I woke up one December morning a few winters ago to several centimetres of fresh, fluffy snow outside waiting to be flattened. By the afternoon, the message had gotten around to all of my friends: meet at the hill by 8, and bring your crazy carpet. We've gone tobogganing on the hill by Kaitlyn's house many times, and it still seems perfect: one side is covered in trees, but the other has a steep slope that can tear the scream from your throat as you take the plunge off the edge of the top ridge. Going later at night means that there are less young children to watch out for, and the darkness always adds an extra source of fanciful danger.
Seven of us gathered at the top of the hill and stalled, waiting for someone to take the first ride. I grabbed Jessica's sled and dived off the top, yelling gleefully all the way down, and a few others followed. As always, after a few trips we needed to find ways to spice up the experience. I think we managed to get 4 people to dog-pile on to one sled and get all the way down the hill. Of course, every time we failed, bailing into the soft snow all around was a pleasant alternative.
The hill averages about a 15 second slide down, and naturally, the walk up feels longer and longer the more times you go down. After about an hour, we were all exhausted, a bit cold, and ready to head back to Kaitlyn's for some hot chocolate. While I was laying on one of the sleds at the top of the hill waiting for the boys to come back from the bottom, I made some snarky comment as per usual. I can't remember what it was now, but the minute following has been permanently burned into my brain. In retaliation for my sass, Kaitlyn pushed me playfully, and I started going down the wrong side of the hill. It seemed safe enough, so I flipped onto my stomach and looked up, leaning my body from side to side so as to direct myself around the trees to the bottom. I could hear Jessica asking what the hell I was doing, but I didn't stop. I kept going, feeling like I was in a dumbed down version of Skeleton. I was doing very well, and as my head made it past the last tree I whooped excitedly.. before my knee and the tree became one and next thing I knew, I was laying crumpled at the bottom of the hill, laughing at my stupidity and crying over the pain in my knee. Hearing my laughter, my friends didn't run down but slowly descended to see how I was. It wasn't broken, but most definitely bruised.
On the trek back to Kaitlyn's, I could barely walk and I wished I hadn't of brushed off my injury to my friends so I could've had a bit more sympathy for my adrenaline-reduced pain. For the week after the accident, I wore a tensor around my knee so I could walk without my right leg buckling. It felt like a cruel punishment for my stupidity (or maybe just lack of coordination when manoeuvring around trees) that I had to deal with the pain for such an extended amount of time. When it happened I thought my knee would only be really sore for the next day, or maybe two. In what seemed like an endless saga, it continued to twinge for a month after I hit it on the hill, and I figured I must have seriously damaged some cartilage. Even in the summer I could still feel my right knee move around, looser than the left one in some medical way I've never understood. It was July, and while I wanted to think only of sunshine and of star gazing in my T-shirt at midnight on luscious green grass, my knee constantly reminded me of the hill, the snow, and how the three of us would meet again in December.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Writing, I've Missed You
The first two writing exercises for this class were quite difficult for me to produce. The subject matter was definitely interesting enough- a local scandal and a person I admire both allowed for more than enough things to say. I kept putting off the admiration piece until what felt like the last possible moment, but was fairly satisfied with the draft I submitted. I looked into what I wanted to write about for the blog about Eric Tillman and made an outline on Friday, and then spent Saturday morning and afternoon listlessly refreshing Facebook, taking a break to run out to the store on an unnecessary errand, and catching up on some episodes of Madmen. I wanted to get it done early in the afternoon so I'd have time for other homework, but that didn't happen. It finally took my friend dragging me to a coffee shop, taking away my cell phone, and actively telling me to focus every time my mind wandered off. After 3 hours, I had my piece written.
I enjoy writing, I find it very therapeutic when I'm upset and need to work things through or to describe an utterly fantastic day. I even like crafting sentences together for academic essays. I've kept an online journal since I was 15, and I've used it to vent and talk about anything imaginable. For many years, I wrote a few times a week. The amount of entries has always varied, but there was always that consistency. So far in 2010, I have only written 4 entries, and there has been no other outlet for my writing. My lifestyle changed drastically in January when I began a study abroad program in Cortona, Italy. I had visions of journalling as often as possible to remember every moment, but after the first week that quickly died and instead I decided to memorialize my adventures using photographs of everything I did. With every three day weekend, I went to a new Italian town and snapped shots of my friends, myself and our amazing surroundings. As Cortona wound down and my backpacking adventures began (9 countries in 46 days), the need and desire to snap pictures as much as possible wore off. After 3 months of taking the same picture on 8 different cameras so everyone in the group could have one or taking pictures of national monuments that 100 other tourists take every minute, my photographic endeavour was in serious need of a break. It got so bad that my friend and I were standing under the Eiffel Tower near the end of our travels and we looked at each other and asked "Do you want to take it or should I?" We had seen so much in so little time that while we still loved each European moment we were given, we took pictures because it's what people were supposed to do, and we would probably appreciate them later.. not because we really wanted to at the time.
Out of my 46 day whirlwind trip, the sole day I did journal was my last day in Paris when I was alone, and I walked around the city for the whole day, and attempted to write up the chronicles of my European journey in the form of a letter to my best friend. I wrote for hours, and only made it to country number 6. I believe it was that day that I really fell in love with Paris. I liked Vienna and Prague, and I was glad I got to see Brussels and Berlin, but I loved Paris. By the late afternoon, my hand was aching and I just didn't want to write anymore. I began to walk and stumbled upon a park in the northern part of the city. I'm sure if I went back to this park it I would lose some of it's magic, but that day, I was surrounded by Paris and became Parisian. As I walked from one side of the park to another, I saw children playing a game of soccer, old men chatting on park benches with baguettes beside them, and lovers lying on the grass in each others arms. The trees were large and green and the fountains were murmuring quietly. I sat down near the far end of the park and thought of taking out my camera or writing down what I was seeing, but I felt like there was no way that I could possibly capture how perfect this moment was. Serenity washed over me in waves as I sat there, thinking that life could not be more beautiful. Even though I was by myself, I felt as if the city had come to life, or maybe it always was. I felt like Paris was sharing a secret with me, and even though I was by myself, I wasn't alone.
When I returned to Canada a few weeks later, I spent a grand total of 72 hours praising the comforts of my own shower, my own bed, and my friends and family before I was ready to go back. It felt like I had left my heart back across the ocean. However, old routines came back as my summer began and I started working a few days after I landed in Edmonton. The summer was enjoyable enough, but at every turn I saw Europe. When I went for a jog at my regular loop around the human-made Beaumaris Lake was nothing compared to running on the banks of the Tevere in Rome. The walking distance and ease of public transportation everywhere in Europe made me resent my north side home and Edmonton's urban sprawl even more. My family started discussing the fascinating history of St. Albert one day after supper, but all I could think of was that I had been living in a building in Italy that was built before Canada was even discovered.
Sparse writing over the majority of the past 8 months is probably a combination of living in the moment without having time to look back, laziness, a lack of inspiration, and a wee bit of depression from readjusting to life at home. I am glad I have this course in my schedule, because instead of only being forced to write academic essays, I will hopefully find an end to the dry spell that I have been under and write more freely. My goal is to find less force and more self propelled interest. With 8 months left, I'm reasonably confident I'll succeed.
I enjoy writing, I find it very therapeutic when I'm upset and need to work things through or to describe an utterly fantastic day. I even like crafting sentences together for academic essays. I've kept an online journal since I was 15, and I've used it to vent and talk about anything imaginable. For many years, I wrote a few times a week. The amount of entries has always varied, but there was always that consistency. So far in 2010, I have only written 4 entries, and there has been no other outlet for my writing. My lifestyle changed drastically in January when I began a study abroad program in Cortona, Italy. I had visions of journalling as often as possible to remember every moment, but after the first week that quickly died and instead I decided to memorialize my adventures using photographs of everything I did. With every three day weekend, I went to a new Italian town and snapped shots of my friends, myself and our amazing surroundings. As Cortona wound down and my backpacking adventures began (9 countries in 46 days), the need and desire to snap pictures as much as possible wore off. After 3 months of taking the same picture on 8 different cameras so everyone in the group could have one or taking pictures of national monuments that 100 other tourists take every minute, my photographic endeavour was in serious need of a break. It got so bad that my friend and I were standing under the Eiffel Tower near the end of our travels and we looked at each other and asked "Do you want to take it or should I?" We had seen so much in so little time that while we still loved each European moment we were given, we took pictures because it's what people were supposed to do, and we would probably appreciate them later.. not because we really wanted to at the time.
Out of my 46 day whirlwind trip, the sole day I did journal was my last day in Paris when I was alone, and I walked around the city for the whole day, and attempted to write up the chronicles of my European journey in the form of a letter to my best friend. I wrote for hours, and only made it to country number 6. I believe it was that day that I really fell in love with Paris. I liked Vienna and Prague, and I was glad I got to see Brussels and Berlin, but I loved Paris. By the late afternoon, my hand was aching and I just didn't want to write anymore. I began to walk and stumbled upon a park in the northern part of the city. I'm sure if I went back to this park it I would lose some of it's magic, but that day, I was surrounded by Paris and became Parisian. As I walked from one side of the park to another, I saw children playing a game of soccer, old men chatting on park benches with baguettes beside them, and lovers lying on the grass in each others arms. The trees were large and green and the fountains were murmuring quietly. I sat down near the far end of the park and thought of taking out my camera or writing down what I was seeing, but I felt like there was no way that I could possibly capture how perfect this moment was. Serenity washed over me in waves as I sat there, thinking that life could not be more beautiful. Even though I was by myself, I felt as if the city had come to life, or maybe it always was. I felt like Paris was sharing a secret with me, and even though I was by myself, I wasn't alone.
When I returned to Canada a few weeks later, I spent a grand total of 72 hours praising the comforts of my own shower, my own bed, and my friends and family before I was ready to go back. It felt like I had left my heart back across the ocean. However, old routines came back as my summer began and I started working a few days after I landed in Edmonton. The summer was enjoyable enough, but at every turn I saw Europe. When I went for a jog at my regular loop around the human-made Beaumaris Lake was nothing compared to running on the banks of the Tevere in Rome. The walking distance and ease of public transportation everywhere in Europe made me resent my north side home and Edmonton's urban sprawl even more. My family started discussing the fascinating history of St. Albert one day after supper, but all I could think of was that I had been living in a building in Italy that was built before Canada was even discovered.
Sparse writing over the majority of the past 8 months is probably a combination of living in the moment without having time to look back, laziness, a lack of inspiration, and a wee bit of depression from readjusting to life at home. I am glad I have this course in my schedule, because instead of only being forced to write academic essays, I will hopefully find an end to the dry spell that I have been under and write more freely. My goal is to find less force and more self propelled interest. With 8 months left, I'm reasonably confident I'll succeed.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Sexual Assault is not Inconsequential
The front pages of Edmonton's newspapers have seen two separate accounts of sexual assault in the past few days. Earlier this week, Eric Tillman was named the new General Manager of the failing franchise of the Edmonton Eskimos after pleading guilty to sexual assault less than a year ago. On Friday, Michael Dubas, a junior high teacher from Morinville, was found not guilty to sexual assault charges against two teenage girls from his school.
According to the media, Tillman grabbed his child's baby sitter from behind and pulled her close in a sexual manner-allegations to which he consequently pleaded guilty. Dubas pleaded not guilty, and was acquitted when the testimony of the girls did not add up with surveillance video from the school.
Situations such as these seem to inevitably spark people's moral judgements on the matter- a circumstance emphasized by CBC.ca's choice to not allow comments on the news stories. With events like these, I personally always try to remember that as "the public" we will never actually know what went on.
In the case of Dubas, I have to wonder if allegations of sexual assault came from no where. When I was in high school everyone knew about the teacher on staff who let his hand linger on the backs of female students when they asked a question about derivates. We largely live in a society where touch is not permitted-when you meet someone, a handshake or curt nod is the norm. Dubas could be an overly friendly mentor like my high school teacher, a personality trait that turned on him when the girls filed charges. Or maybe these students simply didn't like him for any number of reasons and decided to punish him for it. The Edmonton Journal gave Dubas the front page headline that told readers that he was innocent, that his charges were false. Regardless of this, his reputation as an educator of children and as a human being have been forever marred. Although the Journal suggests that Dubas will be offered his position back within the school board, I wonder if he will accept it or find that the serious, often unforgivable blight on his image will keep him away from a career he has devoted his entire life to. If he does want to go back, his students or their parents may treat every innocent touch on the shoulder as if it were a sexual advance from a previously accused man.
On the other hand, Tillman told the media that a mixture of non-prescription sleeping pills and pain medication led to a memory blackout where his admitted sexual assault took place. Once again different scenes run through my head. Was the teenage babysitter flirting with Tillman before hand? Were there previous comments made by Tillman to push the girl to disgrace a public figure with one uncomfortable event? Then there is the event itself. Okay Eric, you say a fluke chemical mix leaves you not remembering anything that happened. Well, I don't personally know many people who have sexually assaulted someone when they were out of mind. That is, unless there was thought or intention before hand. While all of this background is important to keep in mind, the central and most important point of it all is that Tillman made an unwanted sexual advance at a minor, and he pleaded guilty.
I personally have no interest in who they hire to manage the Eskimos. In my opinion, a league with 8 teams who don't even play that well don't deserve my attention. But, if Dubas had been found guilty of sexual assault, he would have been publicly shamed rather than "saved" (if you can call it that) on the front page of the Journal, and never would have stepped foot in the classroom again.
Yet here we have Tillman, a guilty man who has been hired on by a team and a city that seems to hold an ideology that sees failing to run with a ball from one side of a grass field to another as worse than any trivial "sexual assault". While I believe that people who are remorseful should be forgiven, less than a year after Tillman makes headlines with his unacceptable sexual advances, he is rewarded with a franchise that will love him once the Eskimos learn how to run and catch at the same time.
According to the media, Tillman grabbed his child's baby sitter from behind and pulled her close in a sexual manner-allegations to which he consequently pleaded guilty. Dubas pleaded not guilty, and was acquitted when the testimony of the girls did not add up with surveillance video from the school.
Situations such as these seem to inevitably spark people's moral judgements on the matter- a circumstance emphasized by CBC.ca's choice to not allow comments on the news stories. With events like these, I personally always try to remember that as "the public" we will never actually know what went on.
In the case of Dubas, I have to wonder if allegations of sexual assault came from no where. When I was in high school everyone knew about the teacher on staff who let his hand linger on the backs of female students when they asked a question about derivates. We largely live in a society where touch is not permitted-when you meet someone, a handshake or curt nod is the norm. Dubas could be an overly friendly mentor like my high school teacher, a personality trait that turned on him when the girls filed charges. Or maybe these students simply didn't like him for any number of reasons and decided to punish him for it. The Edmonton Journal gave Dubas the front page headline that told readers that he was innocent, that his charges were false. Regardless of this, his reputation as an educator of children and as a human being have been forever marred. Although the Journal suggests that Dubas will be offered his position back within the school board, I wonder if he will accept it or find that the serious, often unforgivable blight on his image will keep him away from a career he has devoted his entire life to. If he does want to go back, his students or their parents may treat every innocent touch on the shoulder as if it were a sexual advance from a previously accused man.
On the other hand, Tillman told the media that a mixture of non-prescription sleeping pills and pain medication led to a memory blackout where his admitted sexual assault took place. Once again different scenes run through my head. Was the teenage babysitter flirting with Tillman before hand? Were there previous comments made by Tillman to push the girl to disgrace a public figure with one uncomfortable event? Then there is the event itself. Okay Eric, you say a fluke chemical mix leaves you not remembering anything that happened. Well, I don't personally know many people who have sexually assaulted someone when they were out of mind. That is, unless there was thought or intention before hand. While all of this background is important to keep in mind, the central and most important point of it all is that Tillman made an unwanted sexual advance at a minor, and he pleaded guilty.
I personally have no interest in who they hire to manage the Eskimos. In my opinion, a league with 8 teams who don't even play that well don't deserve my attention. But, if Dubas had been found guilty of sexual assault, he would have been publicly shamed rather than "saved" (if you can call it that) on the front page of the Journal, and never would have stepped foot in the classroom again.
Yet here we have Tillman, a guilty man who has been hired on by a team and a city that seems to hold an ideology that sees failing to run with a ball from one side of a grass field to another as worse than any trivial "sexual assault". While I believe that people who are remorseful should be forgiven, less than a year after Tillman makes headlines with his unacceptable sexual advances, he is rewarded with a franchise that will love him once the Eskimos learn how to run and catch at the same time.
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