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(New) Scotland

Recently, I’ve spoken a lot about home and what that means. About missing places and things. But also, equally about exploration. The pull and push (both personal and circumstantial) of what moves us to move (or not). It seems reasonable in a time where our movement is restricted to consider what we did when we used to move and what we’ll do when we’re able to move around again. 

I often wonder about what my ancestors thought when they first moved to North America. With both Irish and Scottish ancestry, I can imagine (and have learned about) the pretty grim realities that faced some of them. That leaving was the only option. Although, I do wonder if they had other  individual reasons for leaving, or who was not coming with them. I wonder what their journeys were like, their first impressions as they got off the boat. After such an inconceivably long voyage to arrive on land that was almost interchangeable to what they had just left behind. Were they disappointed? Relieved? Or both? 

I knew little of their geographical similarities growing up. When hearing Nova Scotia, (nova meaning new), I understood my province’s namesake as a colonial claiming of ‘newly discovered’ land. Of marking their territory, so to speak. The inverted flags, the crests, the tartans, the family names, speaking of gaelic, the bagpipes. Bringing Scotland to the other side. However, when I visited the Hebrides in 2019, it occurred to me that the name Nova Scotia was not only a title, but was perhaps a way of identifying the remarkably identical similarity in landscape. Finding again what you thought you had left behind. 

When I was doing my teaching degree, one of my instructors spoke about taking a small boat to Grand Manan with a local fisherman to see the puffins there. He told us this story about being in that tiny boat in the vast Atlantic, his first time on the east coast. I sat listening, comforted as he told us about how they bobbed along the water, but then his voice had changed tone. There came a point where the fog had rolled in so thickly, the fisherman had to stop his boat because he could no longer see ahead. My instructor spoke of the deep, intense fear he had at this moment in contrast to the calm of this fisherman. Fear. Fear? It was here where I became utterly confused. It had never occurred to me until listening to his story that fog could be something to fear. I love fog. I know that probably sounds crazy, but I really, truly, utterly do. I love the dewy, all consuming, heavy air. The fog that consumed my community almost every morning. I, often in the passenger seat of my father’s car as we drove down the narrow, winding but oh so familiar routes in the thick grey air and never once did I worry. He knew those roads. Fear really is about the unknown.

Or sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes, fear is about re-visiting places you have reasons to be afraid of, or worry about. I had bid (what I thought was) a permanent farewell to Nova Scotia in 2003 when I left for university. While many of my friends stayed with no plans of leaving, I left almost immediately after high school graduation. I was eager to live elsewhere, at that point it could have been anywhere. As mentioned in other posts, I lived in a few other places in Canada and never, ever was Nova Scotia a re-consideration. Even if there were economic opportunities, which there were not, to me, it was scorched earth. Until 2015. In July of that year, my living in the UK seemed to be in jeopardy because of clerical errors with my second visa application. My first visa had ended, I was no longer able to be in the country. I had to go home. At a minimum I was to be in Nova Scotia for a month and and at a maximum, indefinitely. This was not the plan. I was forced to go back. I was afraid. 

For a time that was truly terrifying in one way, it ended up being such an unbelievably beautiful homecoming in another. It’s funny how sometimes you can really come to appreciate something when you have to sit with it a while. For the first time, maybe ever, I had allowed myself the space to admit what I had loved and missed about Nova Scotia. I missed my mother, my dearest and oldest friends, the water (we’re spoiled for choice really, ocean, lakes, rivers), real autumn, the easy warmth of Bluenosers, having memories in each place you drive by and of course, the fog. I really could go on. My friend has recently moved to Halifax and hearing/watching his new discoveries of a place I know so well, I do admit that I miss Nova Scotia in a way I never knew I could admit to. That when my second visa was eventually sorted 4 months later, as I hugged my mother good-bye in the airport, I no longer wanted to run away from Nova Scotia. For the first time in my life, Nova Scotia seemed as golden an option as the UK. That loving one place didn’t have to diminish my love for another. Even though I still preferred the unfamiliar to the familiar, it was nice to know that the familiar existed should I ever want to return. 

Or sometimes as I’ve learned, the familiar is in the unfamiliar. As I mentioned earlier, we had ventured to the Hebrides, this very remote part of the UK that is quite an expedition, even by modern travel standards. From London to Glasgow to Stornoway, with each plane and each airport diminishing in size. After an overnight journey, we finally stepped off this tiny, tiny plane through the rain storm into the also tiny, tiny airport. As weary travellers we piled into our rental car to first visit the Isle of Lewis where with bleary, sleep deprived eyes we saw the Callanish Stone Circle, Bosta Iron Age Houses,and Highland cattle who meandered across the road, paying no mind to the drivers waiting behind them. We stopped to get groceries amongst the locals before we made the hour journey to our rural, rented house in the Isle of Harris. As we drove along the unfamiliar roads with Google Maps navigating our route, my head resting against the window, with the pounding rain and fog (along with my eyelids) getting heavier and heavier, it felt achingly familiar.

It baffles me how grey is so often associated with being muted. London grey really is extraordinarily different to ocean grey and it feels deeply misguided to confuse them. Anyone who has ever lived by the ocean knows that the colour grey is what appears when the sea and air are at their most alive. Where the wind and water slap you like a newborn. The movement that comes with the colour grey. We, winding our way through the Hebrides, the wet rain and wind whipping against us. The others hoped for better weather for the week. I prayed for the opposite. This was as good as it ever gets. When nature takes you by the shoulders and shakes you awake. 

I awoke as the car pulled into our interim home. I climbed out of the car, I climbed up one of the barnacled rocks, pulling my hood down so I could absorb the heavy, foggy air. I panned 360 degrees, over the bleak, treeless landscape, to the many coves that hugged the reluctantly smoothed down prehistoric rocks. I breathed in, deeply, the familiar air, the mirror image of Nova Scotia and its coastal communities. I was home again. (New) Scotland.

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Gord Downie

I am now a permanent resident of the U.K. It was always my intention to move here ‘permanently’ back in 2013. I felt quite strongly as I packed up things in Canada that it was a closed chapter, that the U.K. was the place I wanted to put down roots. Immediately upon moving here, I was met with a large Canadian community, whose feelings about being here were mixed. Some like me, wanted to stay indefinitely, some were counting down the days until they were back on Canadian soil and others weren’t sure where they fit, going elsewhere or leaving or staying in the U.K. by accident, wishing they were in the other place again. 

You do become divided when you move somewhere else and I don’t just mean abroad. You become divided for all sorts of reasons, like geographical horcruxes. Even from being a Nova Scotian to a New Brunswicker, small differences, but differences they were. A Maritimer to an Ontarian, the assumed peripheral to the assumed centre. An Easterner to a Westerner, traditionally ‘have not’ provinces. A North American to a European, the ‘new’ world versus the ‘old’. These environments you long to be a part of, to explore, to observe. The more you move the more you realise how the same and not the same you are in comparison to others. The constant wondering whether staying in one place longing for other places is more or less agonising than moving and missing what you’ve already experienced. It’s an ongoing struggle.

I realise that no matter how long I live here, that I will always be an outsider. That as soon as I open my mouth that I will not be one of them. That I will be reminded of Canada, that people will be curious about Canada, that I will have to explain over and over again why I left or rather, what I was gravitating towards. On some days this is harder to justify than others. On others, it is clear as day. To have to explain to people what my tiny, tiny, tiny experience of Canada is like, feels ingenuine, and yet, it also is more of a feeling than anything I can put into words. 

My partner, when reading my blog for the first time when we started dating, said that my writing voice was just so ‘North American’. He means this as a compliment. I ask him to explain what exactly he means by this but he can’t really explain it. Somehow, strangely, I understand what he meant though, or I think I do. A friend and I were trying to define ‘Canadian Literature’, which seemed all at once futile, narrow, problematic and yet necessary when trying to define how the literature we teach is different to the literature we grew up with. I say this with an awareness of some of the deeply damaging issues regarding nationalism, but as an outsider, it is comforting to be able to speak about some common reference points such as places, food, people and events that others also know and understand. It’s something you can take for granted when you live around people who can share in this with you all of the time.

When my ex and I first moved to Saskatchewan, he bought a new car and had created a car challenge of only listening to Canadian artists. My own music had largely, already, fit this bill. Sarah Harmer, Jenn Grant, Fiest, The Stars, Michael Buble, I could go on. These were the people I already knew before moving to Saskatchewan, the CDs I already had. The new car was then christened with Gord Downie. My then beloved’s beloved. Even before the car, I knew how he loved Gord Downie with such a devoted and profound reverence, and although I admired it, I didn’t fully understand it. I’m going to be honest here and say that up until that point, my only familiarity with The Hip was Ahead by a Century and Bobcaygeon. Even with this embarrassingly insufficient selection, his voice did resonate with me, I just never thought to explore him further. Out of all the many albums of theirs my ex could have bought he chose We are the Same. We listened to the album over and over again as we explored the prairies. I never tired of it. Every time we listened, him singing along with every fiber of his being, I began to understand his love for Gord.

When I left Canada I didn’t bring any music with me. My CDs were left in my ex-boyfriend’s car, and after our break-up, I forgot they existed, forgot to ask for them back and by the time I remembered them, it didn’t seem to make sense to have them if I was getting rid of most of what I owned anyway. When I moved here, I was so wrapped up in trying to adapt, trying to get my head around this new culture that the only music I listened to was music that was on in the background, music that was introduced to me or just nothing. Music had fallen off my radar. It wasn’t until many months later that I played these familiar voices from these abandoned CDs. The lyrics to songs I knew so well because they were played at such pivotal moments of my life. For the life of me now, I cannot remember any new music or lyrics. But those songs, I remember every word, every note, and even the order in which they play on their respective albums. They hold a sacred place in my mind. However, I did not play Gord Downie. For a lot of reasons, I suppose. Firstly, I’m sorry to say, but I genuinely forgot. Secondly, he never really felt like mine. Thirdly, he reminded me of a complicated time with someone who I loved but was relieved to be far away from.

The summer of 2016, Gord Downie played his last concert with The Tragically Hip, in Kingston, a place I had also lived. Gord was dying. My fellow Canadians and I all met at our friends’ house, staying up late, waiting, because of the time difference. Again, I have to confess, I still felt something of a fake, this one album I had listened to, could I really call myself a Gord Downie fan? Did I really understand the significance of this concert? To mourn the death of a man who was not yet dead but was close. To see that with the little strength this man had left, he poured it out for all of us to bask in. To watch his unapologetic eccentricities, that we were relieved hadn’t been lost, even after he had lost so much. His vulnerability. It was then that I understood why my ex had loved him the way he did. The night of that concert was a preemptive wake, his own funeral of sorts. To have had the bravery in admitting his own death. To go out the way he wanted. I sat around that room of other Canadians and we wept in a shared understanding.

Not too long afterwards, Gord Downie died. It was shortly after that I played the album for the first time since having left Canada. Enough time had passed. I still listen to it on the rare occasion. The most recent time, my partner asking, if this is one of those Canadian artists? I am shocked that he doesn’t understand the absurdity of his question. How would he? We didn’t share it. 

We are the Same. The permanence and irony of that title. After all the different moves, all the different people. I am reminded that yes, in so many ways, we are the same. While simultaneously, for so many other reasons and in so many other ways, we are not.

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One Long Snow Day

Winter has come, stayed briefly and then has seemingly left again. I’ll say this for a U.K. Winter, if it was a house guest, they’d be that person who you never quite see enough, brings a tiny overnight bag, cleans up after themselves, disappearing quietly before you wake, leaving you wanting more. This is of course in stark contrast to Canadian winters, where if it were a house guest, it would be comparable to a person that is lovely at first but brings huge suitcases, quickly dominating your space, with no real plan on when they’re leaving. And if they do leave, you can’t be sure they won’t be coming back. There’s this almost superstitious quietness about even mentioning snow in Canada, the mere thought or desire of warm weather is enough to loudly beckon winter back in, where as in England, it’s as if winter is an over attended to cat, if you want it too much, it just won’t come to you.

I have always lived with winter before moving to the U.K. I moved to the U.K. for its more temperate climate, I was never a fan of the winter or summer in equal parts. I was looking for something as close as to an eternal autumn as I could get close to, and in all honesty for all of the rain London boasts to have, it’s still never quite enough for my liking. When people said the winters were mild here, I thought they meant a light and short winter, not no winter at all. The word winter is something the Brits still swear they have in Southern England just as the Saskatchewanians swear they have autumn. To both of these groups I strongly disagree. To me, autumn is a long good-bye to summer, its own rightful quarter of the year where layers gradually pile on easing into the big blanket of snow that inevitably awaits. Whereas to Saskatchewanians, autumn is a concept (a week perhaps) of sweltering summer almost immediately followed by a blizzard that starts the annual, six months of winter. To the Southern Brits, winter is the wearing of the same jackets they wore in autumn all the way through to Spring. The Novemerish rain, that to some feels never ending but still welcomes football matches to continue all year round. No, my friends, that is not winter. To explain winter to people who think they know winter, who don’t really understand winter seems like an obnoxiously Canadian and somewhat condescending thing to do. How do you explain winter to the winterless?

Lockdown, for me, has felt like one long, exaggerated winter. I feel equal parts cozy and grateful to be indoors and the temporary pause in time, while, simultaneously, experiencing cabin fever  and wanting to be able to move freely outside of my home. I am familiar with this feeling. I have experienced this feeling regularly for most of my life before moving here. I think what Lockdown has revealed to me about England is that people here aren’t used to having their mobility limited. We’re talking about the land of easily accessible planes, trains and automobiles, and walking to boot. Whatever you desire is within grasp, whenever you want. The idea of grocery shopping once a week was the first obstacle my partner faced in the first lockdown. Hunkering down was not a concept he or many people here were familiar with. It felt oppressive. To have your movement controlled and dictated by a huge force of nature. In a time where many people have so much control over who they talk to, what they watch, and what they listen to, I am reminded of the importance of patience and humility. That sometimes, waiting something out is sometimes your only choice and more importantly, how you wait it out, is sometimes the ultimate choice.

Although I grew up with winter in Nova Scotia, when I think of winter, I often think of Fredericton. I think it’s because it was the first time in my life where I was living in a place as a pedestrian facing the elements on my own. It’s not that I didn’t know what cold was growing up but living rurally where you get everywhere by car is a different world to having to walk to and from bus stops as a university student in a -30 cold snap with snow up to my waist. I learned to exist within the unforgiving elements. It was not uncommon to wear your outdoor gear indoors, to be shivering while the heat poured out of the poorly insulated walls, despite your best efforts in trying to blow dry plastic around each window hoping to contain any heat and/or money. This was especially true at 352 York Street. This terribly insulated (both in winter and summer) apartment, which I utterly adored on the corner of York and Aberdeen Street. On one side of the house sat a Lebansese restaurant where I spent many an early morning observing while shivering in our office. On the other side of the house was the old Hartford shoe factory with a large tree hanging over it. I used to watch as the icicles glistened under the street light, the snow swirling around, like tossed glitter. This too done, while shivering on the couch.

It is this apartment I equate with Lockdown so strongly because one of these winters our university faculty went on strike. I don’t remember extensive details of that time other than time felt like a bit of a blur but also that it stretched on. We were basically in the house 24/7. One, because it was a particularly cold winter during a three week cold snap. Two, we didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Three, we didn’t really have any money to go anywhere to. We turned the heat up, we got some Gilmore Box Sets and we did some Sudoku. It was an extortionately expensive month with very little to show for it. My roommates and I adored each other but we grew tired of our scenery and the conversation. We missed the outdoors. We missed other people. Like one big snowstorm that wouldn’t quite go away. I hadn’t really even remembered that time and I probably wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for Lockdown. 

Last week, magically, it snowed for maybe the second time in my 8 years of living here. The comedically light snowfall that had everyone not been in Lockdown it would have created a kind of lockdown anyway. Snow was uncharacteristically on every surface. I wanted to go for a late night walk in this temporary wonderland. Frantically, I searched my house high and low for my hat and mittens. How could I go walking in winter without these things? They were nowhere to be found. I braced myself, strangely afraid of this now foreign cold. I should have remembered my friend Kristin’s wise observation, that in winter temperatures, snow equals warm. What a hilariously astute observation from someone who grew up in the Bahamas. I didn’t need the hat and mittens. Secondly, I forgot the absolute silence snow brings. On this same walk I brought along my audiobook to keep me company along the carpet of freshly fallen (and soon to be evaporated) snow. I forgot how quiet snow shushes everything. I put the audiobook away, I wanted to be consumed by this rare silence. As I walked I remembered back to the first annual snowfall as I sat in James Dunn Hall, watching the International Students who saw snow for the first time. The awe and wonder of snow. This thing they would eventually come to both love and hate. The temperature dropped to a whopping -6, I became even more of a coward to the winter. I found my hat and my mittens. I forgot how crisp the air felt, how alive you can feel. I forgot how much I loved my rosy cheeks thawing once coming in from the outdoors. Grinning at how much I appreciated both the outdoors and indoors again. These seemingly small things, these things that at once seemed all consuming, constant, I had forgotten. How could I have forgotten just how beautiful winter is?

There are things that at the time you swear you won’t forget, or that you feel are just too palpable to fade. However, time has a funny habit of playing tricks with one’s mind. Here I am, ten years later forced back indoors in a place where I felt quite certain that would never happen again. Indoors with another two other people I really adore. We miss the outdoors. We miss other people. Like one big snow day that won’t go away. It occurs to me that if 28 years worth of winters can be whittled down to a few moments and memories, ones I had swore I wouldn’t forget but did, and ones I didn’t think memorable but surprisingly, were. It makes me wonder what will I remember about this year or two of Lockdown. What will I and won’t I forget?

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A Change of Tune

Bus Replacement Service.

If you’re living in a place where trains aren’t a major method of transportation this may mean nothing to you. If you do, then you know as well as I do, the mere painful mention is enough to elicit the heaviest of sighs. What’s so bad about a bus you wonder? It’s not even that the bus is particularly bad, in fact, sometimes it’s even a coach, which given the slight boost in comfort should make up for the lack of train service- but it doesn’t. When you’re used to life in the fast lane on the rail, the legal limit of the road can feel like a lethargic crawl home. To make matters worse it’s usually on a Sunday, which for a teacher who  already feels guilty for not doing something work related on a Sunday, you’re even more behind and the week hasn’t even begun. That carefree fun version of yourself quickly disappears as you chastise yourself on the extra long road home. 

There’s also a shared atmospheric camaraderie of regret on these buses. People become strangely territorial on buses. On trains there are so many carriages, the leg room- endless, promises of warm beverages and snacks, scenery off the beaten path, people are relaxed.  On a bus, as you lug your overpacked suitcases onto what is essentially one carriage, it quickly feels like the school bus scene from Forrest Gump. People cannot contain their disappointment: with you, with themselves, with everything. If being on a train is like having roommates, being on a bus is like sharing a too small room with your sibling and not in a nostalgic way. 

This was me on Sunday crammed into a seat with my nearly 7 foot tall boyfriend. 

Now to be fair, I knew ahead of time this journey was going to be a Bus Replacement Service when I booked my ticket, which, strangely, makes me one of the fortunate ones. To the others (and we’ve all been there), rocking up to the station, the platform eerily quiet, the silent row of buses stretched before you with makeshift paper signs lazily taped up in the windows, the bus drivers glaring. It sinks your heart in a way few things can. Normally, I don’t have any problems with bus drivers (or any other drivers of any other transport) but Bus Replacement Bus drivers ooze bitterness. Maybe that’s just us projecting our disappointment onto these moving messengers but they certainly don’t improve matters. This has been particularly true during COVID. You can’t even fake a smile as you get onto the bus to pretend like it’s fine, who’s going to see it behind your sad mask? Misery loves company. So you can imagine my surprise when my bus driver leapt onto the bus maskless with an air of arrogance, I was not prepared for this annoying peppy change in tone, nor was I impressed. This guy was not my cup of tea. 

We rode in sullen silence (which is pretty average) along the soulless motorway losing all sense of time. Had it been 10 minutes? An hour? Did it matter anymore? I was lost in my non-bus day dreaming when I heard a low melody. At first, I was irritated, in true bus style, at a fellow passenger playing his music too loud, as if I was a crotechty neighbour. But then- I heard his voice- unmistakable- a Mr. Phil Collins. It’s was not coming from around me but from above like some heavenly proclamation 

“How could you just walk away from me?”

I was entranced. 

It didn’t stop there. The oh so familiar hits kept coming, increasing in volume, one after another, like a beloved radio station, like the days of yore. In a day and age of being able to curate and select my own music all the time, I had missed the random nature of pleasant and safe unpredictably. Songs that had genuinely not entered my ears in at least a decade but that I knew every word to as if I had written them myself. By about the fourth song there was a small group of passengers joyfully singing along as if we were in a shared karaoke. It wasn’t until I heard the beginning and prompt switching past Spice Girls’ ‘Wanna be’ that I realised that this was no radio station. This was the driver’s personal playlist. Beneath my masked face spread a grin, that’s why this driver was so arrogant, he knew he was going to turn (not literally) this bus around. 

On the hilariously random topic of Spice Girls ‘Wanna Be’, the last time I heard this song was no joke, coincidentally on another coach in recent memory. Now when I say coach I mean a Tour Coach which although the exact same kind of vehicle, the vibe is its polar opposite. A holiday coach is one of laughter, napping, and is really the height of luxury. The driver is beloved, the bestower of knowledge, heavily re-bestowed with tips. Again, I repeat, the same kind of coach. On that particular coach, we were journeying through Ireland, soothed with Irish harps, fiddles and gaelic lullabies as the sun set. As we neared Dublin, the end of our journey, our bus driver bizarrely switched musical lanes over to

 ‘“Soooo I’ll tell you what I want what I really, really want”

To which his sleepy passengers were jolted awake, not unhappily I might add. The 70ish year old set of Italian couples across from me whooping and clapping loudly as if we were all heading to the club. These same people who had insisted on loudly shouting Italian phrases at the bus driver (who could not speak Italian)  the whole 12 hours earlier with no knowledge of English, inexplicably knew every single word to the song. I could not hold back my genuine laughter and then tried to explain to my deaf mother what was so funny about this change in tone although the loud clapping by the elderly Italians gave her some idea. 

All this bus and Spice Girl talk to say that sometimes, even in this time, maybe even particularly so, there are still some lovely aspects of unpredictability. That sometimes it’s nice to not be in control. Especially the musical kind.

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The Need to Read Part 2

Here we are again. Two years later and I’m still not the reader I want to be.

I know I’ve said this before, but as an English teacher you feel a real pressure to be reading all the time. Your students expect it, your colleagues expect it and even you, yourself expect it. In this world of tempestuous TV and the allure of social media (to which I fully indulge), I often feel the responsibility to keep book culture alive (and thriving). However, if I can’t be bothered to read, and literature literally pays my bills, then really, who else can be bothered?

In January 2015, I made a New Year’s Resolution to read more. I put forward a challenge to my classes that I was going to partake in my own ’20 Book Challenge’ from January to the end of the school year in July. Now, this was met with various reactions which I’m sure will be of no shock to you:

“Uh…do we have to do it?”

“What if our books are toolong?”

“What happens if we don’t read 20?”

And so on and so forth.

To which I essentially explained that the challenge was a challenge, not a punishment, not a threat, just something to put forward and see where we got to. Considering I was reading zero books (aside from books I read with my classes of course), ANYTHING would be considered a win, for them and for me. So we began. I put charts up on the wall with all of their names. They put stickers when they had completed a book. I checked and chatted with my students about their books everyday, gave them targets to read towards, encouraged them to continue, to allow them to give up and find something else if they wanted.

I think there’s also an expectation (certainly among my students) that if you’re a lover of books, you’re a lover of all books. That because I’m a reader I’ll read anything that’s around, ( I mean I would if I had zero options) and while I would defend all books and their right to exist, I don’t love all books. I think you can split readers into the ‘finishers’ and ‘quitters’ when it comes to a books that are difficult to get through. I’m self-admittedly a ‘quitter’ and while I think I’m quite determined in other aspects of my life, I believe deeply that life is too short to read books I don’t enjoy. I shared this openly with my class of students who thought me a ‘finisher’; to be honest even the most apathetic reader was shocked. I, Miss Drysdale was a book ‘quitter’.

Now that’s another thing, I’m trying to make ‘book talk’ cool in my middle school classroom. Reading is not cool at my school because I live in a community where reading is seen as a ‘posh’ or ‘educated'(in a bad way) it means people don’t want to be perceived as thinking they’re somehow better than others, or that they’re trying to change themselves. Not only do I have to combat the allure of the world of social media that makes reading seem boring, but a culture where socio-economic factors make people afraid to read.

“You’ll never get me to read Miss, I hate all books, all books are boring.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s not true, you loved ‘Of Mice and Men’, you said you never knew you could love a book before you read that”.

“Yeah, but that was different.”

The difference is that we read it together. I forget sometimes that I’m responsible for creating the magic of book loving in my own classroom, like my own English teachers did with me. How did they transfer that magic to get me to read and love books on own? I wrack my brain often thinking about it.

I’ve learned that some of the deterrents are people’s confidence, people are afraid. My colleague, a Math teacher confessed to me that she was a ‘bad reader’, and that she could never finish reading 20 books before July. She had almost written herself off as hopeless. It was this all too real moment for me, thinking of my own childhood experiences with Maths, that I had labeled and still label myself ‘bad at Math’. And sometimes, in rare moments, you’ll remember that they’re just that, labels, that can be peeled off, and tossed away. My colleague did just that, she decided to partake in the 20 book challenge. My heart fluttered. The world gained another reader because she seeks to imagine a self beyond her own.

Just today, while I was on duty in the library, I saw a student standing at the adult section of the library. Now, when a student stands in that section, it’s either a.) a mistake, or b.) because he’s been sent there by a teacher to find a specific book. I approached him asking what book he was looking for, he said he didn’t know. This is pretty common, students are at a loss when looking for books and often need help finding something. But this was different. He said he was looking for ‘surreal fiction’. Wanted to read the classic Russian authors. He was looking for a book just to read. Because he wanted to. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to read something beautiful. My heart swelled. Again, the world gained another reader because he seeks to understand a place beyond his own.

Fear motivates so many of our decisions, and it’s easy to understand why. But that doesn’t mean we should give into it. We should be afraid not to read. Particularly when the world is fast becoming a heartbreaking place, a place I struggle to understand (did I ever?). It is at this time that books offer so much. Remembering history so we don’t repeat it; understanding others’ perspectives’; seeking refuge from the harshness this world currently presents; finding ways to better ourselves, to care; and so many other countless reasons. Even if you don’t believe in books for love’s sake, then why not for the benefit of making people better communicators and more empathetic? Words, knowing their nuances, impact and possibilities creates for us societies full of people who are eager to understand and be understood. Readers are people who can change the world around them because to read a book is to commit to deeply listening, without speaking. And in times likes these, it could the most powerful and necessary communication of all.

At the beginning of my teaching career here in England, I wrote a blog post about reading entitled ‘The Need to Read’ which you can find here:

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The Nature of Things

Out of all the words that I would use to describe myself, ‘outdoorsy’ wouldn’t be one of them.

Now, just to be clear, I was not a city kid who never understood nor experienced nature. I lived in a place called “Goodwood” for heaven’s sake. My father was an avid outdoorsman. He considered the woods an extension of himself, something I wish that I shared with him. When I speak to others about where they grew up, I know I was a fortunate child to have grown up in a house outside of the city, with an expansive forest behind it. Looking back it was incredible, trees on three sides of the house, it should have been a child’s dream.

I wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

My sister, keen to explore, would always be begging me to go outside with her, to which I would flippantly turn down. Why would I go outside, when I had a whole world to explore inside (where it was either cozy and warm in winter, or cool and shaded in summer)? Sometimes my mother would be so flabbergasted she would implement a no indoor afternoon, to which she would ceremoniously lock us out, (well let’s be honest, me out) so that my incredibly pale skin had any chance to see the sun. My sister I’m sure would always be thrilled that finally we’d get to play outside together. However, locked out or not, I’d always make sure I’d quickly grab a book during my temporary banishment and seek shelter under the largest tree I could find. I’d sit there smugly, feeling like I had fooled my mother. Essentially, I had found the indoors of the outdoors. In hindsight, it would have been kinder for me to have played some make believe in the woods with my sister, and it probably wouldn’t have hurt my shockingly pale skin to get some Vitamin D, but alas, hindsight is 20/20.

Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the outdoors. I’m not one of those people who hate the outside. I’ve had many, many positive experiences. As I said, my father has a deep love and appreciation for the outdoors, and would take us on beautiful hikes where I’d see the most unseemingly gorgeous places, that were literally in my back yard. I was a Girl Guide that didn’t shy away from camping in any weather or season, and enjoyed the camaraderie that being in the great outdoors allows in a group of people. I have attended many camps, outdoors camps, with insects galore, dutifully putting on the deet to head outdoors, rain or shine gleefully participating in any activity that was asked of me.

There was one defining moment though that brought me over to the nature loving side, even only for a brief moment.

In fifth grade our class went on an over night class trip. It for three nights and four days outside Lunenberg in Nova Scotia. I mean obviously, I was excited about the trip because what kid isn’t excited to go away with their friends on a trip where they get to hang out for days on end? Being a teacher now, I understand that excitement even more, it’s really the beginning of independence, kids having a fun time away from home that doesn’t involve their family. It’s an ongoing coming of age story, really. Anyways, I knew in advance that this trip was going to involve nature in a big way, which was the part I was the least thrilled about, considering the name of the trip was called “Earthkeepers”. We arrived off of our school buses and I was struck at the beauty of the place, it was across the street from the ocean and the land around was endless.

Now, I don’t remember the trip in great detail, primarily because it was 20 years ago.  What I do remember was being enthralled with the outdoors. There was so many diverse areas in such a contained region. The part that I was particularly taken with was this place that was an old saw mill. It was this expansive field that was completely filled with sawdust. What’s more, is that walking on it felt like what I imagine walking on the moon to feel like. We as students were asked to look at our surroundings in a completely new way that I have never considered before. I had turned a temporary new leaf. When we returned back from our trip we were given additional assignments that we had to do at our own houses. One of these activities included going into a wooded area behind our house and picking an area to explore throughly giving it a name and describing it in great depth.

One autumn afternoon shortly after the trip, I trekked out behind my house. Now a word about my backyard: behind my house is a path that leads down to a cemetery. Even though my childhood house was off of a main highway, the entrance to the cemetery was not obvious to naked eye. In the grove of some overhanging trees between the house of mine and my neighbour’s, was a wooded path that felt hopelessly romantic (it was later gravelled, which now makes the road significantly easier to drive on but makes it feel far less secret). When you got down to the end of the road, it was not yet clear there was anything important there. When taking a left, and heading down a slight clearing, there was one of the most beautiful cemeteries I have ever yet to see. I know beautiful is a strange word to describe a graveyard, but it really was. It was nestled in what felt like a forgotten patch of land quietly tucked away. Nature had reclaimed most of the gravestones within the plots. The graves weren’t orderly like in most cemeteries I have ever visited, they were scattered, making it feel almost personalised for each person laid to rest there. It’s was an intimately small cemetery, and I think the last time someone had been buried there was ten years before. As a person who is intensely disturbed and petrified of death, for some reason, I did not fear that place. Instead, I found it to be a peaceful hideaway where I could get my young thoughts together.

Beyond it, was a small path that led down to a tall tree with a ladder leading up to a small seat at the top. Despite my fear of heights, I climbed up the tree valiantly, reaching the top, sitting and overseeing the treetops. I was gobsmacked that someone had built this treehouse that allowed me the opportunity to see the forest in a completely different way. (I later learned from my parents that this ‘treehouse’ was a hunting blind that belonged to my neighbours, which I have to admit slightly tarnished my first memories). Down from the ‘treehouse’ was this fairly large area that was almost completely covered in moss, which I referred to as “The Emerald City”, as an homage to my second favourite film, “The Wizard of Oz”.

I note now that even with the loving tone in which I refer to my childhood walkabouts, I still don’t embrace the idea of being outdoorsy. Even though, I would lying to you if I told you I didn’t head out to that place as a way of momentarily escaping from a crowded too small house containing five people that all needed more space. Nature kindly enough, provided that space for me.

In September, I was walking home from school along the paved road that eventually, very eventually, leads to my house. On previous occasions, I was curious about the opening of a wooded path on the other side of the road, but passed along it, eager to be home. One day, I instead decided to walk down it. It was the beginning of autumn, there was plenty of daylight left, it was the beginning of the school year and I inhabitually had some time to spare, so why not? I crossed the desolate street and decided to venture in. Almost immediately upon entering, I breathed in the familiar scent that is September on the cusp of October. There are few smells that I love more, I could cry of happiness thinking of it. How can the smell of decaying leaves represent such sadness, newness, and somehow joy, simultaneously? Memories of my childhood flooding back making me feel the same age as I was in my memories. I walked along a well worn path towards a destination that is completely unknown until I come to an opening clearing in the woods. I then see this:

IMG_0536IMG_0538To say I felt like Alice in Wonderland was an understatement. And then I saw this:

IMG_0537Then I suddenly felt a little afraid. Where exactly was this going to go?  I imagined a beautiful little brook and a humble meadow waiting patiently for me through the other side. So I walked through, and I’m pretty sure I held my breath the entire time. I hurried through to the other side, and felt myself faced with a sunnier side of the forest. I continued walking and came out of the path. It was neither the brook nor field that I envisioned. It was instead pavement, along with a string of houses, and here’s where it gets better. I am looking at the school I work at.

That’s right, I took a cute little detour in the woods, just to bring me back to exactly where I just came from, just minutes before. With a shake of my head I turn around and head back to where I just came from. However this slight disappointment does not ruin my overall romanticisation of this adorable little path I found, and on the way back, it was even more cute, if that’s even possible.

IMG_0542I mean look at it. Look at those adorable leafy stairs.

When my colleague and I walked home from school, I enthusiastically showed her this lovely little find, to which she told me she was already aware of it. Here’s where the story gets a little sad, apparently it’s where our students do their smoking and other badass activities that are done by teens in wooded areas. Suddenly this quaint little nook in the woods showed me its cigarette butts, graffiti and copious amount of litter.

[Insert a heavy sigh here.]

Months later, I was reminded of this place, the other rainy morning as my cab passed along the paved road with the string of little houses along it, the path unbeknown to anyone who doesn’t already know it’s there because it blends in with its’ surroundings. I saw a student, walking towards the path, and hour before school started, saddened that I knew where he was going with a pretty good idea of why.

In my teacher mindset, this upset me. However, in my human mindset, I completely understood him. Many years later, even if the needs it served us are different, the woods continues to give space freely to anyone who needs it, where maybe they too can get their young thoughts together.

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Sometimes I do this thing where I choose to do the hardest things first. When first learning how to drive (I know this is a continuing journey) with my friend Graham, I insisted on wanting to learn how to drive a standard before I learned how to drive an automatic. I’ve always figured why not? If I do the absolute hardest thing first, then everything else would seem simpler in comparison. If you’re already gathering up the gumption to do something new, (which is in itself difficult) why not just muster all that energy to do the hardest thing right off the bat?

I guess you could say that I applied this logic when it came to my decision to teach in England.

A year and a half ago, I made the decision to move to England. One of the reasons I decided to move here was because well, who are we kidding? It’s ENGLAND.

However, my bigger reason for moving overseas was so that I could finally become a full-time classroom teacher. I had finished my Bachelor of Education degree in 2010 and had made a go of it substitute teaching in New Brunswick and Saskatchewan. During that time, I had a consistent, ongoing, honest-to-God fear of being a teacher. As indecisive as I tend to be, I was even worse when I kept going back and forth about whether I should even be a teacher. I knew I liked working with youth, but was I good enough to be a teacher? My friends and family reassured me, they seemed to have zero hesitation about my ability to be a good teacher. I however, was terrified, what if I singlehandedly ruined the educational year of a group of young impressionable students? It was a tremendous responsibility that wore heavy on my mind.

Then I bit the bullet.

I decided that substitute teaching didn’t make sense if I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to be a teacher. So I decided to get my feet real wet by jumping into the deep end of the pool. I decided that I was going to teach full-time so I could decide once and for all, if I was supposed to be a teacher. Anyone in most parts of Canada knows how difficult it is to obtain a full-time teaching gig, so I looked abroad. I decided that England was where I was going to make a go of it for the academic year of 2013-2014.

The world needs teachers. In terms of global flexibility, teaching is a profession that is well in demand. Most of the teaching positions that are available overseas are in non-English speaking countries. Many of these schools are private and many of the students in these schools tend to be from higher socio-ecnomic backgrounds. As lovely as those students might be, I got into teaching because I wanted to work with students from lower socio-economic backgrounds who had a difficult time in school. Cue England. The thing that attracted me to teaching in England was that it was a difficult place to teach. My friends who taught in England would tell me horror stories, and my ears would perk up with interest. 50% of teachers quit within the first 5 years here because the teaching climate is so demanding. I was incredibly intrigued. I thought that if I could survive in one of the most difficult teaching environments in the world (I’ve heard teaching here referred to as “the trenches”), then I could really teach anywhere. So I packed my bags, said goodbye to my loved ones and set off across the ocean to see what I was made of.

Settling into England, relatively speaking was a piece of cake. Settling into my school was also relatively easy that first week, with no students. When my recruiting agency put me with my school, they assured me that they were really welcoming to their staff, and they were right. I was incredibly lucky to be working at my particular school this year. First of all, roughly 10% of the teaching staff is international, so I was in good company. Secondly, I was in an extremely nurturing department that was used to people from Canada coming over to teach. Thirdly, I was surrounded by an incredibly amiable and supportive overall staff.

That was the good news.

Here was the bad:

1.) Teaching in England is a monumental culture shock.

2.) Teaching is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I’m not going to mince words here, I’m an almost thirty year old woman, I’m no stranger to hard work, normally I thrive in brand new situations, but I almost quit, and I don’t quit easily. It’s also difficult because there’s your first year of teaching, which in any culture is going to separate the weak from the strong. Then there’s doing your first year teaching abroad, where you’re never quite sure if teaching is that hard, or if teaching in that particular culture is that hard. I’m going to sum it up to teaching is difficult but teaching in England is incredibly difficult.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m an unfailing optimist. I can take even the most crappiest of situations and find some kind of silver lining, to the point where it’s annoying. This year I met my match. I met my Everest of circumstances I couldn’t just slide my rose coloured glasses and stride through. Oh God no. The first half of this school year was ugly, and I was ugly in it. It…was not good.

I can summarise my struggles in three categories:

1.) The Students are Tougher

It took about two weeks before my first student told me to eff off. It took me a month before I realised that I could actually send kids out of my class for misbehaviour. It took me a month and a half before I finally bawled in a cupboard after my class verbally ganged up on me. Kids are kids all over the world. A teenager with raging hormones and half a developed brain tend to act similarly no matter where they’re from, to a point. In my experience, kids are mouthier here, and respect for teachers is not automatic. As a teacher, my style was described as “Calm and Assertive”, things I came to admire about myself, and that benefited me  in my previous work and teaching experiences. In the beginning, it did not serve me well here. My students saw it as me not being assertive enough, as me being passive teacher. Furthermore, as an chronically indecisive person who tends to see the shades of grey in everything, I was a serious target for my students. To be fair that trait would have been unhelpful no matter what system I taught in, but that trait was particularly bad here. Throughout this year, I’ve become the most polarised I’ve ever been. Individually, with each student, I can be as shades of grey as I like, but in a classroom full of middle school students that are just screaming for boundaries (literally and figuratively) I grew a serious backbone. The thing that I didn’t really think about enough was that I was the leader of my classroom. Normally, I tend to be very communal in terms of leadership and like things to evolve organically. That is not leader enough for my kids, they needed a ruler that say the yeses and the nos, firmly with no over-analysis. Which, let’s face it, does not come easily to me. Let’s not forget, I teach middle school kids who need to understand the profound differences between appropriate/inappropriate, acceptable/not acceptable, on task/not on task, ready for learning/not ready for learning and I’m the one who needs to define and enforce it for them. I never understood the expression “iron fist with a velvet glove” so clearly before this year.

Another thing I really came to understand is that Uniforms Matter. The first day you see a large moving sea of children in uniform, little suits, blazers, ties, skirts, black shoes from 11 year olds to 16 year olds is a jarring sight. Previous to moving here, I was so anti-uniform because it was so foreign to my upbringing. In the beginning, I’m going to be honest, I didn’t give any cares about uniforms. That was my first crucial mistake. Kids wearing their uniforms properly is a sign of respect. I know it sounds crazy, but it really is. When students show up to your class, before they’re allowed into your classroom, they are supposed to be in perfect uniform. Which means they have to have their shirts tucked in, top button done, and their ties or skirts at an appropriate length. Again, I know a Canadian is likely reading this entry and are thinking “really?” Yes. If a student isn’t going to do up their top button for you, then it’s pretty likely they aren’t going to follow any other instruction you’re going to give. Being in perfect uniform is so engrained socially with them being ready to learn. “Sort your uniform out” was one of my most uttered phrases this year, much to my own shock. As the year went on, and the tougher I became on uniforms, the better the kids behaved. Obviously there are other correlations here, but trust me when I say (as a previously huge skeptic) uniforms matter.

The Workload is Tougher

In England, pretty much every single piece of paper that a student writes on needs to be marked by a teacher. To anyone who is not a teacher, this might not sound like it’s a big deal, but let me emphasise that it is in fact a big deal. Especially for an English teacher. Anyone who teaches English knows the pains of correcting work. You’re correcting the ideas in addition to the actual structure they’re using to express said idea. Usually in Canada, the kind of work you’re correcting is the kind of work that students take a little more care in.  Students usually pass in assignments, tests, exams and projects; those are typically the things that a teacher marks to give a student a grade. At my school students are given notebooks that all of the things they write down go into. So imagine the notes that students take during class, that’s the kind of work you also need to mark. They don’t carry their own binders or work, the teacher keeps and corrects it all. Not only do teachers correct it, but their corrections are looked at by their supervisors, which then can be looked at by the Ministry of Education (OFSTED). Essentially, OFSTED could walk into your classroom, pick up your books and if your books are not up to standard, or don’t show a student’s progress, you could be in a lot of trouble. In addition, students also write an actual assessment at the end of the six modules, which are also corrected. This is of course in addition to the other many things a teacher does in the run of a day like teach, lesson plan, manage behaviour, go to meetings, call parents, etc.

The System is Tougher

I knew England was standardised before I moved here, I did my research. What I did not know was how difficult it was going to be for me to adjust to that. I don’t know why I didn’t know, it should have been pretty obvious to me that I spent a great many years in university greatly contesting and fighting against the standardisation of education. Yet, here I was willingly putting myself right in the middle of it. It wasn’t easy, but as they say “When in Rome…”

The schooling here is very traditional. Standardisation is still very much a defining feature of the education system here. Things are heavily, heavily standardised. The Ministry of Education (OFSTED) is a group of people whose job it is to ensure that all children in the UK are receiving a similar quality of education. They come down very hard on schools that are not providing that high quality of education in something called “Special Measures” where basically, the school is completely overhauled. New staff are brought in to manage and teach at the school, and then the school is consistently monitored over a three year period. The school that I work at had recently come out of this procedure, and has worked very hard to ensure that they are following a very strict educational procedure because they want to maintain the extensive progress they’ve made during and since Special Measures. Speaking of progress, that is how everything is measured here, it’s the magic word. Teachers are observed several times a year, and during these lesson plans you need to ensure that every single student in your classroom is making some kind of progress in your lesson. OFSTED considers ‘progress” to be some kind of real evidence that a child knows new knowledge and has gained a new skill at the end of your lesson that they did not know at the beginning of your lesson. You need to be able to demonstrate this clearly. Even if one child is not making progress during your lesson, then technically you’re not doing your job in making sure each of your students are making overall progress. This is an immense amount of pressure, and it has certainly been daunting. During this year, as I’ve struggled with the idea of standardisation, I’ve come to some kind of peace in knowing that OFSTED is taking great care in ensuring that that the education of every single child is held to some kind of standard and that educational institutions and teachers are held to a very high accountability to ensure this happens. In Canada, the accountability is very much student focused, students are responsible for showing up, wanting to learn,wanting to do well, doing the work. In Britain the accountability is very much teacher focused, even for your most difficult students your expectation is to convince them, and ensure that they’re doing the highest quality of work possible, and if they don’t, that comes down to some kind of problem with the way you teach or conduct your classroom. It’s definitely a game changer and to be honest it was something I really struggled with at the beginning of the year.

Exploring the differences between one culture and another, educationally, is a very tricky balance, as I’m sure anyone teaching overseas can share. On the one hand, for the most part, people are typically exclusively educated in one country or system. Even post-secondarily, a system reflects its’ primary and secondary school. So when that same system trains you to be an educator, it’s an interesting shift when those skills take you abroad. On the one hand, you’re invited to teach because your skills and education are recognised as being valuable for the new system you’re teaching in. On the other hand, this system may be completely foreign, so it’s sometimes difficult to figure out the balance of who you are innately as an educator and person, and what you need to be and are expected to be as a professional. It’s something that I’ve spent the last year in deep thought about whenever I had a spare second to contemplate the meaning and reasons as to why I’m here.

I’m here because I wanted to figure out if I could be a teacher or not. It turns out I can teach.

I’m here because I wanted to figure out if I wanted to be a teacher or not. It turns out I want to be a teacher.

I’m here to figure out if I could teach in one of the challenging education systems globally. It turns out that after stumbling and fumbling through the earlier parts of the year, that with a lot of support, encouragement and determination, that I can teach in a challenging education system, and not only come out on the other side relatively unscathed, but sign up for another round to see what else I’m made of.

Maybe there is some kind of method to my madness?

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While living in Saskatchewan I became a huge fan of the show, “Gordon Ramsay’s Best Restaurant”  on Netflix. Although I wasn’t initially a huge Gordon Ramsay fan, I was very quickly won over by him on this show. The premise of the show is that diners from all over the UK submitted votes about their top local restaurants within the UK. The show broke up the restaurants into different categories:

Best English: The West House (http://www.thewesthouserestaurant.co.uk) and The Milestone (http://www.the-milestone.co.uk )

Best Chinese: Kai (http://www.kaimayfair.co.uk/kai/kaihome.html ) and Yu and You (http://www.yuandyou.com)

Best French: Winteringham Fields (https://www.winteringhamfields.co.uk ) and La Garrigue (http://www.lagarrigue.co.uk) Best

Spanish: Fino (http://finorestaurant.com/about/) and El Pirata Detapas ( http://www.elpiratadetapas.co.uk)

Best Thai: Mango Tree (http://www.mangotree.org.uk) and Nahm-Jim (http://nahm-jim.co.uk)

Best Indian: Brilliant (http://www.brilliantrestaurant.com) and Prashad (http://www.prashad.co.uk)

Best North African: Azou (http://www.azou.co.uk) and Momo (http://www.momoresto.com/restaurant/london/momo/)

Best Italian: Casamia (http://www.casamiarestaurant.co.uk) and Mennula (http://www.mennula.com)

In each category there are two restaurants competing against each other top title in their food genre, those restaurants then go onto a semi-finals round, then finals. What I really like about the show is that Ramsay judges each of the restaurants through three different categories. The first is that he surprises each restaurant with a drop in crowd of thirty diners who will be ordering starters, a main meal and dessert all within a two hour time period to test their abilities when working under a high level of pressure. The second test is that they send a undercover food critic to test the level of service and food quality when they aren’t expecting visitors. The third, is a test where Ramsay brings in the two head chefs from each of the restuarants to his Flagship restaurant in London to cook their best meal in their genre for a group of people who are highly knowledgable about their dishes.

The show does a really great job of showing each restaurant’s strength and weaknesses through the three rounds, particularly when focusing on service as well as the food itself. It really humanises these chefs and other working staff within the establishements. For some of these restaurants even being voted into the top 16, gives them an important title that would put some of these restaurants on the map. I also like that it educates viewers on the different types of dining experiences that are available throughout the UK. Obviously when I was watching the show I was very close to the time where I was actually moving to England; while watching the show it was not lost on me that I could soon be potentially eating at these places. However, after a quick initial mapping out of the restaurants over the UK, I quickly realised that only about half of them were actually going to be close to where I was going to be living. Aside from the London restaurants, the only  restaurant that was going to be on my turf was The West House restaurant. Once I actually started living here, I realised that Kent is a much bigger area than I initially thought, and also that it’s pretty rural in places. So I put my hopes to visit The West House on hold.

At the end of the 4th Module in April, I was off to my first British wedding. My boss Bernie was getting married and our department was off to Maidstone to celebrate in the festivities. I primarily spend my time in three places: school, home and London. I really had very little knowledge of how to get to Maidstone or any other parts of Kent for that matter, luckily, I was in the great care of my co-worker Nadia. We left at about noon on a Sunday afternoon, planning to take our time through the British country side, stopping for a bite to eat, finding our hotel room and getting ready for a night of celebrating.

As per usual, it was raining when we left my house. As we drove along the highway, I got to see a scene outside of Dartford and London, a rare occurrence. We decided to stop by this little town to take a little walk along this beautiful cliff overlooking the countryside. One of the reasons I decided to move to England was because of the gorgeous countryside featured in classic British films that I used to watch wistfully. Even though day to day I spend next to zero time in said countryside, being able to drive through them on that day continues to cement all of reasons why England is a perfect place for me to live. Nadia being very familiar with the area and having a vehicle was very kind to point out lovely sights of misty waters, and vast plots of land.

With an already pretty lovely start, it got even better. Nadia and I were walking around the city of Maidstone trying to figure out where to go for lunch. We were discussing great restaurants when I brought up the show Gordon Ramsay’s Top Best Restaurant, and more specifically, The West House as a topic of conversation. Miraculously, Nadia knew exactly what I was talking about. After jumping up and down and gushing about our mutual love for the show, she decided to take action. She found their number, called and  made a reservation for 40 minutes later. After figuring out that it was a 30 minute drive, we sprinted out of Maidstone city centre and made our way to The West House. On our way through the quaint country roads we continued discussing how wonderful the show was. While waiting for lunch, we explored the possibility of visiting more of the restaurants on the show.  Our meal was INCREDIBLE. So incredible in fact that it deserves its’ own post. If you want to read my review, you can read it here: (*link to soon follow). After our mind blowing experience for lunch, we decided that we were going to visit every single restaurant on that list.

The West House 

After lunch we drove through twisted country paths with wooden fences and trees that hugged over the road. It was blissfully quaint and even though I knew we had a gorgeous wedding to go to, I didn’t think the day’s limit to seeing beautiful things could be surpassed.

We then pulled up to this sign:




I, having no idea where we were, or what we were up to next, was immediately taken by what I saw of the grounds. We then saw this:


Chilston Day


Excitedly, I assumed that we were going to walk along the grounds and perhaps go in for afternoon tea. When Nadia got out of the car, she went to the trunk to get our stuff out of the trunk. I was confused,

“What do we need our bags for?”

“Lill, this is where we’re staying”, she said laughing.

This is where we were staying.

To say I squealed with delight would be an understatement. Nadia then explained that this is where Bernie’s wedding was going to be taking place and that we’d also be staying there. All of a sudden I felt like I was on set for the film “Four Weddings and a Funeral”. Walking down the hallway we walked into this foyer and walked up the staircase:

. View of Staircase


Put a skeleton key into our doorway and was introduced to our bedroom:


Our Room 2

It all felt so unapologetically (and wonderfully) English.

What was really evident about this hotel room was that it hadn’t changed a whole lot since olden times. There were an incredible amount of cupboards that I could only imagine people unpacking their huge trunks for their month long stay after getting out of their carriage. There were these beautiful window sills, where I imagined someone sitting looking out onto the back gardens, writing a letter to their loved ones who were waiting impatiently for a letter that would arrive three weeks later. The room was magical. We gussied ourselves up, and walked down the Beauty and the Beast staircase to meet our boss on her special day. We walked into a room with a beautiful grand piano, meeting her family and friends. We assembled as an English department in the library (fittingly) and took hilarious pictures together as a group. We danced our faces off, and later assembled outside to watch the bride throw her bouquet. As I walked back in, the sound of my heels on the gravel, thoughts of joy filled me as I witnessed Bernie’s profound happiness at marrying the love of her life. I saw this same beautiful building lit up, under the moonlight, with crickets chirping in the background.

Chilston Night

I sighed at my own happiness, looking back at the scene of guests milling around the fountain. Rain, countryside, a delicious lunch, great friends, a beautiful bride, and a whole night of dancing. England, I really love you.

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One day my year 8 class and I were talking about discrimination. Discrimination is a tough concept to teach to twelve and thirteen year olds.

So how did I do it?

I said to them, that essentially we make two different kinds of judgements about people: things people can control about themselves and things people can’t.

I understand there are some huge gaps in my explanation, but for most part, it does cover a lot of my bases.

Judging someone based on their skin colour (something they can’t control) is something that my class understands is something that is never acceptable. I then explained that we should be judging people on their personalities because for the most part people have control over the way they treat other people. This was an important distinction for me to make because I was doing double duty, I also wanted them to understand that it’s okay to not be friends with someone if they’re not being good to them and that it’s perfectly acceptable judgement to make towards someone.

Obviously this situation becomes even more complicated because, simultaneously, I’m trying to explain situations where it’s not okay to judge someone, and situations where it is, even though it’s much more complicated than that.

As I said earlier, judgement of skin colour is off bounds, it seems to be a universally understood truth that is practiced in my class. However, I knew there were three other looming topics that I was going to bring up that I knew wouldn’t be as easily accepted. The three topics I hear repeatedly talked about among many students are their hatred for:

-people who are polish,


-‘gingers’ (people with red hair).

Now, in my year 8 class, they didn’t seem to have any particular problems with people who are polish, or people that were homosexual which is in vast comparison to the opinions of my year 9 students. My year 8 students were under the same understanding as skin colour, that being polish or gay, they were not an acceptable basis to judge people. This was a relief to me because in my year 9 class, it’s a whole different story.

My year 9s have a real hate on for polish people. To some of their understanding (and let’s be fair here, it’s most likely their parents’) polish people are “immigrants” that are coming in and taking their jobs, and they’re pretty angry about it. When I tell them that I’m an “immigrant”, they always say,

“oh no miss, we don’t mean you”

To which I tell them that we’re the same, they whole heartedly disagree. To them, being canadian, is an okay kind of immigrant. Being polish, however, is really not. They also feel the same way about homosexuality. Being gay, is really not okay either. I’ve had students from that class blatantly tell me that I’m not going to change their mind in accepting homosexuality because it’s wrong, and not something they support.  I know it comes from somewhere else, an overheard word from a friend or family.This digs me in a way I didn’t know words could. I sometimes am able to muster up the words,

“Your beliefs are your beliefs. But respect towards everyone, no matter what your beliefs, is mandatory”.

However, my year 8s completely disagree,

“who cares if people are polish miss?”

“It doesn’t matter if people are gay or not, we should accept everyone”.

To which I sigh a huge sigh of relief.

So when we had settled on the previous two topics, I thought bringing up hair colour would have been an easy sell.


“So, is it okay to judge people if they have red hair?”

“Yeah Miss! They’re GINGERS.”, one kid says with an air of distain.

Aside from the fact that my mother’s side of the family are full of red heads, I’m also so shocked that I was so wrong about the direction of this conversation.

“Why can’t they just dye their hair?” says one of my best natured students.

“Do you understand that telling someone they should change their hair colour to prevent you being mean to them, could be a lot like telling people to change their skin colour so that people aren’t mean to them?”

“That’s different, Miss.”

“Is it? How? Can someone explain to me how?”

“‘Miss, GINGERS don’t even like their OWN hair colour”.

“Well…do you think they always hated their hair colour, or do they hate their hair colour because people don’t accept them for who they are?”

My class stopped and pondered this for a moment, and admittedly, so did I. Now I know I’ve been discussing discrimination here, but just bear with me while I switch gears here for a bit.

My question “do you hate something about yourself because you just do, or do you hate something about yourself because someone has made you hate it?”,  had accidentally triggered a memory for me about my sister.

Now, I’m going to be honest here, this me sharing something with you that I’m not particularly proud of. In fact, when it comes down to it, I still feel awful for my actions and words.

I was an overweight kid that got made fun of a lot because of it. It probably wasn’t, but I felt like I was under a lot of scrutiny about it by my peers. Whenever my sister and I would get into an argument when we were younger, she used to say

“yeah, well at least I’m not fat”.

To which the end of the conversation would end with me in tears and most likely hitting her and running away or talking to my mom. One day that changed. One day, in response to my sister’s comment about my size, I retorted:

“Well at least I don’t have a humongous nose”.

That stopped my sister dead in her tracks. I knew I had come up with something that was equally as painful. I knew it had stung her like her words had stung me. I knew I had hurt her.

My sister has never had a humungous nose. She has a beautiful nose, and to be fair it would be beautiful whether it was larger or not.  But it’s important for me to acknowledge that it wasn’t. My sister was a tiny child, very skinny, pretty, and there was nothing at all for me to make her feel bad about. So I created something that I knew would bother her. I created an insecurity.

For the duration of my childhood, it would become my official “come-back” for any terrible comments that I might have had coming my way. It made me feel like I had some kind of leverage.

A few years ago, my sister and I were hanging out and somehow it got brought up that my sister hated her nose.

“I hate my nose, it’s too big”.

I was shocked that the dye I had cast over ten years ago, had permanently etched itself in her self-image. I had done that. Me.

Even now, more years have passed since that conversation, and I still can’t believe I was responsible for taking something my sister had probably never given any thought to, and then presented it as a flaw, an imaginary one at that, but real damage had been done, whether my insult was real or not. This memory especially hits me hard because I work with kids whose identities are developing before my very eyes. That students who have never given a second thought to themselves being polish are now suddenly ashamed because of what someone else makes them feel about it. Students tell me about passing comments their mothers make about their weight, and weeks later they mention it to me, words not forgotten. A boy makes a seemingly innocent comment, but says it with such venom that the innocent word cuts into another kid’s conscience like an infinite cut. The self loathing they inspire, whether it’s related to race, sexuality, religion, gender, or just looks, is damaging. I think one of the things I find most disturbing is that the drastic change in mindset between my Y8 and Y9 students. That my months of being able to change minds, and introduce perspective are so limited and to what end?

I wish it was just as simple as ending the discrimination against the polish, homosexuals, and gingers. However, I think we all know another kind of discrimination, equally as toxic, will be waiting impatiently in the wings to take their place.  Will we invite it in?

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Oil La Dee, Oil La Da

As indicated in my Glass Class Post, I’ve always held this innate curiosity for places that I pass by day in and day out and have no idea what’s going on inside. I’m pretty sure I got this trait from my father. He would often entertain his curiosity by exploring everyday places to see what was there. I grew up outside the city, and along the beautiful community I grew up in, there were ample places to peek around in.

One Sunday afternoon when I was about eight years old, we were heading home when I decided that I wanted to see a place called “Helen’s Arts and Crafts”, I couldn’t really explain to you what possessed me to ask that day, and I can’t really explain to you what possessed my father to say yes, but as he pulled into the parking lot, I beamed with excitement. I remember it being late afternoon and that it was winter, and I remember seeing that beautiful deep pink and orange colour of the sunset, colours that seems especially crisp in the winter months. The store was an extension of the house the owners lived in, it was a garage that had been converted into a store/gallery space. I walked into the store before my father, being surprised by what I saw inside. I don’t know what I was expecting to see exactly, but I remember just feeling so happy. There were paintings all over the walls, and there were shelves full of different kinds of things I couldn’t now describe. Helen came down from her house and warmly greeted us. My father and I being quite a scene; because my father being deaf, couldn’t talk, and I, a child was speaking quite a lot for someone my age. I don’t remember all the things I might have said, but I do remember point blank, asking her how much it would cost for me to learn how to paint. I don’t think Helen ever expected to teach people how to oil paint in her store, particularly to a nine year old, but she came up with a sum she thought was reasonable, and I excitedly interpreted the conversation to my father. In my childhood, I can’t count the amount of times I had already gone ahead and made plans without notifying my parents beforehand, something they became reluctantly used to as the years went on. I told him at that moment that I wanted to learn how to paint, and that it was going to cost this much and could I do it? Talk about being put on the spot, but my father looked down at my pleading face, and looked at Helen’s kind face, and then gave his slow nod, letting us know without words, that we could go ahead and paint.

The nice part about living in a rural area is that you get to know your bus driver pretty well, on Wednesday afternoons he would drop me off in front of Helen’s instead of my house. I would walk inside and she would be there to greet me; I’d take off my backpack, and my jacket, and hang them up inside of her house. She’d have an afternoon snack ready (which in hindsight is a really telling quality about Helen), and we’d sit and chat about my day at school before we did anything. After about 15 minutes or so, she’d lend me one of her old, worn, painted shirts and we’d sit down and get to work. I’m going to be honest, when I first embraced the idea of oil painting, I imagined bright, beautiful colours, instead we started with the ocean. Now, I loved the ocean then, and I certainly still love it now, but it’s not exactly what I had in mind when I envisioned myself as an artist. For my whole life I get this incredible sense of happiness when I see an array of colours. Be it a hardware store in the paint department, a new box of Crayola crayons, a stack of construction paper, I am in bliss. While we were painting the ocean,  I would longingly looked at the gorgeous colours surrounding me and ask if we could use them. She patiently told me that in future projects we could pick any colours we wanted, but until that time, we needed to focus on the colours in the ocean. Whenever Helen and I would paint, we would talk about the most interesting things. I loved that she talked to me as a person where I felt my opinions and thoughts mattered, she treated me as if I had insightful views to offer. We would talk about the most mundane things that I thought were fascinating, I don’t know why this particular topic of conversation sticks out to me, but we talked about whether the taste of the tap water from the bathroom was different than the kitchen. Of course we both agreed that kitchen water was far superior, but we couldn’t really explain why.

One of my closest friends when I was growing up was (and is) an unbelievably talented artist. I used to be around her in this constant state of envy, she could draw and paint the most beautiful things. For the amount that I loved colour, it didn’t seem fair to me that I had no artistic ability. At the moment I finished my first painting with Helen I felt an incredible sense of pride, I had painted something recognizable, and it had some depth to it. I’m under no grand disillusion, Helen probably painted most of it, I mean I was nine; left to my own devices it would have looked like something a dog had accidentally walked across with paint.  We then moved onto other things, more tole painting based projects, which meant I could use as many of the different colours that I so desired. I picked out some wooden figures and painted them with whatever colour tickled my fancy, and Helen would help me put the nice finishing touches so that it would be a somewhat presentable item to show  to my parents when I’d bring them home (although to their credit they pretended to love everything I created). I loved the one on one time I had with this woman, as a chatty child (that’s an understatement), and as a curious one at that, it was amazing to me that I could sit with this woman once a week for an hour and a half, paint pretty things, and have enlightening conversations.

As per usual, something else came along and I abandoned oil painting. My school started offering after school ballroom dancing lessons, and my parents asked me to choose which one I wanted to do more. I chose dancing, and to this day I really don’t regret it, I was never a really good painter (to be fair, I was never a really good dancer either, but I enjoyed it so much more.)

I did go back to Helen a few years later. It was summer time, and I was one of those children that tried to her best ability to be independent. I was one of those kids that insisted on making her own sandwiches, cooking meals, and planning actively for the future. On the day I went back to Helen (I think I was ten at the time). I asked her for a summer job. Again, I can’t even imagine what Helen must have thought about me at that time, probably amused, but she did hire me. I basically, cleaned, dusted, sat to answer the phone and greeted any customers that came in. To be honest, it was pretty boring, and didn’t exactly fit into the working girl’s glamour that I initially imagined. However, I was paid for my work, I think it was a whole $10.00 a day at the time, and I was never prouder of the money I earned. During these days I would eat lunch with Helen and her husband Gary. Gary cut wood and so spent most of his hours (no matter the season) outdoors. We’d all sit inside the kitchen and have a little chat and eat lunch. It was the first time I’d ever seen the inside of Helen’s house. It was incredibly cozy, there were paintings everywhere, it really represented who Helen and Gary were as people. One day I remember going up to the attic of Helen’s house to help her bring down some things to put into the shop, and it was exactly the kind of attic you would see in a movie. It was pouring down rain, and I remember just falling absolutely in love with the place, I was too busy looking around, taking in every object. She asked me to stop and listen, and it was the first time I had ever noticed the sound the splendid sound rain can make on a roof. The summer came and went.

I didn’t see Helen again until probably a year later, she had hired me (and my best friend at the time, the same unbelievably talented artist I was referring to earlier) to help her during this community wide craft sale that took place over two weekends in October. I was unbelievably excited, and to be working with my best friend was obviously any  pre-teen’s dream. There was an artist working collaboratively with Helen and did metal work. It’s funny now to think that the same friend who was with me, now works with metal as a professional artist.We basically spoke to customers, cleaned up and served refreshments, and tried to stay out of the way, which again, pre-teens don’t tend to do very well at.

Helen looked different, her hair was shorter, and really patchy. She seemed to be thinner. She had cancer. I remember feeling really stunned by the casual way she had mentioned it. My friend didn’t seem too fazed because she had a few family members affected by cancer. However, Helen was the first person I had ever known to have cancer. I don’t remember the kind of cancer, but I knew that from the time I had previously known her to now, she looked and acted differently. I was profoundly worried those weekends I worked with her.

It was the last time I ever saw her. She died a year later. She was also the first person I had known that had died. I don’t know if this makes sense to you, but no one I had ever known, had died. I knew her, and then she was gone. It was difficult for me to wrap my mind around, but obviously, life carried on.

Eventually, the Helen’s Arts and Crafts Sign came down, Gary continued living there, and did wood cutting, but the store was no more.

Years passed, I still loved the arts, but didn’t pursue any visual mediums, I stuck with drama, and dancing, I eventually moved away from Halifax.

It wasn’t until about I was twenty four and living Fredericton that I decided to take on visual arts again. I saw this poster called “Let My Stick People Go”, a sketching class for beginners. The instructor was formally a high school teacher, and also had a Masters in Fine Arts. He was fantastic, and there were twelve other people in the class, of all ages, and all professions. It was at this point that I realized how mathematical art can be. I’ve always struggled with math, and it seemed to click why I’d always struggled with drawing, but I learned some things and carried on with his next class where he taught water colours.

I was sitting in my living room one night doing some art homework when I thought about Helen. It had always been a regret of mine that I never got to buy one of Helen’s paintings, it made me wonder if after all these years, were there any left to be purchased? I called Gary. I introduced myself and he remembered me, we chatted about what I was doing in Fredericton, and how he was doing. I inquired about the paintings, and he informed me they had all been divvied up among family shortly after she died. I assumed that would have been the case, but I told him I called just in case. He then told me the story of how he and Helen met. It was a cold, winter day in Halifax. They had both been skating at Chocolate Lake separately. Suddenly, Gary tripped on the ice and fell down, when he looked up, he saw a beautiful woman, to which she said to her group of friends:

“See ladies, I told you, men are constantly falling at my feet!”

She helped him up, they talked, they fell in love, they married. He said that never in his life did he expect to meet anyone who he loved in the way that he loved her. He also said he didn’t expect to again,

“If you find a person like that for you once in your life, then you should consider yourself lucky, because so many people don’t.”

I couldn’t believe this story. We spoke for a little while more, and then gave each other our best wishes. I felt a strange sense of closure I didn’t know I was looking for.

Now at 29, in England, I’ve given visual arts another go. There is this little shop at the bottom of the hill I walk down often. One day instead of passing by, I decided to walk in. It was this outdated, but lovely little shop full of lovely paintings. Inside was an outgoing, but kind older man who told me about his oil painting classes on Tuesday evenings, he asked if I would join, I told him to sign me up.

Tuesday evening came, and I walked in, supplies in hand, to this little room of about five other painters. I was the youngest there by about twenty years, they were so excited to have a new participant, especially a Canadian. My instructor and I picked out a picture, and I got to work. Again, I’m not a confident painter, but I loved all the colours, and figuring it out what I was going to do. I also love that, one of us will catch a glance of someone else’s painting, and everyone will take a little break to “ooh and ahh” over the work in progress. It’s an incredibly supportive and heartwarming group. I finished a painting, and am starting a new one. It’s my zen time. The instructor makes us all a cup of tea, puts it down beside us as we’re lost in thought. I don’t have to think about my job, expectations, or where I’m at in my life. I just take those two hours to mix, paint, and admire the work around me. Everyone is so different, but our reasons for painting are the same, to get immersed in something, just one thing, see what comes out of it, and momentarily leave the world behind.

How long will I be painting? I don’t know. Will something more interesting come along? Maybe.

What’s more  important at this point is that it reminds me that twenty years later, painting is still a pretty great way to end a day.


This is where I paint. This is where I paint.

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Palette and tea!

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First class.

Second class. Second class.


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Third Class, finished painting, and the original picture.

unnamed New Picture I’m painting from.


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First evening of new picture.


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Second evening painting the picture.


Paintings of my classmates’, they’re beautiful!

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2014-02-18 21.34.43 My instructor’s work.

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2014-02-18 21.34.35 My instructor made an 8 ft. replica of the Titanic

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Here it is again, isn’t it incredible?




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