

And yet at the same time, watching these races is very ironic. While the athletes are working their asses off (sorry, lack of better description) trying to win, we merely recline on their couches, eyes glued to the screen watching, likely growing less fit by the minute. While they are going out there, doing their best chasing their dreams... what are we doing with our lives? I guess what I'm trying to say is that the Olympics should serve as an example of what you can achieve when you put your heart to it. They did it, so why can't we? The Summer Olympics especially, should encourage us to take action and do something productive with the time we have.

But then I realized something else, as I was watching an online interview with the mother of Gabby Douglas, one of the athletes on the USA Olympic Gymnastics Team. Her mother was talking about all the sacrifices their family had made in order to fulfill her daughter's Olympic dream. And then she said, "you know, it's really tough for all of them, since only five girls make the team each Olympics". That's when I realized, those who make it to the Olympics every four years aren't the only ones who are making sacrifices and trying their hardest. There are so many more out there who do the same, maybe work even harder, and yet fall that many steps short of achieving their dream.

So in the end, I guess the Games, like life in general, is all about balance. It is certainly imperative to go out there and chase something we desperately want, but at the same it is just as important to know the boundaries and not get discouraged in times of failure. For some athletes, simply getting to the Olympics would be a dream come true, but for others, even a silver medal is a huge disappointment. I think that, no matter what happens, they shouldn't be disappointed - the process is part of the success, and knowing you gave it your all is accomplishment in itself. As for those who didn't make it? Well, there are always more competitions to come.

This post may have seemed a bit all over the place, because I had trouble connecting all my thoughts on these Games into a single post that flowed well. Hope you at least get the gist of it! Also, speaking of productivity, A POST ON ALASKA IS COMING SOON. I PROMISE. (Yes, for those who didn't know, I went to Alaska for a week and it was awesome! But more on that later...)

When TOPS Kids Play Pool

They never finish. Actually. The game will not end for hours because they're using the most miserable looking cue (the only one) in the recreation room, and because all of them have the aim of blindfolded pigs. Actually, it's a bit worse than that, because TOPS kids tend to miss the ball completely and then knock another one away while laughing hysterically at their attempt.

Two players in particular have reached such exceptional consistency with their signature faults that (a) missing the ball and (b) moving it two millimetres are no longer two nameless atrocities (although they will remain nameless for the sake of preserving dignity). Indeed, one of them pulled off five fantastic (b) moves in a row. Move (a) was, thankfully, never chained together.

Saturday the twenty-first was the day of the birthday party. (Yes, I've put off this post for that long. Don't judge.) We started off with a very rigged game of air hockey at LaserQuest, in which the scoreboard only selectively incremented if it felt like awarding points for a shot. Seriously. The other team scored three times in a row and the numbers did little more than blink. By the time we "officially" reached seven points, the score was much closer to 9-13 in actuality.

In terms of technique, it wasn't much better than the pool game. I scored on myself about three times (which was only a little above the median), but also managed a few aces (if that's what they're called in air hockey). Thankfully, the scoreboard took pity on me and the other team only got one point for my three fallacies.

The actual laser tagging itself wasn't that bad, although a certain partygoer did manage to shoot her own sensor. She saw her reflection and shot that, thinking it was someone else. Apparently, it deactivated. Which isn't a bad deal, considering you earn more points for shooting someone than what you lose for getting shot. One friend's advice for the group was to prey on the little kids and stalk them around the arena, which I told myself I wouldn't do, but kind of ended up resorting to at the end because they tend to be oblivious as to what direction they're being targeted from and so can safely be farmed. I also ended up with a delightful blister on my third finger from the trigger, which still has not healed completely.

After that, it was back to the arcade. This time, we tried out the other games. The basketball shootout was pathetically coordinated between three players, with several collisions right over the net where two balls could have made it in. The shooting gallery thing just didn't happen. Because we were so observant, we paid our fare before glancing at the giant error message on the screen. The best part? The machine rejected our refund request. So we had to go to the front desk to request a reimbursement.

And then, what must have been the most epic part of the day. A story to be passed down for generations: the guaranteed prize claw crane. The large prize round isn't a guarantee, but the plushies are actually worth the dollar. We got really lucky during our attempt (lucky enough to knock a giant crayon from the large prize pile over the divider and into the small prize pool). And we all know what that means. Unlimited tries for a large prize!

ROUND ONE

I think we stayed there about fifteen minutes, applying different techniques and grabbing different parts of that goddamn crayon that refused to be lifted. We stationed people on two sides to optimize the x/y-coordinates, but after a slip-up with the controls, the claw missed the crayon and plunged into the stock of generic small prizes and hitched onto some insignificant plushie. Our collective "NOOOO!" must have caused major seismic waves. And then the plushie slipped from the claw and we were all flooded with relief.

Relief for half a second, at least, until we realized there was still something clutched in the claw. It was thin and flowing. A ripple of satin? A dapple of silk? Nope. A pathetic, limp tissue/lint sheet pinched between the claws like a dead robin. That was what hung from the metal grappler, making its way steadily closer to the drop-off chute.

No sequence of Unicode characters is capable of representing the bitter disappointment, the failure of our situation. I'm not even sure we groaned, although I was too busy trying not to fall over with laughter to notice what anyone else said.

"What a wonderful birthday present."

"Yeah, best present ever, of course!"

We held it gingerly, as though it were infected, before deciding to once again complain to the staff. The woman at the counter gave a small "huh" of amusement, although her face showed no humour. More of a polite bewilderment. Her eyes slid toward her co-worker who cracked a joke about its value and how excited we should be.

The woman was still standing there holding the tissue. She seemed not to have heard the joke. "What the hell?" Her voice sounded more annoyed than anything else. She refunded our purchase after a few seconds of hesitation. Which means...

ROUND TWO

We spent another ten minutes trying to coax the goddamn claw to grip the goddamn crayon, which would not goddamn budge. In the end we nudged it further into its corner and sealed off any chance of victory. And so, with a half-hearted shot at the crayon tip, the claw once again missed and brought us a standard small plushie. Oh well. At least it wasn't a Bounty sheet.

And so we went back to the birthday girl's rec room where we held our private party despite the fact that we made no reservation and paid no money. Shhhh...

I'm not sure whose idea it was to play pool. But within minutes I was dragged into it, and the first game took around three/four hours, with the second game about an hour shorter. And it was always the same rally. One team rapidly sinks all their balls and then works on the eight ball for two hours while the other team is stuck on their last (non-eight) ball. Play alternates between misses and penalties until the second team finally sinks their last ball and someone spears the eight-ball into its rightful hole. Honestly though, that cue was so bad. An enormous crack down the middle constantly threatened to skin our fingers.

After pool, we tried our first board game, Deal or No Deal (yeah, I didn't know that was a board game either). Basically, the players take on the roles of the host, contestant, and case holder models. Apparently we should have all failed our literacy tests because nobody could interpret the instructions without a brain ache and, apart from cracking up at our models' dramatic facial expressions before opening the cases, it was generally a disaster. Our contestant simply refused to consider the bank's offers, slamming the No Deal button before any sort of offer could even be set. Which turned out to be quite worth it, since her chosen case contained $400 000.

Other highlights of the party include Mario Party, Dance Central 2, a lot of food, Taboo, Uno Attack (which I won), and a sad game of Nerf capture the flag with improvised rules. We definitely spent more time recovering the pellets and picking a suitable area than we did playing.

That party was definitely one to remember. Like our summer this year, we broke a truckload of records. Because that's what TOPS kids do. They just never stop.

Charades With Limited Success

Après quelques jours rempli de français, je veux beaucoup parler in English, already! I like the challenge of having to speak French all the time, but not being able to properly describe anything is really frustrating. I don't have the vocabulary, and as a result, I end up trying to mime actions and objects. It's like a perpetual game of charades.

Here, for example, is a rendition of me trying to explain the concept of landfillls, with the majority of grammatical errors intact.

Yaning takes a drink from a glass of water. She says "Oui, à Toronto on a des, um, des trucks, qui viennent chaque semaine pour ra-ramasser les poubelles. Pas les poubelles, les choses qui sont dans les poubelles--qu'est-ce qu'on appelle, ça?"

Nancy, her host, who has been nodding bemusedly the entire time, responds "Les déchets."

"Oui, les déchets. Alors, tout les déchets, ils va à une place comme, um, comme une landfill? Est-ce que tu sais qu'est-ce que c'est, un landfill?"

Nancy pauses to think about it a little. "Euh... non."

"Les trucks, ils prennent les déchets à la place, et il y a um..." says Yaning as she struggles to find the word in French for "hole." Or "dig," perhaps. "Um, c'est comme on, uh," she says, pausing to think of a suitable substitute for "dig," and when nothing comes to mind, begins to half-heartedly excavate an imaginary hole. 


Nancy looks even more confused. "Un bâtiment?" she offers. Yaning shakes her head. 


"Okay, c'est comme il y a une, uh... chose, une place où tout les déchets accumuler?"


"Ouäis, okay, je sais ce que tu veux dire."


---
That is about as accurate as I can make it.

I was also putting off writing a post, because I was deciding which would be the best way to present all that's happened in the past week in one single post? However, the thread that will tie it all together seems to be out of my grasp, and so I have decided instead to present some issues instead, this one being the language barrier.

It's not all bad, though, if that's the impression you're getting. I've gotten a lot better at listening to what people are saying without being totally lost, and I'm actually trying some more complex verb conjugations. They're not a complete failure. I'd say I'm having some limited success.

Filler

I think I have now successfully reached the rank of master procrastinator. I have been "meaning" to post for the past two weeks (i.e. desperately looking for other commitments to prioritise) and so I haven't been able to really come up with anything. I have used everything as an excuse: the heat, because it's too hot to turn on my computer (which actually releases about as much heat as two incandescent bulbs); video games, because, you know, I just don't have time otherwise to play them; and the crappy text editor Blogger provides for iPad, which claims have options for HTML and rich text, but really just shows everything as HTML no matter the setting.

So, to buy myself more time, I'm just going to mention a few highlights from my absence.

We had guests over on Sunday, and they brought with them a modest looking cake. It was from Sobey's, packaged in a plain white box with one of those bakery stickers. Raspberry lemon. I had my doubts, because while I loved lemon, I wasn't such a fan of raspberry. I didn't get to see what the cake really looked like because they served it while I was washing dishes, but it was five layers of alternating lemon sponge cake and raspberry mousse. The top was spread with a thin layer of lemon flavoured something (it had the consistancy of custard and acted like an icing), and the sides were covered with white chocolate shavings. I'm pretty sure I've never tasted a better cake before. I was so surprised. The raspberry mousse provided a very fruity flavour that was heightened by the tangy sweetness of the lemon cake, which made for a very light impression, unlike the richness you'd get from a triple chocolate cake. The white chocolate blended in deceptively and helped to mellow out the flavour, while not providing an overwhelming sugar rush. Best of all, the cake wasn't disgustingly sweet. You didn't feel sick by the time you finished an enormous slice. It was just sweet enough to seem natural. I am very thankful there were leftovers for the next few days, and I think I ended up eating about half of the whole thing.

I've been volunteering at the science centre again, and in general, it's been a lot less tiring than last year (mainly because we have double the amount of staff members and half the number of campers. Seriously. We started out with fifteen campers and thirteen staff). Today was different though. I ended up wishing we were done by the time lunch came around, and at 3:00, just an hour left to go, I was seriously drained. I ended up cycling through a stock list of replies for an hour, most of which had to do with how I loved the way they coloured things, or what an awesome job they did. And of course, there's the multipurpose [repeat what the camper just said in a really surprised voice] that covers absolutely every kind of comment.

Surprisingly, I got an award for outstanding performance last week, and I had my camp office duties postponed a week and then cancelled because my group liked me too much. Oh, and that somehow reminds me of the really sad playlist of four songs we keep looping through every single day about three times.

1. Call Me Maybe 
2. Moves like Jagger 
3. What Makes You Beautiful 
4. The Library Song (Don't ask. It's from Arthur. Yeah, remember that? Having fun isn't hard, when you've got a library card!)

Ten minutes or less...

...is about the time I have to write this post. To speed it up I will put it in list form.

1. I'm alive and well, haven't been hit by trains or kidnapped by Québecois strangers or fallen into a river or anything. 
2. My French oral comprehension is terrible. Or, I don't know, maybe it's the Québecois, but I can't understand anything without making myself look like a retard. I can't separate one syllable from another, they all sound like one vowel sound. Or a vague buzzing. I hope I'll get used to it. 
3. Work involves a lot of standing. A LOT OF STANDING. I stand for 7 hours each day. Otherwise, it's really cool and I get to see the backroom workings of a thrift store, which is pretty interesting.
4. My WiFi in the basement is nearly non existent. If I'm not here for a couple of days it's because I can't coax it into working. Sorry, about that, but there's not much I can do, and I don't want to intrude too much other their computer, which I'm using now, which explains the 10 minutes thing and I am out of time now, sorry, and I'll talk to everyone later.

I'm on a Train

And I finally have Wi-Fi. After months hours of waiting on the other train for the connectivity to pick up, we finally transferred trains in Montréal and are now on our way to Québec City. I was going to keep updating this while I was here, but I don't think that's going to work out, due to spotty Wi-Fi, so I'm just going to keep it really short.

First.
I did not know anyone in the exchange prior to today because I did not attend any of the pre-departure meetings. I was in Geneva. So it was pretty awkward at first because I kind of just sat around the waiting area talking to no one.

I saw all these people talking and milling about between the chairs, and after absentmindedly tuning in to some conversations, I noticed someone familiar talking quite animatedly across the room from me.

It was someone I hadn't spoken to in a couple of years. We went to school in Grades 4-6, but she moved to Richmond Hill, and we lost contact. What a coincidence that we were participating in the same program! For those of you who went to Terry Fox, you probably know who I'm talking about. We were both really surprised. Like really surprised. Isn't it so strange how this kind of thing happens?

After getting on the train, though, I started talking to the people in my exchange group, including a girl from Leaside who gave me chocolate. She's very interested in languages and politics and history. All things I enjoy.

Second.
They actually had food for us, which I was very surprised about. I thought they only had dinner, but they had lunch too (sandwiches from Tim Hortons and chips), plus a drink, which was very nice. Even if they were pretty similar to airplane fare.

Third.
I do not have a third point. I thought I had one. I spent a lot of time looking at the scenery and improving my eyesight, which is the result of looking at the colour green for a long time. According to my neighbour's dad, it's good for your vision. I also spent a lot of time reminding myself of vB's talks on weather and being reminded of Algonquin -- quick, what's that tree? -- even though I wasn't BTM.

I'll keep updating  (maybe once per day?) once I arrive. Tell me anything you want to know about?

The Death of a Child

Alas, it is true. Just the other day (meaning two weeks ago) I decided to stumble upon that sacred site once more, perhaps because I was bored and perhaps because I eschewed studying for math. Either way, it throbbed with life, with fresh updates, even though this year's Script Frenzy ended in April. And to my delight, I discovered the all-consuming, omnipotent 5SecondFilms with which I passed the hours.

I received the news just this afternoon, before sitting down to enjoy an unevenly microwaved meal of leftover dinner. The email was at the top of my inbox, with its ominous subject line bolded and caps locked.

SCRIPT FRENZY'S FINAL FADE OUT


What could that mean? Hadn't SF faded out on April 31st, 11:59:59? What were they speaking of, fading out now?

The devastation hit me like a red utility ball in the knee. Such a young program, such uncultured greatness, now gone forever. For the Office of Letters and Light, caring for the six year old Script Frenzy wasn't a joy: it was a liability and a financial drain. The directors argued. They debated and they fought for its survival. But in the end they just couldn't save it. It strikes me as strange that I was one of the last people to submit my script for validation, and that, as the years drift by, I will remain one of the last to do so. My very first attempt was also my final, and that makes me all the more thankful I finished my script.

I must go now, to find out when the funeral service is to be held. Fortunately, SF's spirit will forever remain with us on the NaNoWriMo forums, which have dedicated a section just for Frenzy participants.

Seriously though, 5SecondFilms is awesome. I don't understand two thirds of their sketches, but the ones I do are really good. They tend to be quite vulgar and promiscuous though, so you might not want to watch them with the volume jacked up at a public library. Also, the video captions are necessary to understand some of the videos. On the home page, click on a video from the scroll bar and then refresh the page to bring them up. Or just browse from one of the headers which will link directly to that video's page.

Of Renewal, Licenses, and an English Project

The following post contains three parts:

Part 1
Hey everyone,

Wow, has it been a long time - it feels as if it was just yesterday when Yaning made her last post and all that had been GU ended. While I'm really glad that we've restarted the blog and excited to keep writing, I'm not sure how often I'll be posting this summer. GU used to motivate me to write a lot more often, and in the year or so that we stopped blogging, I'm sad to say I haven't exactly written anything outside of English projects. So here's to hoping that this blog will inspire us all to write even more this summer.

Part 2
RE: Yaning's last post on licenses,

In Alberta you're able to get your learner's (we call it a Class 7 license) at 14, a freakishly early age. So I got my learner's last summer after I moved, and now I'm getting ready to take my road test.


I must say, when you're the one in the driver's seat, the whole driving experience is a lot different than simply watching your parents drive (and certainly nowhere near playing Mario Kart!). There are a million things to pay attention at once, and squeezing into those damn parking spaces takes a lot of practice. However, it'll definitely be useful to be able to drive ourselves, anywhere we want, so fingers crossed that we'll pass in one try!

Part 3
For some reason, I never really feel like actually posting a post unless there's some form of creative writing in it.... so here goes nothing. I'm not sure how many of you have read The Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare, but we studied it this year in English class. For our final project, we basically had free range over what sort of assignment we wanted to do, so I decided to write a short story/epilogue to the play.

(If you haven't read The Merchant of Venice yet, do so first before reading, or you might not understand some parts of it.)

The Price of Justice

Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember

***

He sits by his antique oak desk, in candlelight, staring down at the old oil painting in his hands. His fingers automatically move to trace its worn, cracked frame, eyes transfixed on the single person standing by his side in elegant strokes of faded colour. 

He has never felt so alone, so abandoned.

Myriads of memories threaten to escape the fragile barrier which locks them away in his mind –recollections of a bright spot in his life from once upon a time. He'd had everything back then: a blissful family, rich not only in wealth but in happiness; a beautiful, loving wife, a daughter he'd loved with all his heart. And yet now...  what did he have? Nothing, not one of his past treasures, left to love.

***

My dearest Leah,

How have you been? I hope that you are being cared for, wherever you may be. It pains me, as always, how the distance between us expands with each passing occasion; nonetheless, my love for you only grows with the distance. Do you remember the portrait of the two of us that we had painted, a day after our wedding? Oh, what a day that had been! My memory of it is so vivid: the resident street painter did the favour, on a chilly day where the winds howled and storm clouds rolled in from the distance. But despite everything, neither wind nor rain could devastate the complete and utter state of happiness we were in. On my finger was my turquoise ring, the one you'd gifted me and I'd came to treasure.

Who would have guessed that our idyllic life would come to an end so soon?

A lot has transpired here since my last letter... Our daughter has run away with a Christian, and stolen with her my precious ring! You can only imagine my horror – I was at a loss for words. How dare she do such a thing? I have cared for her, given her everything she's ever needed for two decades; now how does she reciprocate my love? By making off with my gold and jewels and turning against our faith!

Perhaps not having a present father in her childhood years was what turned her into a miscreant. Perhaps she never understood the reasons why I did not display my love outright, only through my care. I resent it, Leah, I really do. But how could I, when during the long bouts of depression I suffered after your passing, even laying eyes on her broke my heart?

She is the exact mirror image of you, but I'm afraid I have destroyed her. I fear I have turned her into the ruined person I myself am. But what can I do now? She has disappeared far beyond my grasp.  

I have been so foolish since your death, made so many mistakes. Been so quick to trust the law of the Christians, all the while knowing what vile creatures they are, always twisting circumstances to work in their favour. Do you remember the bond I told you about in my last letter – the one I'd made with the merchant Antonio? Well, he could not pay back the bond in time. Therefore, I should have been entitled to, by written pact, a single pound of his flesh. The case was brought before the Duke, supposed keeper of the law... who demanded justice for Antonio! Can you believe that? By the law, I was warranted one pound of Antonio's flesh. Standing in the court, however, it was me whom the crowds ridiculed and were furious with. I was so naive, believing that the Venetian laws could rise above their bigotry and anger for once, in my favour. And so I stood my ground, relentless, confident that I had finally outsmarted the Christians with their own justice.

They warped and distorted the words of their decrees, looking for an unfavourable gap, until a loophole in the contract was found. The tables turned completely, and a completely different trial – of my own persecution – began.

The Christians stripped me bare of everything I had left. They mocked me with their words, each one cornering me into a laid-out trap. It was as if they'd set out to humiliate me in front of the public audience all along; exactly what they'd been doing to me my entire life. Do you believe that I truly wished to take Antonio's flesh? Most certainly no; what I set out for was revenge. I sought to punish the Christians, on behalf of all Jews, for making our lives a living hell. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge.

I fought back as vigorously as I could, but to no avail; a mere Jew standing in front of a crowd of Christians stands no chance of pleading his case. In the end, they were "kind", or so they claimed. They spared me my life, at the expense of half my riches to the State. All my years of hard work, dissipated with the Duke's words... But, perhaps the most excruciating portion of the sentence was when they demanded that I convert to Christianity.

I may be willing to sacrifice many things, Leah, but how can I stand to allow my faith to slip away? It has been the foundation of my being, always there to lead and guide me. Without Jehovah, what more do I have left? I begged them to just take my life then and there; in doing so, at least I would be with you now. But they wished for me to suffer, so they said, "as thou urgest justice, be assured thou shalt have justice". Jessica left me in favour of a Christian... and yet, how ironic is it that the cruel doctrine has now been forced upon myself?

The Christians have succeeded in cheating me of everything: my family, my religion, my wealth, and along with those things stolen my pride and what little remained of my happiness. They maintain that justice was served unto me – the fact that Antonio walked away with more wealth to begin with and I in the meantime lost all, begs to differ. Ironic, is it not, that the Duke began the trial asking for my mercy? How is it then, that they cannot understand why I refused to grant Antonio a forfeiture of the bond? I was merely following their heartless ways.

Oh Leah, is there a god in the heavens? Does he truly believe he has placed justice upon my back?

***

It had seemed like the perfect idea at the time, but the shame and guilt of running away slowly begins to well up. Sure, she is happy to be here, living in a rich palace in Belmont with her new fiancé, but she cannot help but think of her father at times. She finds herself wondering about him often – how he is doing, whether he is upset or grateful for her disappearance. You don't get to choose your family, she thinks to herself, but perhaps blood ties alone create bonds that are stronger than any other. As much as you try to scrub your Jewish heritage away, you are only attempting to run  away from yourself.

She hears about the trial from Lorenzo, and can't help but feel sorry for her father. She pretends for Lorenzo's sake, as Antonio is his dear friend, but no, she does not agree with the verdict handed out by the court. Deep in her heart, as much as she wishes to differ, she knows that religion played a major factor in the ruling. And so, by default, her father stood no chance.   

After all, justice is only ever just in the eyes of the majority.  

***

But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough
You didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records and then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

***

They are coming later today with the deed that, once signed, may as well seal his life away. But he has a plan; and so, he begins to write.

Dear Jessica,

The number of things I need to apologize to you for is innumerable; sadly, it is only now that I am beginning to realize the many consequences of my actions. Since your early childhood days, I deeply regret all of the time I neglected you in a desperate search of wealth. At the time, I believed that enough ducats could fill the void in my heart that your mother left. Instead of striving to deal with my depression, I threw myself into my work and left you to your own devices. I abandoned you for so much of your childhood, Jessica, and though an apology will never be enough, it is the best I can do in such circumstances.       

You have a different life now – a life of your own choosing, no doubt, but in retrospect I feel that , in a sense, you have made the right decision. You have given yourself the chance to live a better life through marrying a Christian; now, justice will finally be on your side. Therefore, I give you my blessing and wish you all the best. I hope that one day, you will come to respect my own decision. Make no mistake; I have thought long and hard about it in the past days, and have realized that it will prove the best choice for us both – I will be in a happier place, and you can finally move on, no strings attached. You will understand one day, my dear. Until then, know that you will always be in my heart.     

In love,

Your father

Satisfied, he leaves the letter on his desk and begins to make final preparations.

***

She feels that it is her duty to make sure he is doing okay; after all, he is her father, and she is the only one he has left. And so, she begins to make plans to visit him in secret. One night, as the rest of the palace slept, she bribes the guards and sneaks out of, setting off for Venice. She makes her way towards the city on foot, or by boat whenever possible. She knows there will likely be consequences should she be caught, but the turquoise ring she wears on a chain around her neck keeps her going.

She reaches Genoa before she is stopped by Tubal, her father's old friend. He hands her an envelope, wishes her his condolences, then rushes off without another word. Mystified, she opens the envelope; inside is a letter. She recognizes her father's slanted cursive writing immediately as she begins to read. Stomach churning, the realization of exactly what her father is trying to say dawns, and the words begin to blur together on the parchment.    

She has never felt so alone, so abandoned.