Verena's 29. December 2005

December 29, 2005:
A day much like this one – starting off in shades of grey, with lots of white in between. Then as today, I have a little headache from the day before – then as today I blame it on the Amouroula., which Nancy introduced us to at Rollande’s dinner party - - after the Caribean Punch we had for starters, after the nice white whine we had with the tropical roots – plantanes, sweet potatoes, taro, yams and red snapper, and with the Turkish honey and Belgian chocolate. The other three women had coffee with it – “yes, black, we like black, don’t we”, they laughed. Its not always a laughing matter. Chrisitine’s husband can’t get a job as a orthopedic surgeon, can’t even get a residency, and Nancy’s husband only got his job as a microbiological researcher through Nancy’s networking skills. “No, discrimation is not a problem as long as you don’t try to get into the higher-level professions”, she said. Christine’s frustration boiled over as soon as I asked her that so innocent question: “So, what made you come to Canada?”. She took a deep breath, and then gave us her whole odyssey through the bureaucratic jungles of France, Gambia (or was it Gabun, Guinea? what little do I know about that huge continent) South-Africa, and now Canada, where her husband, originally from Chad, trained in Egypt, has been trying unsucessfully to get onto the medical roll since eight years. A typical catch 22: to get into the profession, he needs to do his residency here, but because he already passed that stage, they won’t give him one. It seemed like six months in Afghanistan on a humanitarian mission was the only serious professional work he’s done, and that although the wait list for elective surgery – which a lot of orthopedic procedures are – is very long here. Returning to Chad is not really an option – he’s from the South, the Northerners are in charge. Crazy, complicated world – when will learn we’re all just visitors, all just refugees, all on temporary work permits?
None of that, though, weighed too heavily on us that night. Food and drink was excellent, the children got along fine playing foosball, watching Pocahontas and dashing into the kitchen on bobby cars once in a while, and I enjoyed the casual switching between English and French. Nancy told hilarious stories about her family from Gaspe taking over her new house over Christmas vacation, of Kinke and Fufu, and how she always keeps a bottle of Amouroula in the freezer, “to have something to come home to after a long day with (band) customers”. Rolande was more relaxed then I have seen her in weeks, even Francis, who is often somewhat reticent, almost to the point of being impolite, talked about his new life as a Phd-student in music in Victoria: Experimental music and big band rehearsals where he gets the music five minutes before, and the gadget class, where they build ‘instruments” that pick-up the noises on the roof , or drumsticks that make music in the air. We left just when Leonard, Christine’s husband arrived, and drove home through scary freezing rain.
So the morning of the 29th, I was a little hung-over, and not too much in the mood to get everyone ready to go skiing, which I had loosely said I’d do the day before. Luxury of luxuries, I read in bed in the morning, “The Art of Teaching”, by Jay Parini. He’s a bit full of himself, full of books he read and people he met, but his main idea I found intriguing: That writing and teaching are similar in that we have to find a voice, and how finding that voice is a never-ending trial and error process. He talks about a ‘teaching self” that develops over years in the classroom, with a chance for a fresh start each fall. Tinu and Joni read Tintin books in bed with me, after breakfast they kept busy with legoes and playmobils anyhow, so after a short family conference we decided not to go on the ski trip to Morin Heights I had loosely agreed upon with Carolin the day before. Even over these little decisions, I agonize these days, as if those too are coloured by that big decision we’re dodging on where to spend the next couple of years, on where to raise our kids, on where to, if not settle down, “arrive”, ankommen, reach a point not questioned, not in doubt, not transient. Lately the notion that a life, my life can fail in very subtle ways has crept into my mind: No, I haven’t made a difference in the world, and well, yes, maybe, I haven’t even done my primary job right, the mother sheep part, keeping the flock together. Cora has left, sure, that is nature, kids leave, but, if we hadn’t moved here, we’d still all be together.
In the afternoon, Cora and I worked together on our 1000 piece Venice puzzle – this totally pointless pursuit calmed me and gave me a sense of purpose and accomplishment. We talked about Tahar Ben Jelloun, a Moroccon author she has to present in her French class. For a similar assignment in German, she wants to do a writing workshop Nathalie-Goldberg style, and in music something on Klezmer. She seems genuinely happy about most of her classes and teachers, friendships are developing, she enjoys living with Jaschin.
The kids didn’t get one single breath of fresh air that day. It was dark, and night, and bedtime before the pyjamas had had a chance to cool off a bit. We stayed in our cocoon, I didn’t even read the news online. Not a bad day, all in all.