A Charlie Brown Christmas plays in the background, and I am drawn to the brisk, uplifting notes. On the contrast, I am feeling discouraged and broken, but the music is gently raising my spirits. That and the thought of slipping into my galley kitchen and making calzones for dinner, the anticipation of the comforting aroma, the burst of flavour afterwards, and the gratitude it brings.
Things could be worse, but I feel that I am not permitted to really live life to its fullest at times, like there is an outside force stopping me from pursuing my dreams. I’m not sure I even know what my dreams are at this point. Even in my middle age, I am still searching, yearning for something to come true. But for now I must settle, take what’s given to me and live with the aftermath. Be thankful, my brain tells me, but I am capable of so much more, my heart screams! The battle continues.
During this confining and mercurial time, preparing good food while listening to music always helps, as I forage through my cupboards and gather savoury ingredients, blend and fold, mix and taste the creations from my hands, while humming to tunes. I am thankful, but there is always room for hope.
Creator: Westend61 | Credit: Getty Images/Westend61 Copyright: Josep M Rovirosa
Yes, 2020 has been a difficult year for the entire world. But think about it, with no world war or pandemic for many years, we’ve been lucky until now. We should count our blessings, things could be much worse. My parents grew up in Europe during the Second World War. You can walk down the street whenever you want and not be shot or bombed. You can go to the store and get food, clothing, toys, furniture, you name it. We’re not starving to death, there are no food rations. So you have to wear a mask, big deal, that is not something to riot over or complain about. So you can’t meet a friend for a latte, or throw a party. We have technology to reach and see/talk to people. We have hospitals and seasoned doctors with modern medicine to help us, when in 1919 they weren’t as fortunate. We’ve had it very easy. Be thankful. You still have many freedoms and luxuries.
His name was Wilbur, but I called him Stinky. He wasn’t really that stinky, but he was a rat, so I thought it was an apt name.
My mother was a bookkeeper at a Montessori school and she brought him home over the summer because there was no one to take care of him. I volunteered to take on the task and put the cage in my bedroom. I think was around 13 or 14 years old at the time.
I kept his cage clean because if I let it go for one day, he’d start to eat his poop. The first time I saw him do that I was mortified and was worried he’d die. The cage was orange and rectangular plastic with metal bars. I proudly wrote in blue marker “Wilbur” on the outside of it. But the name Stinky still stuck.
I gave him baths, let him crawl around my room, and even brought him downstairs on my shoulder to greet my family. One time I came down and put him on my brother’s girlfriend’s shoulder, and she shrieked loudly and had tears in her eyes. I didn’t think Stinky was that scary. Maybe it was his pink tail. He was white with large black and brown spots. I thought he was rather cute.
We had my brother’s best friend boarding with us while he went to university. His room was right across the hall from mine, and was always a mess, with dirty cups filled with cold, mouldy coffee, dust bunnies scattered across the floor, and clothes, papers, and books flung all about. We were always teasing him to clean it up, so one day, while he was in the bathroom, I secretly put Stinky in his room and closed the door. The boarder went back in his room to resume studying, and I waited. After a few minutes, I heard scuffling, banging and “What the ??!!” He came out of his room holding Stinky, standing in my doorway, smiling angrily.
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
“Oh just to have some fun with you and maybe scare you into cleaning your room!” I said smugly.
He smirked, gave me the rat, and returned to his room. That wasn’t the only prank I played on him.
During this time, I had been begging my parents for a kitten. We finally got one, a calico female, named Josephine. I thought the kitten and rat might not get along, so it was time to upgrade to cat only status. I promised my parents I would take full care of the kitten and keep her in my room, litter box and all.
I didn’t know what to do with Stinky. My brother then offered to take Stinky and take care of him in his room in the basement. I was thrilled and gave him the cage, but he got Stinky another black-topped, smaller, round, metal cage.
My brother placed the rat-in-cage on the freezer in the basement, which was right beside his room. I was relieved of rat duty.
Months passed. The freezer was also beside the bathroom the whole household used for showering. Every morning I greeted Stinky, noticing a foul smell, dirty shavings, and poop everywhere. I asked my brother to clean the cage out, and he said he would, but never, or rarely, did.
The stench grew fouler, and poop piles larger, and Stinky’s health started to decline. Large tumours grew on his neck. I begged my brother to clean the cage, and even offered to do it for him, but he said, no, he’d do it. I think I just broke down and cleaned the cage a few times, and I don’t think he even noticed.
I have to admit, I don’t know why I just didn’t take the rat back. He was in a cage, and the cat wouldn’t have gotten to him, and even if he did, they could have been trained to be friends. I was young and ignorant, and a little intimidated by my older brother.
Then my brother decided to end Stinky’s life because he was suffering with the tumours. He said he was going to smash him against a brick wall and bury him. I watched him do it one summer’s evening at the side of the house. I was fascinated. I felt sad. I felt guilty. My brother asked me what kind of girl watches her brother kill a rat and bury it. I didn’t know what kind of girl I was.
I didn’t watch the news or listen to radio before work that morning and was rushing out the door. On my way out and in the lobby of my building, I saw someone talking my landlord, who ignored me; usually he gave me a friendly hello. I overheard this person saying something like a plane had crashed into the the World Trade Center. I brushed it off, thinking she was talking about a movie or the time a bomb had gone off there.
I walked to work in the dark, brisk air. When I arrived at the office, one co-worker was there and she greeted me with the usual, “Good morning!” We sat at our desks and began to work.
Then another co-worker came running in asking us if we had heard the news. We hadn’t. She told us that the U.S. was under attack. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center and all of Manhattan was covered in ash. I was shocked. I went on the Internet and read all the details, that another plane had crashed into the Pentagon, and one in a field in Pennsylvania. I phoned my family in Ontario. They closed down the CN Tower. I was worried because they were closer to New York than I was.
The co-worker who initially told us about the attack turned on the TV in the staff room to watch news updates. She kept running back into the front office saying things like, “L.A’.s been hit!” and “They’re in Seattle!” I was terrified. I started crying a little and told my co-worker I was scared. Were there more planes that were going to attack?
It was reported that all the planes in the world were grounded but I heard a dull roar somewhere from above. I went outside and looked up, way up, and saw a fighter jet, a black dot against the bright, blue sky. My boss was stuck in the Yukon. She later told me she saw two fighter jets escorting a passenger plane to land and she didn’t know what was going on. She was so scared.
We had to stay the whole day at work, answering phones as if nothing had happened. I looked out the window at some school children who were laughing and talking on the sidewalk. Did they know what had happened? When I went home that night, I couldn’t stop crying. I thought to myself, “What was this world coming to?”
I don’t know how to express myself right now. I want to say so many things in a short paragraph that will connect with you and proclaim a powerful message. People judge based on archaic ways of doing things that caused permanent damage. They judge from their own pain and inability to control that pain. They want to control you and inflict their own methods on you because they feel so out of control with themselves. And most of the time they suffer in silence, the only expression comes out in negativity and words that hurt. I just want to say, do what’s best for you and don’t listen to those who say otherwise. I do things differently and that’s okay as long as no one is getting hurt. Just as they won’t budge from their opinions, neither do you on what you believe. Be that rock to stand strong and inspire others to think outside the regular norms. Don’t be the sound of silence.
blaak sheep 