Stephen Harper sings Imagine with Maria Aragon

If you wait until the end of this election, all of the candidates will have documentation of themselves holding babies, interacting with delightful, supportive seniors, and something cute and unexpected like this.

Stephen Harper is bland. I know he’s my prime minister, I know he sits politically and economically right (especially so since he’s from Calgary). I know that he’s a Christian white guy with a white wife and two kids. He pretty much fits the cookie cutter image most Canadians want today. Other than that, I don’t really know anything about him. I’m somehow allowed to hate him because he stands as a symbol for a party who works against my interests. But the (non)apathetic Canadians voted his party in-twice.

I hope a party wins a majority this election, and I hope it’s one I can support. But while the cameras flash and the videos record things like this for the media to distribute so voters can have warm, fuzzy feelings when they go to the polls, I’m going to ignore all the bullshit surrounding politics and motive and knock it all down to this:

Stephen Harper can’t really sing, and when he is rightly fighting to be re-elected, he isn’t going to have time to perfect the notes for this song. He was asked to sit down with an adorable, talented little Canadian who deserves the recognition, and play an inspiring song which shows off more humbleness and personality than I’ve seen from him in a long time.

Good for the assistant who lined this up. It’s everything you want to be seen as in a campaign and I will not blame any politician for living up to his/her job description. If his party should be re-elected, or even if he’s just the next leader of opposition, I at least hope he will take the lyrics of this song to heart when representing the people of Canada. (Not Harper’s Government).

I'll Miss you, Gido (Speech from the Funeral)

When someone mentions 'grandfather' in my presence, my mind conjures an image of an adorable old man: short, stout, and usually wearing Arnold Palmer or maybe a Veteran’s cap and blazer with a long line of medals. He has a good appetite, a green thumb, and the ability to turn whistling from a hobby into an art form. Larissa, Heather, Robert and I were all lucky enough to have a close relationship with this man. Our Gido lived close, we saw him on every holiday and birthday, and we all had an open invitation to stop by whenever we wanted.

On Sunday I found a Canadian Army identification card of my Gido's tucked away in his wallet, dating back from February of 1943. The curves of Gido's right index finger are smudged in the bottom right corner, there is a handsome picture of him in the top right that reminds me of my brother Robert, and a whole slew of identifying characteristics including the scar on his upper lip, which my mom tells me is a marker of his life growing up on the farm in St. Paul when he was kicked by a horse.

I never knew this young 19 year old. If I wanted more proof of this I only had to look as far as line 4 of the card, which states his height to be a whopping five foot four. The Gido I knew was shorter than my own five foot two frame, so I can't help but find that statistic a little hard to believe. Gido's years serving in the army and his later career as an electrician were always stories for me; by the time I came into his life, he was retired, and busier than ever.

Gido was a source of stability for me that I don't think I could ever fully convey in words to you. Trips to Baba and Gido's house were a regular occurrence when I was younger, and if Gido wasn't doing puzzles or watching TV in the front room, he'd be in the backyard. If I was lucky, he'd be washing the dirt off carrots from his garden in a big silver bucket and handing them to me to eat as fresh as you can get.

On special occasions, I'd get to spend the whole day with Baba and Gido. Robert and I would get picked up in the morning, usually in Gido's little red and white truck, crawl into the bucket seats in the back that remain questionable in my mind in terms of modern safety standards, and go on the morning routine. First stop: McDonald's on Yellowhead and 142 street. Since they ate breakfast at home, Baba and Gido would just order coffee (except on Saturdays when they'd splurge on breakfast). After McDonald's came Westmount, where we would pick up items from Zellers and Safeway which were still side by side. Coming home, Gido made sandwiches for lunch which took place precisely at noon, and my afternoon was a choice between sports in the front room with Gido or soaps in the den with Baba.

I learned from a very young age to be proud of my Gido. Every Remembrance Day I would go to the Butterdome with my family and watch Gido acting as the Parade Marshall for the ceremony. But you know, my Gido was so grounded that he never let this fame go to his head. Even though he'd be side by side with the Mayor and Governor General at the Butterdome, he still came out to our schools during November. He's been to Larissa and Heather's to talk about Remembrance day and the Wars, and he was a staple Veteran for years at O'Leary celebrations where Robert and I went to high school.

Of course, as I have gotten older I no longer need Baba and Gido to take care of me... Well, that actually depends on the day. Anyways, those full days with Baba and Gido became less frequent, although one day in our mid-teens Gido's car was in the shop and Robert and I had to squish into those same tiny bucket seats in the truck. I really wish I had photographed that truck, because I don't know if I can do the small size justice. The seats were small for a 6 year old, let alone two teenagers. There was no such thing as personal space.

My parent's first night leaving my brother and I home alone was in 2009. Robert had to work, and out of all the possibilities of having a nice big house to myself, I went out for supper and then to the casino with Baba and Gido. Even if I wasn't such a pro at the slots, I wouldn't have wanted to spend the night any other way.

I went to cancel my Gido's cell phone at Kingsway on Wednesday, and the girl said to me “I'm really sorry to hear of his passing, I remember him.” Now this may have been because Gido was that guy, who brought his cell phone in a plastic ziploc baggie to pay his bill every month, but I think it was a bit more than that. Gido made connections with everyone, whether it's Bryan who does the yardwork or Jean, our old waitress for Sunday breakfast for Zellers who came out to the prayer service yesterday. He was outgoing and friendly to everyone and had a great sense of humour. Although he could have spent his retirement in a proper state of being 'retired', his calendar was usually busier than mine whether he was working with the legion, sitting on the board at the Ukrainian Cultural Village, or at any of the countless places he gave his time to.

As JK Rowling very wisely said, “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” Gido may have left us unexpectedly, but as I have been reflecting on his life over the past few days, I am positive that he lived up to this quote. Through his actions, he has taught me more than I may ever fully realize. Gido taught me the importance of lending a helping hand over the need of getting paid. Through his solid relationship with Baba, he showed me how much better it is to have someone to share the ups and downs of life with. Lastly, he lived every day as genuine person, which I know is harder than it sounds. I may be in a privileged position as his granddaughter who never had to doubt this, but I truly believe the world would be better off with a few more Bill's in it. When I picture Gido, I cannot see him without a smile on his face and a contentment behind his eyes that I strive to achieve. When I think of what he is doing now, my mind returns to the brave young man shown in his army identity card, full of ideals, hopes, and dreams for the future, ready to go out on his next adventure.

Farewell, Brave Soldier

This is Why You're Fat*

During the last few weeks, my mid-winter depression has really set in. Even though there have been a few days of sunshine and warm temperatures, my mind only registers the dull overcast skies and windchill that threatens to quickly decimate any skin left foolishly uncovered. The dip in my mood also unsurprisingly corresponds directly to the amount of homework I have piling up; in the next two weeks I need to write 4 essays and read around 1000 pages of challenging academic writing. In the face of all this, I spent my evening procrastinating like any good university student. The product: Oreo Stuffed Chocolate Chip Cookies!

I found the recipe a few weeks ago while mindlessly surfing the web and saved it in my favourites for a day when my sweet tooth went into overdrive. They were quite easy to make, but they made for some gigantic cookies. Normally, when I stick my hand into the cookie jar I come out with 2 or 3 cookies, but just one of these delicious concoctions filled me right up. This is probably a good thing, since the nutritional information for the Double Stuf Oreos I used as fillings says that 2 small cookies are worth 160 calories and 31% of your daily recommended intake of fat. Adding that to the amount of fat present in the recipe for chocolate chip cookies and you pretty much have a convenient heart attack in a hand.

One cookie makes for a pretty good dessert, especially when it's washed down with a large glass of milk. If you can ignore the sharp twinges of protest coming from your arteries like I can, you may even be able to eat two.

*This recipe didn't actually come from This is Why Your Fat, but I'm sure it's on there somewhere

The Bond Between Transit and a Girl

My Dearest ETS,

I don't say it nearly enough, so I just wanted to you write you a quick note to let you know how much I love and appreciate you. We may have been kept apart during my younger years from my parents who always insisted on taking me around the city themselves, but I think that throughout our relationship, we have proven that a bond between transit and a girl is stronger than anything—even the BO of that unfortunate man who always took the 180 to Londonderry with me. Well, you remember, you were there.

One of my earliest memories of us is from when I was 14, and nervous about going to Whyte Ave with you. I brought Kaitlyn along as a buffer, but I didn't really need her since the 3 transfers it took to get there were simple. You were so polite and timid, staying on time the whole way and helping me make sure I got to the right place. After that first hour and a half bus ride, I knew we were meant to be and couldn't wait to head back to the North side with you. Sure my mom would have gotten me there in 25 minutes, but as we both know, romance takes time.

When I started high school you picked me up right outside my crescent and dropped me off at the doors of my school. You never wanted me to leave and some days you even playfully refused to let me off near my house even after I yelled at you. But the five minutes added to my walk was worth the extra 30 seconds with you. I even forgive you for coming early and leaving impatiently without me all those times—we were so young then.

I knew you were the one after The Great Fight of 2008. I was an independent university student, and when I started to drive early in the year, I didn't spend enough time with you until it got to the point that we didn't see each other at all that summer. When I came crawling back in September, you welcomed me with open doors and brought me to school, although you still do make me walk that extra 15 minutes for a ride. You've told me it's for the benefit of keeping off the Freshman 15, and it's so nice to know you have my best interests at heart. My favourite time with you is the 10 minute wait we have at Westmount every day on the 128. It's nice to take a breather in the long, winding trek you take from Castledowns to the University, and it's fun watching everyone run around like busy little ants with things to do as we take the time to sit and admire the unique Edmonton aesthetic behind Westmount Mall.

I will be honest with you, I was really excited to see you after my night class yesterday, and I waited outside for you as soon as class was dismissed. My eyes scanned the far side of campus, looking for you to turn the corner at St. Joe's to come get me, but it soon became apparent you weren't coming. When you finally showed up half an hour late, you were anxious and in a hurry—you hit every pot hole and skidded on every patch of ice while you regularly smacked your right side into the snow drifts lining the side of the road. I felt so nauseous I wasn't sure if I would last the ride without being sick. I left without saying goodbye. You let me down, and had no explanation for me.

Tonight, I hoped to reconnect with you after I finished studying late on campus. At 9:45 I was ready for you—early, and you know how hard that is for me. You didn't show up. Again. After standing outside for 25 minutes in the quickly dropping temperatures, a taxi pulled up to the side of the road where I was standing with it's top light on trying to proposition me to pay for it's overpriced services. My toes had reached subzero temperatures, but as I looked at the taxi, I knew I would never get in. I would wait for you, even if it took an hour. I couldn't imagine it any other way.

I know we disagree on a lot of things, like where to go and how to get there. But I'm learning to compromise. I'm even starting to understand why you don't like going out late at night. No matter how angry I get with you, I want you to know that you're the transit system for me. Even when I say ridiculous things like “I'm moving to Vancouver where the bus service doesn't totally suck!” or “Why can't the LRT run in more than two directions like every other city in the world?,” I'm not being serious. You're amazing, and I'll be ready and waiting for you tomorrow whenever you're ready to show up.

Love,

Danielle

Day of Purple

A Facebook initiative began last month for an international day of wearing the colour purple on October 20th to commemorate the loss of so many young people in the United States recently due to LGBT bullying and homophobia with the added goal of promoting equality for all. Like many people, I am saddened and frustrated over their deaths, and consider myself 110% behind equal rights for all regardless of sexuality or gender. However, I really have a problem with events that attempt to promote awareness through wearing a colour. As this cause is so close to my heart, it frustrated me even more. My dissatisfaction lead me to make a post on Facebook about it, and the response was very intriguing. I had 25 friends "like" it, and underneath a debate began about how messages and events of equality should happen. I started my day saying:

Wearing a colour does NOT instigate change. If you care about equality for all sexualities and genders, put on whatever clothes you want, & go out into the world consciously acting against hate. Speak up when you are around discrimination. Don't vote people into power who refuse to equally represent everyone. Hiding your homophobia behind religion is not a legitimate excuse. Love is love, and love is beautiful.

A few people agreed, but said that wearing purple was a good idea anyways. I argued that the event makes you guess what another person's motivations are for wearing a certain piece of clothing, and excuses the consciences of some people who think that simply putting on a certain shirt in the morning will end this kind of hate. There are still laws at Federal, Provincial, and State levels in North America that discriminate against people who don't comply to the heterosexual norm, and these are more important to me than an awareness campaign that works only if you are around online social mediums. My friend Ben agreed with me, and brought up this point:

While the "wear purple" campaign has a nice sentiment, the world is being saturated by these awareness campaigns to such a degree that people are becoming wilfully apathetic to the cause. The fact that there are so many movements that are, in actuality, doing very little to solve the problem waters down the message trying to be sent to the point that these (insert cause here) day are simply becoming an annoyance. In the days of the internet, if you aren't already aware of some social injustice then chances are you never will be.

The debate continued, and the legitimacy of both sides remained strong. The ultimate goal of everyone involved was the same, which led to a general feeling of discontentment on both sides. My favourite comment against my view came from my friend Ryan, who said:

I agree with your sentiment Danielle, but I don't think the lazy semi-activists, however irritating, reduce the importance of symbolic displays. Visibility is essential to a social movement or political group, especially one you can't always pick out of a crowd.

Since the Day of Purple, Barack Obama has released his own "It Gets Better" video while hypocritically, the Federal "Don't Ask Don't Tell" law for the American Military has flipped back and forth as to whether it will remain in effect, giving homophobes legal fodder for their beliefs and actions. There have been more reported cases of suicides of teens who have identified as LGBT, although I feel that since the media has dubbed this an epidemic of sorts, they are more likely to report suicides that before would never have been news. The event intrigued a small portion of the population, and a few days later things seem to be getting worse.

I'm still anti-purple.

Election Day

Election Day has become a ritual for me ever since I turned 18. During the day I vote and encourage others to exercise their democratic right, and then once the polls close I camp out in front of my television waiting for results to come in.

This election is different. For the first time, I experienced voter apathy. This is saying something for a politically liberal person growing up in Conservative Alberta. During the 2008 general election, I was satisfied that Ralph Klein was finally gone. For the Federal general election of 2008, I barely paid attention to the Conservative incumbent guaranteed to win in my riding, but anxiously awaited the results for New Democrat Linda Duncan.

Of course, our municipal government doesn't function under the party system. Instead, candidates propose their vision for the city when vying for a spot on council. But I don't have a vision of myself in this city. I plan on moving away from Edmonton when I finish my degree next June, and I haven't put much thought into the potential of eventually establishing a life here. Even the ballot itself proved troublesome. Do I vote for a Catholic Board School Trustee, an institution that was responsible for my grade school education, or for the Public Board to reflect my current (non)religious views? Even my anticipation of the Election Day was lessened by the necessity of voting 2 weeks ago- between work and night class I had no time to make it to my polling station today.

With 7.5% of poll stations reporting, CTV is predicting a win for Mandel. Looks like Edmonton will continue to see plans for an expanded LRT system, the potential for Expo 2017, and the closure of the airport. Congratulations Mandel, but I'm dreaming of Ireland.

Concert Review: Broken Social Scene

Any band who starts a show by playing two of their biggest singles holds a confidence in their performance ability and catalogue of great songs to carry the rest of the set. Broken Social Scene successfully proved this when they opened their October 9 concert at the Winspear with 7/4 Shoreline and Texico Bitches, and had nearly everyone in the audience out of their seats and dancing within the first ten minutes.

Each song saw musicians rotating off and on stage depending on the need for their instrumental or vocal additions. Kevin Drew's haunting solo of Lover's Spit echoed into the depths of the Winspear sending chills down my spine. Other songs saw a total number of 11 members playing a song, reminiscent of the the large collective of musicians who have toured with the band and contribute to the records (Wikipedia currently has band members listed at 25).

Lisa Lobsinger was the sole female on stage, but held her own easily. She always seemed to float across the stage regardless of whether she was singing or playing an instrument. She performed Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl well, but I personally didn't think it measured up to the live version by Emily Haines, who performed it in Edmonton at the acoustic Metric show last year. Lobsinger's voice truly shone when she sang All to All, a performance that still hasn't gotten out of my head a week later.

I thought the extended jam/dance session of Meet Me in the Basement should have been moved to the end of the set as a great upbeat finale, but when Kevin Drew asked if the audience wanted more, the encore was delivered so brilliantly that when I left the Winspear, I was still dancing across Churchill Square.

HUB

It's class change time at the University, and HUB Mall is swarmed with people. Most of them follow the unspoken rule of "keep to the right", and are continuously joined by people coming through the numerous side doors that line the mall on both sides. The natural flow of walking has been disturbed by the construction in the mall. The website for HUB says that the construction is working towards replacing the roof, but that doesn't explain the month long paint job users of HUB have endured. Parts of the mall are blocked off by construction tape, and loud mechanical ladders emit a shrill beeping noise whenever the workers attempt to move the ladders closer to where the next layer of paint should go, a seemingly useless noise that interrupts the normal ambient noise of conversation prevalent in the main atrium of the mall that spans 4 city blocks.

This morning I came up into the mall through entrance 8908 to avoid the horribly engineered detour for the Daycare park that came into existence last April. As usual, I avoided using the handrails due to their slick, slightly sticky feel that always has me reaching for my hand sanitizer. Climbing the steps, the unique Aroma of HUB that I'm not sure everyone would identify as food slowly became more and more poignant, until at last I opened the door to the main atrium and the same horrible yet comforting mix of spices and scents swirled up into my olfactory senses reminding me of the comfort of the familiar.

HUB is not a place that anyone would properly 'take in' after a short amount of time. There are multiple spaces on ground level for things like the Art and Design studios and International offices. The stairways up to the second floor and above pass student residences. I don't know anyone living in HUB, and so the people who live there and the rooms they inhabit have been reduced to what they put in their windows- whether it's the blue Mario mushrooms from this years Week of Welcome, beer bottles, or my personal favourite - a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II.

This is my fourth year at the U of A, and as I sit in Rutherford Lounge to write this, I wish I had first attempted to describe the unique features of HUB while sitting on my bed at home. I'm staring out at the mall and nothing seems to jump out at me that I've never noticed before. I do remember a lot of times that I did notice something for the first time. The Telus mural on the wall that borders the pedway to the Tory/Business Atrium, the seemingly out of place shoe repair shop, and the four upper level lounges all escaped my awareness for a year despite walking the length of HUB many, many times. Other things only reveal themselves if you spend a lot of time in the mall, like which stores are open for your early morning classes, and which are open late for studying into the night. Other things are more unique. The custodian who has no problems hitting you with her cart if you cut too close in front of her, or the HUB bird that likes to fly down to some of the lounges and hop around the tables seem more like mall legend, but I have experienced both. At first I was frustrated that I couldn't see anything new when I looked down HUB, but then I embraced it. I feel like the next time I walk down the mall, I'll see something new that would have made for a much easier writing assignment. As it is, I'll accept that HUB wasn't ready to give up another one of it's secrets just yet.

Winter is Coming. React.

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.

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.

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.