(Which - while completely unrelated, and coincidental in its timing - was unfortunate, but somehow symbolized the problem with the whole situation.)
The TTC’s decree resulted in people running to subway stations around the city, to buy as many tokens as they could get their hands on. But not before the commission clamped down – first by limiting the number of tokens per person to five, for the princely sum of $11.25 …
And then by ceasing token sales outright … announcing they would only be selling temporary tickets from now into January. (When fares go up, those tickets will have to be supplemented by a quarter to make up the full fare.)
I think there are a few places where they’ve got the five token rule back – for now. But what a mess, indeed. And it’s not just tokens being affected.
Patrons like myself, who use the subway system more than 10 times a week, have to brace for an 11 per cent fare hike …
From the $109 we pay now for monthly passes, to a whopping $121.
And as I read a couple of days ago in one of the commuter dailies’ transit columns, forget about investing in the yearly subscription plan at 2009 prices. They’ll be sold in January at the new prices … which, after taxes, probably puts the total monetary amount somewhere in the mid-$1500 range.
Excuse the crude visual, but talk about bending over and grabbing your ankles.
To be fair, I don’t think the fare hikes are to help pay workers’ wages. Believe what you want, but I don’t think so. It’s a bigger issue of subsidizing – or in our case, a lack thereof. The TTC isn’t exactly at the top of the list when it comes to well-subsidized transit authorities.
In the meantime, the only thing commuters such as myself can feel, is an increasing sense of frustration.
Will things on the transit lines EVER get better, even with the promise of Transit City, some 10 years away from completion?
And will THAT mean we should just prepare for more fare increases to come?
Personally speaking, I also don’t think this latest announcement is going to help encourage people to use transit as an environmentally-friendlier alternative to commuting around Toronto.
If anything, I wouldn’t be surprised if it drove (or kept) them out of the seats of subways and streetcars, and right back into the seats of sedans and SUVs.
If you asked me to recall my first day of work at my current employer, I don’t think I could, to save my life.
I can only guess it was on a November day. The air was cool. And it probably wasn’t raining like it was today.
I do wish I could remember what I could have been thinking as I entered the building for the first time …
Likely sidling up to the security desk … asking for someone by name … getting authorized, then handed one of those fluorescent “visitor” stickers.
I’m pretty sure I was nervous. Knowing I was starting from the very bottom of the totem pole. Hoping that I’d do a good job.
And I’m sure that if someone told me that I’d still be working there eight years later, I’d probably look at them as if they were insane.
Sure, I’d say, that’s what I hope for. But who knows? And considering I how lucky I was to find a job just two months after September 11, you’d probably understand where I’d be coming from.
And yet, here I am. In the future.
I’ve managed a slow ascent up the evolutionary chain – gaining a better station, vacation time, benefits. The stuff working adult lives are made of.
And again I’m lucky, pulling off the monumental feat of being fully employed in the midst of a world-wide recession - keeping afloot in an industry being hit with closures, layoffs and threats of bankruptcy.
I suppose I have that proverbial brass ring – or half-ring – people talk about.
At least I HAVE a job, I keep hearing.
So I should just shut up and be happy, right? Well, easier said than done.
I have moments. Of nervous energy. Frustration. Lack of motivation. Yearning for something else. Something that’s lacking.
I know there are so many people out there who feel that way. And I’m tired to being made to feel ungrateful for not being over the moon about my job.
Honestly, eight years kinda takes the shine off things. Sometimes, it doesn’t even take that long.
I’m regularly reminded of the world happening outside the bubble I work in – usually by reading Facebook or blog updates by former classmates. People whose raw talent I was in awe of, who I SWORE would be the future of my industry.
But they left – or didn’t even enter, and are blissfully happy. (Or seem that way.)
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.
Part of me knows there’s nothing stopping me from leaving at any time, and it’ll be just fine.
But the other part watches the people who’ve come after me, wriggling their way up to – and past – me on the pole, and I start psyching myself out. Wondering if I’ll be a failure for leaving … or if that’s just my tattered self-esteem talking.
Life always looks greener on the other side.
I always told myself I wouldn’t become a “lifer”. That I’d give myself 15 years, then get out.
But perhaps I’m just need to let the dust settle, and that will give myself the opportunity find that niche that, until now, has been eluding me.
Or perhaps I’m still kidding myself.
Either way, I have the type of job security people out there right now would kill to get … even if I’m not 100 per cent happy.
So until bluer skies return, I suppose I should just button my lip, keep my head down and roll up my sleeves.
Did a memo go out deeming this trendy, or “ironic”, as the kids say?
‘Cause I’m pretty sure it’s neither.
(If, for some strange reason, you have no idea what I’m referring to, then read this for a historical summary.)
Why am I getting my panties in a twist, you wonder?
Well, these three incidences within the last five weeks have a little something to do with it:
Australia: On October 7th, during a 20th anniversary special of the Australian program Hey Hey It’s Saturday, a group who’d performed as med students back in the day, decided to resurrect their skit parodying the Jackson 5, called the Jackson Jive. One of the judges on the show was American musician Harry Connick Jr.
And, well … here’s what happened:
The thing that KILLS me? It took them until the END of the show to acknowledge, um, wait, this is KIND of offensive to some people. SORRY.
Yes, they apologized. But still.
France: A week later (October 15), I stumbled across an online article about French Vogue. For its October issue, photographer Steven Klein shot a 14-page spread, with a number of pictures featuring a white model – named Lara Stone – completely covered in black paint. My understanding from what I read was that the photos were trying to push the visual envelope and appear “fresh” and “edgy”. Hmmm … I guess the dozens of people who wrote online articles shortly after … just … didn’t … get it.
A number of them also didn’t get why French Vogue didn’t think to hire black models for its shoot. Because they do exist.
Now, it might be argued that racism isn’t as big a deal as in North America. But I’m willing to bet there are MANY non-white European immigrants who’d be ready to dispute that argument.
Toronto, this week: This story emerges about a group of University of Toronto students, who decided to dress up as members of the Jamaican bobsled team, from the Disney movie “Cool Runnings”, for Halloween.
Ingenious, right? But wait, it gets BETTER.
To make it more “authentic”, four of the five guys decided to cover their faces in brown makeup.
And to cap off their brillant costume idea, the organizers of the Halloween party they attended GAVE THEM A PRIZE (free admission to their next party – worth $5).
Torontoist caught wind of this and posted this story about them … which sparked arguments on both sides, as well as demands from the school’s black students’ association for an apology.
And in the end, these turkeys submitted an apology at a town hall held on Tuesday. At last check, the black students’ association has demanded an apology from the three colleges who organized the party.
In a TV news story I watched two nights ago, the reporter asked a member of the black students’ association to explain the problem with the costume.
She essentially explained that while it was one thing to poke fun at people, it’s “when you attach race to the buffoonery, that it becomes a problem.”
I agree with her.
But I have a bigger beef. Not with the the guys who wore the blackface …
But with the one guy – a Trinidadian student – who should have known better. But instead, by painting himself white (whiteface?) , he thought this somehow made it okay.
Of course, as he learned the hard way, it’s NOT okay.
Until now, I thought blackface was one of those things I’d only have to read about in history books and encyclopedias – not in the news.
If this is the post-racial world, then fly me outta here.
If you’re trying to figure out what NOT to say to someone you’re thinking of dating – and you’ve only talked to them once – add the following to the list … part of an IM conversation I had over Thanksgiving weekend last month (I edited out the boring parts):
Me: how’s it going?
Dude : good and u
Me: fine thanks …
Me: i’ve been working a lot
Dude: nice
Dude: how is the kids
Dude: and how was your turkey day long weekend?
Me: what kids?
Dude: future kids lol
Me: that’s funny (Ed. Note: No, not really.)
Dude: dont you wanna have kids in the future?
Me: sure … but why are you asking about them now?
Dude: because when , we mixed something i have and something you have , i know we could make kids
Dude: that is why i was asking you
Dude: hehehhehe
Me: oh …
Me: ha ha
Me: ??
Me: you’re being very optimistic
Dude: people who are not optimistic , comment (sic) suciede (double sic) at the end lol
Dude: hehehehhehe
Sorry I’ve not been posting lately. My erratic work schedule’s been the primary reason.
The secondary reason has been inspiration – or a lack thereof. Things – withe the exception of the last six days – have been a bit status quo as of late.
Usually people move through November with their eyes shut, as it’s usually the dark, dreary, cold, wet part of the sprint to Christmas … which is already punching most of us in the face with all the decor, Christmas songs, and so on. (Ugh.)
But here’s hoping this November isn’t a complete write-off … and gives me the early holiday gift of things to write about.
So a couple of you have asked whether I plan on keeping you up to date on my “adventures” with the online dating Web site I joined a month ago.
I said unless I had something funny to write about, I wasn’t planning on chronicling it too much.
I’m not sure if what I’m about to write counts as being ”funny”, rather than a peeve I’ve developed while using the site (which, as of lately, isn’t very much, due to my intense work schedule).
As with most of these sites, if someone’s interested, they’ll send me a message, via the site’s e-mail service.
But in my experience so far (with two exceptions), the first e-mail consists of the following:
“Hi how are you?”
That’s it.
Possibly a variation or two.
But that’s generally the entire message.
I usually try to send more than a line in response. ‘Cause I’m a talker. That’s what I do.
But sometimes I’m just tempted to write back, “Fine, how are you?” And then just stop.
I don’t MIND if someone starts their conversation with, “Hi, how are you? My name is _____.” But at least add a few mores lines or somethin‘.
One guy that wrote me actually said, “I noticed that we have some of the same things in common …” And then he asked me a couple of questions.
THAT impressed me. That’s PROBABLY how you’re supposed to do things on that site. I dunno. But THAT makes me want to write back to that person, to offer more information, y’know? And I did.
But others – to me, it seems – apparently need a bit of work.
I exchanged numbers with one guy I talked to, based on a Hi-how-are-you e-mail. A day or so later, while walking to work, I heard my phone beep. The guy had sent me a text.
“Hello,” he wrote. Period.
After making fun of him out loud, I wrote him back. “Hi,” I texted. “How are you?”
“I am fines,” he wrote. (Not a typo.)
After a deep breath and rolling my eyes, I texted back, “So, what’s up?”
“Nothing,” he responded. “What are you doing?”
“Going to work,” was my short reply.
“Ok then,” he responded. And that was the end of THAT conversation. To be fair, we did talk later that week, but only because I ended up calling first, just to avoid any more four-word texts.
Another time, guy wrote me a message while I was logged onto the Web site. His first e-mail was ”Hi how are you?” as his first e-mail. I looked at his profile and crinkled my nose. But I decided to give it the old college try.
And Lord KNOWS I tried my best to get a conversation going.
By the third exchange, he was all like, “Give me your MSN please.” Just like that. All he offered up in conversation was that he was about to go to bed, because he had to work the next day.
Needless to say, I responded to his MSN request by asking, “How about e-mail instead?” He never wrote me back. (Which is fine by me. Aggressive little man.)
Look, I’m not looking for poetry or a life story in the first e-mail.
But I don’t think I’m being completely unreasonable when I say it WOULD be nice if besides an opening line, there were another two or three lines to go with it, because I’d be more likely to engage in conversation … possibly more.
I also realize that, if it bothers me so much, I can just ignore these one-line messages.
But I’m still at the stage where – at least until I meet them – I’d like to give them a chance.
And hey - perhaps in real life these guys are actually very talkative.
But if I’m doing most of the work in a conversation where only typing is involved …
Am I wrong in thinking I’ll be the one doing the work in a face-to-face conversation?
“Oh my oprah show so good today!” read the text message my friend sent me last Wednesday. “It’s about hair!”
Little did I know exactly what she was talking about, until I got home that evening and spoke with my mother, who saw the same show.
I’m not a regular Oprah viewer, mainly because I’m running around at work. But on that particular episode, she spoke with Chris Rock, who’s been making the rounds as of late, promoting his soon-to-be-released documentary, Good Hair.
The film screened at the Toronto International Film Festival a few weeks ago – which was when I first heard about it and took notice.
But the fact Oprah dedicated an entire hour last week discussing women’s hair – and primarily, black women’s hair – piqued my interest even further.
And, while searching online to watch the episode for myself, I surfed smack into the trailer for the film:
I have since managed to watch the Oprah episode online, and so many thoughts are running through my head. Where to start?
Well … the thing is, there are people out there who don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just hair. From a biological/clinical standpoint, the stuff we as women make such a fuss over is the dead part that sits on our heads – not the thousands of live follicles embedded in our scalps.
But for women – and to a degree, black women (not all, but a fair number) - it IS a big deal. It’s about as deeply embedded as those follicles. It’s been about feeling good about ourselves and feeling beautiful, not ugly, as history has dictated to us over the ages. But that quest for outer beauty has driven a number of us to spend hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars doing it.
It’s also driven us to these standards that not only don’t fit, but that we continually inflict on each other - the idea that “good hair” is long and wavy, even straight, not short and tightly curled.
Regarding the program: I’m glad to have watched it. Some of the stuff they discussed wasn’t new to me. But the value-added parts of the program included talking to someone who’d recently cut off her hair in favour of a natural style and has taken a lot of flak for it (singer Beyonce Knowles’ younger sister Solange - also a singer), and a segment dedicated to what some white women do with their hair. (Hey, most of the audience was white. If you’re going call women out on their beauty secrets, might as well do it across the board.)
It was also surprising for me to hear my own mother – who’s worn her hair in a natural style for close to four decades – tell me she had absolutely no CLUE how lucrative this industry is … nor about the number of things black women – not just in the United States, but here in Canada and other countries abroad – do to their hair every day.
About the documentary: the subject matter, again, isn’t completely foreign to me. I’ve heard it discussed, albeit in smaller circles, and I’ve seen another documentary about black hair, done on a smaller scale about eight or so years ago. (The focus was slightly different, though.)
But I’m glad that Chris Rock decided to venture out and do this for a North American audience. I’m especially impressed that he’d do so, both as a black man, and as a father of two young daughters who wanted to understand EXACTLY what they will probably do to their hair they’re older.
Watching the trailer and the Oprah episode has had me thinking about my own experiences in dealing with my hair.
I remember as a kid, having my hair plaited every morning before school by my mother (whom I’m sure HATED it), right up until the time I was 12 years old.
While visiting relatives in Jamaica the summer before seventh grade, I made my transformation little kid to bigger kid with a visit to a local hairdresser and an introduction to permanent relaxer – the “creamy crack” referred to in the documentary trailer.
For a while, THAT was a ritual, too. Between grades 8 and 12 – I kept the EXACT same hairstyle, with what little hair I had crammed into a scrunchie, and a slightly limp curl at the front.
(To this day, the only time I could even attempt to guess what year I’d taken my high school picture depends on what side the curl was sitting in the photo.)
Then, when the bother of spending hours maintaining my straight hair was getting to me, I decided to cut my hair shorter.
In my university days, I dabbled in a little something called “Wave Nouveau” – not quite a perm, but not quite a Jheri curl, either.
By the end of school, I’d had enough and cut it all off.
The years between then and now have been a blur. I’ve grown it out, put it in braids, straightened it out (not chemically, but using a hot comb and flat-iron - in itself, NOT healthy to do regularly) and back again.
I remember that one REALLY bad braid job I’d gotten done at a place in Yorkville, that had the tracks of hair dislocating themselves from my head after just a week. I looked like I was wearing the hair of a poodle I’d just scalped.
And that other time, when I’d pressed my hair straight twice in one month, and was stuck for weeks at a time with clumps of DEAD STRAIGHT hair that I’d have to tuck into my curly ‘fro.
Which brings me to the present. As you can see in my “About” picture, I’m wearing braids. The hair is not all mine – it’s synthetic, mainly because human hair is (a) more expensive and (b) not something I could bring myself to wear.
I alternate between wearing a long style and doing the same version with my natural (considerably shorter) hair.
But for the past few months, I’ve thought about going back to the shorter style I’d worn nine years ago.
As it is, I’m LAZY when it comes to my personal beauty regime – I don’t really HAVE one. And as things get busier, it would be so much easier to maintain.
But so many thoughts have been swirling, making me say to myself, Not just yet.
Committing to a short hairstyle. It may only be hair, and it will grow back. But it’ll take a LONG TIME. And while having short hair will require less effort, looking feminine in other ways – wearing dangly earrings, more make-up, etc. - will require more.
Looking exactly like my mother. I love my mother. But HEAVEN forbid someone should say, “Your daughter looks JUST like you.” OH, the FACE she makes.
The perception it’s political. Politics has NOTHING to do with it. As far as I’m concerned, I made my “political” statement long ago when I decided never to go back to chemical relaxers. Now, it’s about convenience and what’ll make me look cute.
Dealing with people at work. I’ll be spotted from a mile away. Then there’s having to deal with certain white co-workers, who may not be sure how to deal with a look that’s so … different. I remember having a short hair cut one summer … and one woman I worked with (whom I don’t particularly like) acknowledged the change by calling it a “fresh style for summer.” I’m sure she was being nice. But part of me has always thought it was the fact she was secretly finding a way to visually cope and was saying to herself, OH MY GOD SHE HAS NO HAIR.
Travelling could be troublesome. By now, Canadians have heard about the case of Suuad Hagi Mohamud, the Canada woman stuck in Kenya for three months because officials didn’t think she looked like her passport photo. My hair is “long” in my passport photo. Try being the customs officer looking at Long-Haired Me in a photo and then looking up at Short-Haired Me. If you’re enough of a prick, you could have a field day. To avoid trouble, I may have to go through the rigamarole of changing passports or other important pieces of ID, just so my appearance matches.
The people - and men – I may attract because of my short hair. I mean, amongst my friends and such, it’ll be this cool thing for the first while. But how many men actually like women with short hair? On Oprah’s show, Chris Rock said men DO NOT CARE about that sort of thing. Hmmm. REALLY? All the guys I know seem to like women with hair longer than four inches. Not that I’ve had the greatest track record with guys. But my fear is that the pool (which isn’t huge to begin with) will shrink because I’ll be written off for not having a long, flowing mane.
I realize my hair doesn’t define ME as a person. And I know that making such a drastic change should be done for me. Not for my friends, my co-workers, potential suitors, or anyone else.
But I’m human. And I think about these things.
That’s not to say I’m never cutting my hair. I’m pretty sure I”ll do it in the next year. But for myself and lots of women, the mental commitment is the hardest part - not actually going to the salon or barbershop.
As my epic post draws to a close, I only ask two things:
(1) Love me for me, not what is or isn’t on my head. For a lot of my friends, they’ll probably respond by saying, “Well, DUH.” But still. And, oh yeah – unless you’re one of the special people in my life that gets a free pass to do this, please ASK before you put your hands in my hair. It’s kinda in the same vein as the rubbing-a-pregnant-woman’s-belly thing.
(2) If you get a chance, consider seeing this documentary. I’d bet you’d be enlightened. Chris Rock said he didn’t just make this for the black community, but for EVERYONE, so they can understand. And hey, what brings people together better than understanding?
I could hear the sound all around me, as my friend and I entered the Royal Conservatory of Music Saturday night.
It was one note after another, in the same key. But all the players involved – whether performing on strings, woodwinds, brass, guitars, or using their voices – would change notes.
One moment the “chords” would be soothing; the next, jarring; and still the next, just plain eerie.
That was the sound of art being made - one of scores of different contemporary art installations and exhibits being put on for Nuit Blanche, the 12-hour extravaganza that happens once a year here in Toronto (and at other times of the year in other cities right around the world).
I’d been a couple of times before, with different people. But this year, I had the chance to tool around with a friend who’d never gone, and always wanted to. The sheer distance between zones was daunting, but we thought we’d be ambitious and start early to see as much as we could.
I appreciate events like Nuit Blanche, because – like so many people in town – I don’t feel as though I have the time to truly immerse myself in art of any form – whether visual, musical or otherwise.
So I really don’t mind making the effort for something like this, even if I don’t understand all of it, or even like it.
And to be truthful, I didn’t like everything I saw. But that’s just my opinion. And that’s probably the best thing about art. It’s NEVER black-and-white. It’s whatever I think it is. And everyone is entitled to their own interpretations.
Aside from the enormous amount of walking I did (other friends, being downtowners, took to the streets on their bikes) it was nice just running into people, whether planned or at random.
And it’s one of those few times during the year in which you get to enter buildings you’d normally not be able to … or would have to pay admission to enter.
And at the end of the night, when my feet were tired, and I tired of the crowds, I was satisfied with having gotten to do something different from what I’m used to.
I can only hope I can make another effort on my own … to take time out of my busy life, to take in some art in whatever form I can find it.
France: A week later (October 15), I stumbled across an online article about French Vogue. For its October issue, photographer Steven Klein shot a 14-page spread, with a number of pictures featuring a white model – named Lara Stone – completely covered in black paint. My understanding from what I read was that the photos were trying to push the visual envelope and appear “fresh” and “edgy”. Hmmm … I guess the dozens of people who wrote online articles shortly after … just … didn’t … get it.
Toronto, this week: 