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i, ms. melissa

i am:

✓ mentally at an impasse

✓ emotionally ill,

✓ morally lame,

✓ not “normal”

some say: “insane,” “in peril,” “in pain”

i say:

“sometimes no, sometimes yes.”

lately, pain ensnares me

intorts me

emptiness erases me

me: an imposter, an interloper

an alien

my only mistress: misery

misery’s metal talons mar me

“spare me!” i implore

as torn arms spatter tiles

stains: temporary, stripes: eternal

respite.

you see me?

me: a mortal monster

(as most monsters are)

lean in.

i see you.

i lament my loneliness

as i sit in stormy silence

terminally inert, i rot

time melts, aeons pass

i operate aimlessly

me: a lone planet

a temporal prisoner on parole

poetry sates me

momentarily stills me

me: melissa

no more,

no less.

CITR.CA

Or

http://http//PLAYER.CITR.CA

I really loved the opportunity to write or adapt a narrative into a short script. I will definitely be using this as an activity for students in my classes, ideally during the practicum. This is an adaptation from a scene from Catcher in the Rye. The script is intended to be filmed and presented as a short film/scene. I think it’s a great way to get students to engage with texts and characters etc. I’d like to give a big thank you to Reilly and Emily who help voice the parts of Sunny the prostitute and Holden Caulfield.

Thanks for a great class everyone!

See you in January : )

James M

I was alone when I got it. My brother, at my mother’s house, had made a discovery that shocked and horrified him. He texted us, his three sisters, immediately.
“You guys. My God. At mom’s. She’s putting butter on her peanut butter sandwich. Butter and peanut butter. Jesus.”
How my brother did not know she does this escapes me. It was a standard kitchen play of Mom’s, and one I had learned to evade before my double-digit birthday. Moreover, it was our Dad’s absolute favourite, an afterwork treat that bridged an office life of litigious clients, and home life bursting with maniacal children. My sisters and I launched a firestorm of wisecracks in reply, tiny missives ripe with snarky foolishness, and buoyed up by how much we all like each other. Our unruly affection ricocheted between us for a while until someone had to go.
Smiling, I put my phone down on the bedside table of my darkened room. An image of my Dad eating one of those PB &B sandwiches came to me, and for a moment I could see his sweet, gentle face looking back at me. Suddenly, alone in my room, I couldn’t breathe. The air had been snatched from my lungs as surely as if I was in the final throes of drowning. His absence was as painful and as wrong as it had ever been. The ways I still want him yawned in front of me as I curled onto my side, my body a comma between the time with him, and now. I hugged myself close and wept. Wept for him and for me; for the missed beauty and the missed conversations. Wept for my mom, and my siblings, for my children who ask if he would have liked them. I wept that there is a Death, dammit, and that still, still with all the fierce minds and valiant hearts that have contemplated that hoary old Bitch, still we don’t know what it is. Not really. And I wonder, is this where we meet most truly? Perhaps it is in this landscape of loss that we at last connect, speaking the language of isolation and loss in our most human voice.
My father died just shy of twenty years ago, and today is no kind of anniversary or special day. It’s just a day I remembered how he liked his peanut butter sandwiches. I sit with it awhile, this hurt, and I have no words of solace or advice. In a minute I’ll go downstairs and make a cup of tea. Decaf, because who can have caffeine after noon any more? And I’ll feel better soon, I know from experience. I won’t get over it, but I’ll get out from under it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4bGi-XNH14&feature=youtu.be (private link, will update soon)

Program used: http://plasq.com/apps/comiclife/macwin/

Avatars: https://getavataaars.com/

30 minutes.

30 minutes was all it took to change everything. I saw you get lifted off the floor from your almost comatose state. I watched as they lifted you into the vehicle to take you to the hospital. I watched as the car drove off into the night – out of my vision, and most likely out of my life. I looked at the floor around where your body was – a phone that when dropped on the ground made a loud enough noise to alert someone that something was wrong; pills scattered about the floor, but far too few than there should have been. I lifted my eyes up and stared at the note that was left on your desk.

I read the note. I can’t remember what it says, but I read it.

I sat on the kitchen floor for hours. I waited for hours. I waited until our parents walked back in through the door – but you weren’t there. For a single moment my heart sank as deep as it possibly could into my chest; before I learned that you were okay. That you were in the hospital, in critical condition, but you were okay. The doctor’s told our parents that there was about 30 minutes between your life and your death.

I’ve never understood how you made it to that point. I wish you would have told me something. I’m sorry I didn’t go and visit you in the hospital – but I could never look at you the same way again. The night replayed in my mind every single time I closed my eyes. The simple fact that you tried to end your life ended up changing mine forever. I won’t ever forget those 30 minutes.

30 minutes.

Although, sometimes change takes a lot longer than 30 minutes. Sometimes you can be best friends with someone for 10 years, and the next 10 years you talk less frequently, but are still close. 10 years pass again and you’re just faint memories of one another now.

The memory I have of that night is as clear as day, but you seem to have forgotten it long ago, or maybe that you never remembered it in the first place. You seem happier these days. Sorry, you seem happy these days. I wonder what changed in your life for you to realize all the brilliant things you could give to the world. I’m curious as to what you and our parents said to one another in the days and weeks after that night. I have no intention of guessing the pleasantries or expletives that were shared between the three of you because that’s part of your story, and not mine to tell.

The days following that night weren’t easy for me. I was scolded for reading your letter. Isn’t that a shame? I don’t remember the words that you wrote down in your time of need, but I remember being torn apart for wanting to be a part of my family. I was told over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over how hard this time was on our parents. I was told again and again and again and again all of the things they would change for you when you got out of the hospital.

It’s been years since those 30 minutes.

You moved to Newfoundland, our dad moved to Prince George, and our mom was gone half the time visiting him. That was my senior year. There were countless home-cooked meals, life lessons, family trips, that my friends would invite me to. I would spend more time out with my friends and less time at home alone. You eventually came home and I didn’t know how to feel. Mom started to spend more time at home and less in Prince George, but all I would ever hear is that I didn’t spend enough time at home. Long distance is super tough. Why don’t your friends ever come over to OUR house? I miss your father so much. I’m disappointed in you because you didn’t do the dishes. You didn’t get A honours?  It’s like you don’t even love me.

If you’re looking for a happy ending, this story doesn’t have one yet. Life always decides to test your fortitude at the worst times. Someone very special to me passed recently, a family friend. We attended the funeral service as a family, and there was an opportunity for anyone who wasn’t scheduled to speak to say a few words.

I shared my piece, I cried, and I vented out my feelings. I sat back down and my father told me that he was proud of me. You just smiled.

One would expect to make life-altering revelations in a moment of crisis or critical thought. That’s bullshit. You can never predict when your life will change. My father told me that he was proud of me and in that moment my only thought was ‘I didn’t fucking do it for you.’

There are literally A BILLION other things that I’ve done for him. That wasn’t one of them.

I don’t think I can look up to either of them for inspiration anymore, but luckily I’ve found someone who I can. If you can come back from being 30 minutes away from the grave and be the happiest version of yourself that I’ve ever seen, then I can think I can make myself happy too.

30 minutes.

We haven’t been close for years. I don’t think any of us have tried that hard either. I can’t count on our parents to make that connection with me anymore, I’ve given them both more than enough time.

There’s a term in theatre called denouement. It’s when everything finally comes together in the end, or when a final decision is made. This is my denouement.

I’ll be the bigger, better, and best version of myself that you’ve ever seen.

Brother, Mother, Father. I’m sorry I’ve been so distant.

It’s time we talk again.

ORIGINAL COPY

30 minutes.

30 minutes was all it took to change everything. I saw you get lifted off the floor from your almost comatose state. I watched as they lifted you into the vehicle to take you to the hospital. I watched as the car drove off into the night – out of my vision, and most likely out of my life. I looked at the floor around where your body was – a phone that when dropped on the ground made a loud enough noise to alert someone that something was wrong; pills scattered about the floor, but far too few than there should have been. I lifted my eyes up and stared at the note that was left on your desk.

I read the note. I can’t remember what it says, but I read it.

I sat on the kitchen floor for hours. I waited for hours. I waited until our parents walked back in through the door – but you weren’t there. For a single moment my heart sank as deep as it possibly could into my chest; before I learned that you were okay. That you were in the hospital, in critical condition, but you were okay. The doctor’s told our parents that there was about 30 minutes between your life and your death.

I’ve never understood how you made it to that point. I wish you would have told me something. I’m sorry I didn’t go and visit you in the hospital – but I could never look at you the same way again. The night replayed in my mind every single time I closed my eyes. The simple fact that you tried to end your life ended up changing mine forever. I won’t ever forget those 30 minutes.

30 minutes.

Brother, I’ll love you much longer than that from now on.

Summer is over

12 July 2001 7:13pm (In the box room)

Way too early to go to bed, the birds are still out and I can definitely hear the ice cream lady still going down all the streets.

Sarah only went to bed about 33 minutes ago, there should be way more time between me and her. I told them it’s not fair, and that I’m not going to go to sleep anyways.

Tomorrow I get to look after Sarah for the whole day again!!!

14 July 2001 8:12pm (In grandads shed)

So, we’re staying here for the summer, dad and mum are having a holiday from each other. Dad’s holiday just sounds like he’s going to be at work the whole time so that’s not fair on him. Mum spent the whole day yesterday in the shops, I went and told her what looked nice and what looked nicer. She said that maybe one day I’ll have her legs, but probably not because I look like dads sisters. Sarah was good today, she loves it so much when I push her around in the pram and pretend she’s on a ride or something.

15 August 2001 10:47pm (Nans bedroom with all the scary dolls)

Still at Nans house, Sarah’s so good at talking now. I’m teaching her how to put on make-up, it looks so cute on her. I got to go through all of mum’s old stuff and she said I can keep anything that she doesn’t like or is too big for her. We went on a REAL big shopping trip yesterday (for the whole day) mum brought 5 new pairs of jeans. I wanted a bra, but mum said she needed a new one. Maybe next time. The one that Julie (Emma’s Mum) gave me is still good, I think. Julie is sososososo nice. Proper nice. One time, we all sat at the dinner table together and ate dinner. She makes the best dinners and sometimes lets me use their shower and the nice shampoo. Steve (Emma’s Dad) is the best Dad. I can’t believe he is allowed to come home so early and gets to talk so nice with Julie (Emma’s Mum)

Dad’s still working a lot.

14 September 1:35pm (in the kitchen)

Back home now, back to school. Can’t believe that the summer holidays are done. Year 6 is going to be the best, next year is big school so we get to go on a trip for half a day and hang out with all the big kids.

I taught Emma that we can’t call it “playtime” anymore, we have to say, “going on break”. The other kids said if we get it wrong then we definitely look like babies.

Sarah’s so cute, her favourite thing to do is the cutest thing. She loves to pretend that she can make dinner and I pretend that I’m eating it, she’s so funny. I always make her favourite dinners, and for lunch she likes it when I make her Dads favourite ham sandwich. I’m in charge of picking out all of her clothes as long as I wash and iron them afterwards.

Tomorrow I get to stay home again to help look after Sarah when mums out at the hairdressers. I get to pick out all the films me and Sarah are going to watch and I’m making Dads ham sandwiches.

Definitely not watching Tarzan or Stuart Little, Sarah doesn’t like the scary bits with the cats and I don’t like them at all either.

September 15 2:46pm  (In the kitchen)

NEED to remember to tell people that Dad is in the garden doing work if anyone comes to the front door when mums out. If I don’t the police will come and take us away mum said.

October 20 1:47pm (in my bedroom)

Police didn’t come yet. Its okay I know Plismon Huw really good so I’ll just tell him how much I like being at home with Sarah. That is what I am good at, and making spaghetti bolognese.

“You’re 24? Better start thinking about marriage.”

“Girls shouldn’t pursue a Master’s. No guy wants a wife smarter than him.”

It took all physical exertion to restrain my arm from hurling the unopened can of Red Bull at Uncle.  I shifted my gaze to the leftover pork ribs on the mahogany dining table while mentally banging the head of Mom’s younger brother against a thorn-infested wall. Auntie was still trying out the salt level of the fish; Mom was hastily gulping down her soup, and Dad took another sip of his Taipei beer, his eyes glued to his phone.

In truth, I had foreseen those types of comments from my extended family, as I’d overheard similar accounts from some of the female international students I’ve tutored — complaining about their parents pressuring them to be married before they hit 26 was part of their daily routine.  My inability to relate to them in that regard made me feel like we were from different planets.  Somewhere on the road of adolescence,  I realized with robotic objectivity how far my life has strayed from my mother culture and the prescribed values that pertain to it.

“You got an English degree? That’s not too bad. Girls suit the arts, boys suit the sciences.” said Uncle, glaring at Dad as if challenging him to disagree.

Slouched in my chair, I stretched my hand out for the Red Bull. I needed all the energy I could muster for the rest of the evening.

ORIGINAL VERSION

With Undue Respect

“You’re 24? Better start thinking about marriage.”

“Girls shouldn’t pursue a Master’s. You’ll never find a husband.”

It took all the strength of my jet-lagged mind not to hurl my unopened can of Red Bull at my uncle. Being the more-or-less civilized person that I am, I shifted my gaze to the leftover pork ribs while mentally banging the head of Mom’s younger brother against a thorn-infested wall. Around the dining table, my aunt was hastily gulping down her soup; Mom was biting her lips; and Dad took another sip of his Taipei beer, concealing his expression.

In truth, I had foreseen those types of comments from my extended family, as I’d overheard similar accounts from some of the female international students I’ve tutored — complaining about their parents pressuring them to be married before they hit 26 was part of their daily routine. Their actual anxiety over a social custom so fucking last century made me feel like we were from different planets, and made me realize, with robotic objectivity, how far my life has strayed from my mother culture and the prescribed values that pertain to it.

“Ah, you got an English Literature degree? That’s not too bad. Girls suit the arts, boys suit the sciences.” said my uncle, looking at Dad as if demanding that he agree.

Slouched in my chair, I stretched my hand out for the Red Bull. I needed all the energy I could muster for the rest of the evening.

For a second, I lose track of where I am. To my right are the carousel swings but unlike home, these ones have an awful sound coming from the motor, the metal seats are covered in rust and the chains look like they could snap at any moment.  Nonetheless, this hasn’t stopped people, tickets in hand, from forming a line and anxiously waiting for their turn.  My mouth waters as the familiar smells of buttered popcorn and funnel cakes alert my senses, however, tonight these are mixed together with the exotic smell of charcoal fires cooking local favourites.  Whistles and bells accompany the steady buzz in the air that is always present at events with such large crowds.  There are so many people that it is nearly impossible to move.

It is not until I hear the word “muzungu”, that I am pulled back to reality.  The word is one I have become familiar with over the past week, used in Lugandan to describe people like myself who have white skin.  This is what pulls me out of my daze.  Coming to my senses I search for my friends in the crowd.  Amongst the sea of faces, my volunteer group is not hard to find.  It is clear we are not locals here in Jinja and as eight young Caucasian females, we do not blend into the massive crowd.  As I walk towards my friends I feel multiple sets of eyes following my path and for the first time in my life I am hyper aware of the colour of my skin.

Our local guide Alex informs us that the main event, a stunt show, is happening in the big red and white stripped tent situated in the middle of the field.  As we begin navigating our way through the swarms of people, I am still aware that we seem to be the most interesting attraction present. As we approach the ticket booth I open my clutch and start fumbling around with the unfamiliar bills trying to find the correct change for a ticket.

In an instant, a dark hand reaches for a crumpled-up bill sticking out of the corner of my bag.  Reacting on instinct I snap my bag shut and pull it as close to my body as humanly possible.  I look up into the dark round eyes of a boy younger than myself.  At first, he seems shocked that his attempt to rob me has failed but his face quickly shifts, and a twisted smirk emerges across his face. Before I even have time to react, he reaches for the chain around my neck, yanks hard and runs off into the crowd without looking back.

Alex rushes to my side asking if I am alright.  Still stunned, I nod and involuntarily put my hand to my neck.  I no longer feel the gold necklace with a cross on the end but instead find a thin trickle of blood has taken its place.

• • Katrina Rybka

Link to final writing assignment: https://blogs.ubc.ca/ericsydneyricecollection/additional/may-31st-1910/oldbaileycourthouseproceedings/