Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Picture perfect memories

Shortly after returning from my grandmother's funerals, I received news that a wonderful woman, a woman I called "Mom #2" most of my life was terminally ill. I turned around and travelled back to my family to spend time with her. This woman... is the picture perfect of the wife, mother, friend and neighbour that one can hope to become. I know many of you think you know people like her, but I have never, in my life, heard anyone speak about a woman the way everyone around speaks of her.

She was my age when she married a hard-working man from a neighbouring town. Even then she was head strong and told him that regardless of tradition, she had no intention of changing her political inclination for her husbands'. They may not have agreed, but her husband soon found out there was no point arguing with her on that matter, she was a strong woman! They had four beautiful children together, one of which was a girl, I called her my sister, who had a severe physical and mental disability. Mom #2 spent all of her time at home from that moment on and took care of my sister.

It was shortly after that that my mother (the 1st one) got employed by Mom#2 to help out with my sister. I was not even a thought at the time, my parents were not married, their 3 boys were still in school. My mom would help keep an eye on my sister as well as help out with cleaning and cooking. There was a lot to be done. Mom #2 and my own mom grew close.

When my parents got married, it is partly thanks to Mom #2 that they were able to rent out the neighbouring house. This home is where I would grow up. That is where my mom would spend her 9 months of pregnancy, with Dad #2 always worrying that my mom would take cold as she was barely able to close her coat. Their home would be my dad's first stop returning from the hospital after my birth. He was supposed to stop home to get clothes and shower, but first, he stopped by mom and dad #2's home to announce that my mother had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Mom#2 has described to me many times the look on my dad's face when explaining to them my face, my feet, my hands... My dad was a proud dad!

When my parents divorced 6 months later, it was mom #2 who comforted my mother and told her to be kind to my dad. She told my mother to accept his homosexuality for my sake. Because, as she said, God made him this way!

Mom #2 played such an important role in my life, and I could never in any one article ever do her justice. She fed me when I was hungry, she hid me when I was playing hide and seek from my mother (my mom didn't always know we were playing), she gave me to drink, she held me, hugged me, listened to me and watched countless hours of "pestacles" (spectacles in kid-speak) in her living room. She made me bread, her bread, the only bread in the world which can magically heal hearts and raise spirits. Her home always smelled of fresh homemade bread. Even after my mother and I changed home, we spent every Sunday, after church, with mom & dad#2 and their family. Their children became my uncles (it doesn't have to make sense when you're a child) and their grandchildren became my cousins.

My sister passed away when I was 12. I remember my mother picking me up from school with their middle boy. We spent an hour on my sister's dead bed, praying. I couldn't cry. I didn't seem to know how to cry. I remember returning to school and burrying myself in books. The first book I read was about unicorns, my sister had a unicorn windchime in her room; from then on I started literally a unicorn obsession. My first tattoo at 17, was a unicorn. My obsession with unicorn diminished after that: I had my unicorn with me at all times. I did not have to worry.

Mom & dad #2 went on living. Mom #2 became heavily involved with her grandchildren and me. I would go have lunch with my friends at their home during my school lunch breaks. Everyone was always welcome in their home, and everyone was served bread and water and other comfort foods if they had some.

I moved away in 2002 to live with my father. I know this was hard on mom & dad #2, to see me leave my mother's home. My mom understood what was happening but I don't think anyone else could understand. Regardless, I never missed a chance to see them each time I visited my hometown. They met each and every boy I dated and each boy was heavily warned that mom & dad #2's opinion of them could make or break our relationships.

When I graduated high school in 2006, few people came to see me: my paternal grand-mother and paternal uncle, my mother's younger sister... and mom#2 and her daughter-in-law and her grandchildren. Mom #2 even insisted on paying for the fabric of my prom dress.

Few weeks ago, I was told Mom #2 was terminally ill. I didn't think for a moment, and went to see her, 14 hours away in my hometown. I had a chance to talk with her and say my goodbyes. She even ask me to forgive her for having been mad at me initially after I moved away. There was nothing to forgive, I never resented her for it. Today was her funeral, and as a tribute to her, I wanted to find all of the pictures from the numerous memories I have of her and post them onto this page. To my surprise, I could only find one picture of her, and I was not on it. This woman has defined me as a woman, as the friend, wife and mother I want to become. She has inspired me and helped me grow. few pictures of her remain but to me, she will always be picture perfect in my memories.

From God we become and to Him is our return.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

White Canadians are Racist

I've always believed that white Canadians were not racist: we were, in my mind, well-intentionned dumbasses who tried to be as welcoming as possible but did so awkwardly and stupidly. I figured this was sometimes due to our own biases but mostly due to our inheritant lack of understanding of being "an other". After less than a year in a hijab, I've now understood one thing very clearly: not only are white Canadians racist, but we are also conveniently lying to ourselves about it. I say 'we' because I am cannot legitimately excuse myself of my own priviledge just because I wear a veil or even because I identify with the Queer community. I am white, Canadian-born. My priviledge is with me, regardless of what I do, and what 'else' I am.

'We' are racist. For centuries we have conquered, corrupted and cheated to be the best. And by our own standards, we are! The saddest part is that now that we've claimed the top spots for wealth and health we turned to minorities so we could become 'the best at including others'. The problem is that for us to include others, they have to REMAIN others. If 'they' become a majority, then 'we' are not the best: they are!

So while minority groups struggle to become equals we continue to ensure that they maintain minority status while we show them meaningless attempts at inclusion. As minorities become a greater part of Canada, white Canadians are slowly growing more conservative. We can claim to not see colour all we want, so long as we are unwilling to accept that our racism CANNOT and SHOULD NOT be excused by our ignorance we are allowing racism to continue. Take a stance against racism and teach your child or force local schools to teach about other races, other cultures, other traditions and other beliefs! And stop thinking 'others' need saving; 'they' can save themselves if we let them!

Monday, January 7, 2013

Broken hearts can love too!

Jumping on a trampoline
"Hate is only a form of love that hasn't found a way to express itself logically". -Lil' Wayne

My family's love for one another is both dysfunctional and unconditional. Those you love the most can also hurt you the most and you can hurt most those that you love. That is a sad reality of life. However, at this tender moment, I would like to focus on the love that I showed to and was shown by my paternal grand-mother. This strong woman with a tender heart and life-consuming problems.

Playing with my cousins and myself
I can never understand my father's or his siblings' relationship with my grand-mother, troubled with both alcoholism and deeper emotional issues. I was lucky enough to never witness these moments when I was old enough to remember them. I was given the opportunity time and time again to build great memories with my grand-mother. I spent many afternoons playing teacher to her and my grand-father. I remember trying to give her stickers after she correctly counted to ten and her laughing and telling me to keep my precious little stickers. She was 5ft something, cramming herself in a children's desk, because there was no way I would accept a "student" who did not sit at "her desk" properly. My poor grand-mother.

Grand-parents visiting me after
 my tonsels were removed
As the moments of sobriety were scarce, so were the opportunities to spend time with her. Regardless, she made time when she could to attend events, when we could invite her based on the events' attendance. For the child me, it was not always easy to accept that my grand-parents were not invited to family gatherings. Our parents tried to explain as well as they could but in the short moments we were given to spend with our grand-parents, they had nothing to do with the images painted by them. They were, for all intents and purposes, the best grand-parents children could ask for.

Picture taken at my confirmation
As we grew up, we caught glimpses of our grand-parents' inability to show love in healthy ways. Our relationships with them became difficult, choosing to side with our parents in most matters. We loved our grand-parents, and we never doubted their love, we simply knew that the route to healthy relationships with them meant one where we cherished our memories, rather than attempt at making new ones. On my grand-mother's death bed, I had a chance to re-tell and re-live some of those memories. We were given the chance to see old wounds heal before our eyes. True love transcends even from broken hearts. May God reunites these broken hearts and allow them to waltz the ever lasting dance in his home of eternal love.

May she rest in peace.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

A mother's love

Witnessing my father holding his mother's hand at the hospital as she suffered multiple organ failure, I couldn't help but think of the love family members have for one another. Love, even with family, it's messy, it's hard, it's up and it's down. There is no way to avoid it, with great love comes great emotions of every kind. Regardless of the words we speak or the actions we do in anger and in hate, that love is unconditional. It may be awkward, it may be silent, it may be difficult and painful, but it is love.

This unadulterated love I see my father and his siblings giving their mother is love that comes from hardship and hurt. I also see that love in my grandmother's eyes. Love that comes from painful memories and heartfelt regrets.

"From God we become and to God is our return"

My father's relationship with his mother and my grandmother's relationship with her children was not one of sunshine and fuzzies, but it is one of love. As I sit by my grandmother's side while she sleeps, I pray and hope that the family can find healing in these last moments of love.

Friday, December 28, 2012

Life as it "should" be...

I reconnected recently with a acquaintance from a few years back. As we shared what had become of our lives, she was in awe at where I was in life. In her words my "life is discernally different than what [she] assumed it would be". I usually don't bother myself too much with people's opinions (those who matter don't mind and those who mind don't matter) but this person is someone I shared with, once upon a time, deep thoughts and secrets about my dreams, ambitions and goals, etc. So her words rang true and deep within my heart and shook me up on many levels.

I'm 24 years old. Twelve years ago, as a bright 12-year-old, a snot-nose, goody-two-shoes, overly-sheltered kid, my father, my hero and mentor, talked about the city of Ottawa. Ottawa, the capital of our country and the centre of government, could be our future home. I was going through difficult times at home with a sick mother and wanted to escape to this beautiful multi-cultural haven my dad spoke about with bright, dream-filled eyes. I finally had the chance to visit Ottawa in 2002, I was 14-years-old. I was in love. Ottawa was everything I had dreamed about and more. People of colour (a rarity in my small town of New Brunswick), people wearing different clothing, speaking different languages... all were Canadians, all belonged to my country, our country(!) and all were going about their day as if there was nothing miraculous about this!

I speak of Ottawa in this manner because nothing in my life ever seemed as concrete as the dream of moving here. I wanted something and I was going to do everything in my power to achieve it. Believe it or not, 14-years-old me did not know a word of English (okay, maybe a few words but none appropriate for daily use). So I learned English, I went to university, somehow found a university in Ottawa which offered a degree of interest, and moved. On May 3rd, 2008, at the tender age of 20 years old, I moved to Ottawa.

Whenever I dreamt of Ottawa, I saw myself living my life here. I was never clear on what I was doing in Ottawa; I just knew I "should" be in Ottawa. So in many ways, my life is exactly as I always thought it "should" be! I have no idea what lies ahead or where I will be, or what I will be doing, but here's my question: is life ever as it "should" be?

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

What ressources have I used to learn about Islam



Qu'ran Explorer: http://www.quranexplorer.com/quran/
Qur'an Android app: https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.quran.labs.androidquran&hl=fr
Muslims for Progressive Values on Facebook: www.facebook.com/MPVUSA