Room for 3

Wednesday of this week was one of the first snowy days Toronto had had in awhile. As I waited for the streetcar, the crowd around me grew. One, two, three streetcars passed us because they were just too full. I kept telling myself, “There will be room on the next one.” I should have walked, but I had so much stuff on this particular day, and, perhaps, I had faith in the Toronto Transit System.

After the third streetcar passed, a man drove up and stopped in front of the stop where we were all standing. “I’ve got room for three,” he shouted from the driver’s seat. “Going to Queen and John, anyone need a ride?”

My instinct was to get in. I was going to be late for work, I was starting to loose faith in the TTC, and I really wanted to see where this adventure would lead. What does it mean to get in a car with a stranger mid-morning? Shouldn’t this man’s act of kindness be rewarded with acceptance? Was it an act of kindness, or would I end up in a basement somewhere? All around me, people mumbled: “no,” “no, thanks,” “ya, right.” No one accepted, and, as a young girl, mindful of her parents advice not to enter into a car with a stranger, I too shook my head no.

My coworkers were shocked. “Of course you should have got in,” they remarked. “If it had of been a woman, you would have got in.” Well, it wasn’t, and I didn’t. Next time though, perhaps my effort will be spent cajoling two others to jump in the car with me.

Whoever you are Mr. Man, thanks for trying to do a good thing. I hope someone had enough faith in mankind to get in.

Jane, I’m Here

Jane, I’m here. I’m at work. No tip toeing, sneaking, or inadvertent perpetuation of dainty female qualities. I’m taking up space, as you, and many others have suggested. It is great advice, and perhaps I should have taken it earlier, but hey, I’m learning.

Outlier

I just finished reading The Book of Negros by Lawrence Hill. The novel is one of five on trial in CBC Radio’s Canada Reads. The main character Aminata Diallo, or Meena, is celebrated as a strong, intelligent woman throughout the entire novel. Her ability to read, her success as a midwife, and her stubborn will all contribute to her ability to surrive situations most people couldn’t imagine.Throughout the novel, Aminata reflects on the 11 years she spend in her hometown Bayo with her mother and father. She wonders why her father went against muslim tradition and taught her how to read. She is thankful her mother brought her along to catch the babies of all the women around Bayo, inadvertently ensuring Aminate could earn an income later in life.

Aminata, and author Lawrence Hill, undoubtedly credit Aminata’s parents’ progressive attitude for Aminata’s skill and survival. This assertion reminded me of the next book I’ve picked up, Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. I saw Gladwell speak at a lecture last week. The talk was absolutely fantastic, and inspired me to start reading the book right away.

out·li·er \out’lī’ər noun
1: Something that is situated away from or classed differently from a main or related body
2: a statistical observation that is markedly different in value from the others of the sample

In the book, Gladwell discuss advantages and disadvantages, and how they shape the success of individuals throughout their lives. Aminata, for example, was able to surpass other members of her race and gender because of her strong will and the teachings of her parents. Aminata’s parents unconventionality put her in a position of advantage.

Our parents can pass on disadvantages as well. Second generation immigrants, for example, are often unable to work as hard as their parents because their parents gave them to many advantages, spoiling them. Then there are disadvantages that actually act as advantages. Dyslexia, for example, can often be an advantage. Statistics show that a large percentage of CEO’s and leading business professionals are dyslexic. At a young age, these individuals learned to garner the support of those around them to get through, and as a result became community builders and lead projects at a young age.

I often reflect on my own situation, and what advantages or disadvantages I have inherited from my parents. As I continue to read the book, I am sure I will develop more conclusions on my own experiences. For now, I will relish the skills of great writers like Hill and Gladwell.

Tango

There are dishes in the sink, clothes on the floor, and papers everywhere. It’s been seventeen days since I tidied the place up, and embarked on this online tango with self-reflection and social media. I don’t want to say that I haven’t accomplished anything. I have certainly been writing more, I just haven’t been writing posts.

Perhaps I am afraid to commit to writing posts, or perhaps posts are to like essays demanding to be done on a certain day. Whatever it is, I know I’m not alone. There’s something about the abyss that is the internet, the quantity and quality of writing that already exists that keeps newbies from diving in. As I sat down to write this post, and to overcome my fear of publishing, I was reminded of this post. Simple, accurate, honest, pure, and funny. Abtruse Goose calls it like it is. No one should be afraid to publish. Trying, writing, doing are some of the most exciting things we can do.  Not trying, writing or doing is what I am now more afraid of. So thank you Abtruse Goose, and thank you everyone who has come before me for trying, you’ve warmed up the dance floor.

Important Papers

Newspaper. Scrap paper. Tissue paper. Thankfully, not toilet paper. I always seem to have paper in my apartment, at the bottom of my bag, stuffed in my pockets, laying on my bed. I don’t hoard it on purpose. It’s just always there. It multiplies like strawberries and single socks. I don’t begrudge it. I may even encourage it. When I find an article in a newspaper that I really enjoyed reading, or I think I’d like to revisit, I cut it out. I pin it on my cork board, or I lay it in a pile of “favourites” stacked next to my desk. So, what is the difference then, between the favourites I clip on purpose, and the subway transfers, receipts, napkins, or business cards for places I think are neat. I don’t know.

Last week, I hid all the newspaper articles in a cupboard; I threw all the random scraps in the recycling. I put pictures up on the wall, and I tidied my bookshelf. A new beginning? No. An end to the pieces of paper that multiply in the bottom of my backpack? No. An experiment? YePerhaps. Maybe these pieces of paper are an affliction, a way of distracting me from my own thoughts, from things I wish to write down but can’t, don’t, won’t. 

We’ll see how it goes.