A Full Refund at the Despot Depot

Biological Father: Until you're on your own, you'll live by my rules.

I was raised in a highly restricted zone of totalitarian rule during adolescence. All communications were monitored. Through observation of my siblings, I learned that honestly earned money from a job = freedom. Working was one of two activities that a child of my father's could perform outside of the home that was looked at with little to no scorn. The other was academia. Anything else was considered idiotic. And he never grew tired of telling you, or anyone else for that matter.

My first job title was Salad Girl at a well-heeled, neighbourhood lobster restaurant. Though I didn't deal directly with customers, I was still obligated to wear the 100% polyester, red, white and blue sailor's dress that was, and still is, the front of house uniform. Wearing it at 16 was only kind of embarrassing. Seeing it on a rectangular 50 year old, stacked atop of nude support hose and scuffed nurse's runners was kind of tragic.

Anna: I vill show you how to make roquefort dressink.

A huge hunk of blue cheese was shorn off a wheel, coarsely broken into in a metal bowl, and was then doused with milk.

Young Comrade: I'll just get a spoon, I guess.
Anna: Here you don't use schpoon.

After each work night, I went home with active bacterium under my nails. But, I got to hack menthol 100's with the kitchen staff, eat tasty, cholesterol laden food, and stroll home alone with a sense of freedom, albeit fleeting.

I've never been one for a 5 year plan. I've always liked the idea of one, but if you have no idea what you want to do, how can you plan for the future? Lots of things have sounded good for a while.

Mom: Remember when you wanted to be a fireman? Hang on, was that before or after you set fire to the basement on Christmas?

Har-har. My mother is prone to gross exaggeration. In my defense, I was 8 years old with a stack of paper snowflakes and a brother who'd just made a disappearing act. In his place was his down-filled ski jacket and a black Bic lighter. What would anyone else do? To this day, touch wood, I've never set any fire that I, myself, couldn't put out. That was including the ski jacket and snowflakes.

Anyway, the firefighter thing wasn't really in stone.

My dentist (an old family friend): With you, nothing is ever in stone.

Gosh. Am I a flip-flopper?

After having been fired any number of times, mostly for insubordination - which, I think, is really a lack of free opines - I've finally learned the rules of the game. It's now up to me to decide whether I want to keep playing.

Do I want to continue in a field where employers legally don't need to pay minimum wage?
Where I am looked at as just another person trying to hock something for a buck?
One way of looking at dining out is having to pay grossly inflated prices for booze, and mediocre food, in a dated environment. Add to that 15-17% federal and provincial tax, plus the 15-20% that is not just suggested, but expected in tips: the real wages restaurant employers don't have to pay servers in this continent. So, in the end, it's just another case of the public getting screwed.

I just don't feel good about what I do anymore.
I really want to do something that is good for this world.

Fatty's Mom [the ex-boyfriend's mother whom I see twice a week while volunteering in her kindergarten class] : Why don't you teach?
The Comrade: Oh, I don't know.

Of course, the truth is there's a very big part of me that is afraid of making seismic errors. What if I'm no good at what I do?

The Comrade: I was talking to a girl who is a paramedic. Maybe that's for me. I don't throw up easily; I'm really good when the shit goes down; and I've had to clean up a veritable bloodbath once.

At the Beer Emporium, my current place of employ, I was talking it over with the general manager, who, if memory serves correctly, has a degree in kinesiology.

Amiable General Manager with Knowledge of the Human Body: That sounds great! You should take a course in dissecting cadavers, to see how you like it.

That was the first instance of a l-u-r-c-h. The second came while on my bike a couple of months ago. I was pedalling past Maple Leaf Gardens when I spotted several EMS workers. They were surrounding a bloated, 58 year old, Eastern European fella. He looked as if he had been zig-zagging home from Oktoberfest, where he'd been wassailing with a debretziner. Tripping over some well chewed gum, I surmised, his face hit pavement dislodging exactly 2 teeth. He was sitting on the curb, spitting and bleeding from the mouth. I imagined myself in EMS uniform standing with the others, surrounding him, discussing procedure, next steps. All I kept thinking was: He is absolutely the last thing I wanted to touch. Even on the shoulder.

Another thought struck me later: What if I saved someone who didn't want saving?
Back to the drawing board, she lumbered.

It is not unusual for me to go to the Beer Emporium directly after the kindergarten class. It is also not unusual for me to be serving people from Cloud 9 because of the kindergarten class. Why? I love getting lectured by 4 and 5 year olds.

A Very Concerned 4 year old Brennan (who incidentally made me a smashing Valentine): [shaking his head] You won't be helfy unless you eat your bwekfast.

One of the girls at work was wondering why I hadn't considered teaching.

The Comrade: I don't know. I don't have the the time or resources to go back to school, and then go to Teacher's College.

She suggested a private school route, specifically Montessori. They have their own independent training facilities. From what I've read about their methodology, it makes a great deal of sense to me. And wonderful minds have come from those institutions: George Clooney, the Google and Yahoo creators, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Julia Child.

Maybe I could do this.

The Comrade: Okay, so, um, I've decided to teach.
Fatty's Mom (the kindergarten teacher): Wonderful!
The Comrade: But I'm not going the public school route. I'm thinking Montessori.
Fatty's Mom, the kindergarten teacher: So, you're going to teach rich kids.

Well, I hadn't considered that.

Maria Montessori was the first female doctor to Italy. She had created a method of education which was designed initially for poor children. It was so effective that the rich took it away. Anheuser-Busch also did this with the original Budweiser.

America, Fuck Yeah: Hey, we like the name of your beer. Here's some money. Go on, now. But first, change the name on your labels. That's ours now! Y'all don't wanna get sued now, do y'all?

Again with the drawing board.

As it's getting colder, the pull to go to a warmer clime is as strong as gravity would be on a volleyed anvil. Hm. New concept: I've got tonnes of love to give; maybe instead of going to Happy Jail, what I call all-inclusive vacations after Day 4, I'll go to a tropical locale and volunteer in an orphanage.

That night I did research.

If I wanted to work in an orphanage in Costa Rica for two weeks, say, it would cost me US $1,100. Not including airfare. A friend from work volunteered with Habitat for Humanity for two weeks in Brazil. It cost her $2,500. Wow, I'd first have to fundraise to volunteer.

Later, while surfing the online drawing board, I happened upon a couple of ESL tutoring sites. Hm, teaching in rural China for a year. Holy moly, this could be it! I mean, the timing is perfect. The Universe is helping me grow my hymen back, successfully obstructing any possible germination of an affair of the heart because it knows that as soon as there is a guy in the picture, all else falls to the wayside. If my nature is prone to single-focussed zealotry, why not take advantage of it? Use the ol' powers for good, is what I always say.

Though, sometimes the ol' powers get zapped.
Last week I had a major crisis in confidence. It was my second day in a row at the kindergarten.

I was asked to help the children with books they were working on. They were 6 stapled pages of halved 8.5x11 sheets of printer paper. The books were made of compact, bullet-point summations of the original story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Goldilocks, the Princess of B & E, the hooligan with a false sense of entitlement. I was given 5 children to work with.

Each page had one line of action. The exercise, though I suppose not explained fully, was to get them to illustrate and then write the next action, in their own words. So, not only did they have to create a line, which in the end would be edited by an adult, they had to spell the whole thing, which none of the children knew how to do. With pencils or markers in one hand, their individual heads in the other, some were getting sleepy while others were frustrated and whiny because they didn't even know where to begin. Not every child knew the corresponding sound to a letter.

How do you spell this, 5 children whined simultaneously. I wanted to give them all equal attention, but it was impossible.There simply wasn't enough of me to go around.

5 year old Elizabeth: [the best reader in class] How do you spell broke?

I wrote it down for her and tried to help someone else.

Fatty's mom, the kindergarten teacher, came over to check the progress. Elizabeth had beautifully illustrated her page with 3 chairs and a princessy-looking blonde criminal. Her next line was: Goldilocks broke the baby chair.

Fatty's Mom: [whose glare bore a hole through the piece of paper with my handwriting] Did you write broke all by yourself, Elizabeth?
5 year old Elizabeth: I got help.
Fatty's Mom: (to me) Don't you see what you're doing? You're doing the work for them.

All I felt in that moment was s-h-a-m-e.
What the hell kind of teacher was I going to be?
Who did I think I was, anyway?

Even though in my brain hammered: They can barely read these pages, but, without hesitation, they know the story inside and out. And if they can barely read, how are they expected to write new sentences? All I felt was their frustration. But the kids and I have learned well to do exactly as the teacher says, so that no one gets hurt.

I didn't know it was alright that they spelled things wrong. I wasn't told that. And besides, that didn't make sense to me. I am unconvinced that getting corrected by a big, red ball-point is any sort of learning aid. All it says to me is: See, kid? Yer instincts were wrong. Ever resourceful, though, nearly all of the students were copying phrases that were written by the teacher on huge banners that decorated the adjacent walls. Strangely, it felt like a familiar grade 7 experience. Or was that grade 12?

I'm one of the best spellers in my peer group. But, words are like pictures to me. When something is spelled wrong it's like looking at rings on a coffee table; it just doesn't look right. Songs were very helpful, too. To this day, when I need to spell the first day of the weekend, I always sing the hit single by the Scottish boy-band, the Bay City Rollers. Or as George, the dad to my oldest friend in the world, used to call them: The Gay Shitty Strollers. Something else I've never forgotten.

The Kindergarten Teacher: But you didn't really do this on your own, though, did you Elizabeth? Hm? Did you?
Elizabeth: No.
The Kindergarten Teacher: You should know better than that.

Oh, great, a shame strata.

Elizabeth: [silence]
Fatty's Mom, the kindergarten teacher: Elizabeth, are you crying?
Elizabeth: [rubbing something that got caught in her eye] No.

And then a big, fat tear fell.

Fatty's Mom: You are crying.

Fuck. Just give her a shred of dignity.

That day I left that class barren, knowing nothing, feeling ridiculous. Useless. I'd failed them. What kind of teacher would I make?

I steeped in shame for 2 days. And then I watched some things on YouTube, like the the video that is the previous post. It made me think about the one impetus I've witnessed in the kindergarten classroom. Fear. They perform because they're afraid of being ostracized, alienated, excluded, sat out, found out. Learning isn't a joy, it's a circus series of tasks to perform, to the exact specifications of one.

I remembered a conversation I'd had with Fatty's Mom, the kindergarten teacher, months ago. It was regarding Elizabeth.

She had admitted to not liking Elizabeth, a girl who always pays attention, is always ready to please.

The Comrade: Why?
Fatty's Mom: She drew a picture once, stopped and said, "It's perfect." And I thought, "Perfect? Well, aren't you conceited!"

5 years old
And already she needs to get over herself.

Ack (the ex-husband/ best friend): The kid just knew when the picture was done.

Any self-esteem she enjoys now will be systematically chipped away, like the scissored bits from paper dolls.

I keep forgetting that people in power, those that sign our paycheques, who grade us, rate us, berate us, they're all individuals with quirks, pasts, and neuroses. The kindergarten teacher who shamed both me and Elizabeth was once forced to attend Catholic boarding school. Among other things, those nuns ripped compassion away from her. There was so much damage done, she can't even hear the word God without cringing. Abuse's legacy lives on and on.

Heathie, my oldest friend in the world, once explained why she got the McKinley Award, for best female student at our grade 6 graduation.

Heathie: I was explained the rules of the game.
Her mother was an educator in the Toronto Public School system.
Heathie didn't get to play outside for as long as she wanted. She had to stay in to practise her viola and maths.

My father is a higher learning advocate, though he barely has a 3rd grade education. To outsiders, it would seem like he wanted a better life for his children than he'd had, but that's not the real reason. Telling others his children are university graduates (well, most) is a notch on his belt. Besides, no matter how many degrees his children have, he will always be smarter than us. He lords any information, often propagandic, over anyone who didn't skim that same factless, biased article... and agree with him.

My father is a type. This type enervates through slander and condescension. They are the Do As I Say, Not As I Do contingent. My father used to courier drugs for local mob men in his native country. They neither inspire learning, nor greatness. They don't compliment, as it might go to their heads, so, instead, they take people down a peg. They whisper in corners. Pick favourites. It's only within this group that this question, or any permutation thereof, is asked: What? You don't know that already? Their tactic is to continue where the others left off in chipping away delicate self-esteems. They inflate themselves by deflating you. They lead by fear. They laugh when others fall down. They are unable to concede, as they are never wrong. It is despotism. And they are educators, bosses, and spouses.

Their greatest fear is being found out that they have no idea what they're talking about.

I was watching the Despot (who signs my paycheque and makes a HUGE production about handing them out personally) try to teach a prep cook (incidentally the same person who paid $2,500 to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity) how to juggle all the incoming/ outgoing food orders on the kitchen's board.
Despot (who signs my paycheque): Faster, faster! You didn't call that one! You've got to watch that. God! C'mon! [audibly] Tsk!

As the Despot was spit/spewing, I was watching Christine, the prep cook. All the shame I felt from my own circumstance, the previous week, was put in perspective when I got the opportunity to observe a similar situation. When I looked at her, who I saw was me.
The next day I asked her when she was going to call the board again.

Christine: Oh, I don't think I'll be doing that again.
The Comrade: Do you want to know how to do it?
Christine: Yes. I think it would be good to know.
The Comrade: One of my kindergarten kids asked me how I knew how to whistle.

5 year old Darren: Hey, how you do that, mister?
He calls me mister.

The Comrade: I told him that when I was his age I didn't really know how to whistle, but I really wanted to make music. So everyday I kept at it, and eventually I got pretty good at it, because nobody can be good at anything without a lot of practise.

Christine: Yeah, I know, but...
The Comrade: And no one wants to practise anything when there's an asshole breathing down your neck. Don't let a bad teacher stand in your way. Let me ask you one thing: Would you teach that way?
Christine: No way.
The Comrade: There you go.

I believed every single one of them that made me feel less than I am.
But, I am just as complicit. I freely let them take my power away.

There are those that are in positions of influence that have the distinction and the honour of being called teacher, mentor. These are not positions to take lightly. People look to them for guidance, direction, approval. It makes me want to claw eyes out when I hear people in mentorial positions flagrantly losing their patience while someone is trying to learn. It makes me remember the first excellent teacher that came along my path: skillful, patient, knowledgeable, and witty, Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. Through him, I've learned to lead by example. I want to give kids a safe place to learn anything they want to learn. And being consistent, loving, fun and patient gives me a decent base in which to start.

So, I've made some big decisions:
In three weeks I will begin school. I'm taking the TESL (teaching English as a second language) course. When I'm done, I'm going to take a specialization module for children. I want to concentrate on kindergartners, as they are my people. When I'm done and become certified, I'm going to China to teach for a year.

Last year I wanted to be a mother. In preparation, I quit smoking (13 months, 3 days, $3,300 saved), and began volunteering at a downtown kindergarten class in an attempt to curb a sense of terror-of-creatures-shorter-than-4' tall.

Last year I wore heart monitors. I had atomic 88 radium shot through my veins twice. I lay in MRI machines. I cried because I thought I was going to die. Everyone, I thought, had a predetermined number of heartbeats. Mine, I reasoned, must have been drawing to a close.

Last year was one of the saddest in memory.

This year, through the help of my newest, shortest friends, I've found my vocation.
And it only took 38 years.

I don't remember being as consistently happy.

The Comrade: Here's Toronto. Here is where Kai went on vacation in Cuba.
Kai: Olà!
The Comrade: Olà, buddy. And this is where I'm going to teach later this year.
Elizabeth: That's China?
The Comrade: Yep.
Sam: I've been to China!
The Comrade: Really? I have never been. I'm a little scared, but I can't wait to go.

Now, the trick is not to get arrested. I'll put that in my 5 year plan, now that I know what I want to do.

Lately, I've been thinking that genius will win out. When I mean genius, I mean the things we are all naturally gifted at, but our corroded self-esteem has prevented us from knowing or seeking. I know a very talented painter who had to endure a 60 hour work week to support a family he didn't really count on having. Decades later, his children have grown and flown, and he and and his wife have separated. He bought a dog and called it the same name as a former neighbour. Eva, the first, didn't take to it well. He is retired. All he does is now is laugh, drinks wine, paints and puts on art shows.

5 year old Darren: [who doesn't like me drinking coffee in the morning; he'd rather see me have a glass of milk and some cheese] You know, everybody lub you! I lub you, too!

It's funny how things go. Now I don't want to have my own children. I want to devote my life entirely to other people's kids.

I hope I have time to learn Mandarin.