Breakfast in Scarborough

Stewart and I saw Bride and Prejudice for the second time last Sunday. Loved it. My favorite part is when the gospel singers serenade the lovers on the beach.

The “I am Julie” advertisments that hint at a magical weight loss cure really irritate me. Who is actually going to ask their doctor about “Julie’s story”? The other morning I was standing in the subway underneath a picture of Julie’s butt and thigh. Said butt and thigh came packaged in black lace panties, garters, and stockings. Next to the photograph, propaganda in cursive script addressed the consumer: “What would you do with a few pounds less?” Julie’s answer: “Last night I did a striptease for my husband.” I can only hope her husband wasn’t responsible for the absent upper body and lower legs.

More annoyance followed. Immediately to the right of Julie’s striptease testimony was a poster sponsored by The Toronto Public Health Board. It featured a little girl holding a tape measure around her waist and saying, “I could stand to lose a few pounds.” The TBHB exhorted parents (i.e. mothers like Julie) to watch what they say about food and weight, lest kids become obsessed with fat.

Under the poster there was a pull-off fact sheet which proclaimed in bold print and all caps “Your kids are listening.” The paper urged parents to be good role models and to “teach your child that body images used by the mediea are not realistic.” Fair enough, but how are youngsters supposed to learn this when Julie’s cellulite-free butt is everywhere, including right beside the Health Board poster? Why does the self-acceptance lesson fall so heavily on parents when our media constantly sends poisonous messages? Campaign for real beauty? Yeah, right. How about campaign for government sanctimony and contradiction?

This morning I finished Persian Mirrors: The Elusive Face of Iran. Although this was the book over which I drooled in sleep yesterday, it really wasn’t its fault. I really enjoyed it. Sciolino’s book made me want to visit Iran.

So pleased with myself for nabbing an armchair at a coffeeshop, I never considered the dangers. Before I knew it I had fallen asleep over a book, awaking to find a small but embarrassing patch of drool on my shoulder. Luckily there was no foam.

For many years, boxes of my old books and papers have been waiting for me in the garage-studio next to my mom’s house. Since Stewart and I recently drove down to Missouri, the no-room-in-my-suitcase excuse no longer flew. One night during the visit I went through a folder of essays from my freshman composition course at Westminster. I found some truly purple responses to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116. Here is my all time favorite: “In line twelve, the puissance of assonance thrills the reader with the sound of ‘even to the edge of doom.’” In case the word doom isn’t puissant enough, I helpfully explain that “the edge of doom is an eternal abyss, one which a spiritual union can conquer.” I did tone it down in the final draft, but where’s the fun in that?

Our centre took the students to the Art Gallery of Ontario today. I think they liked it. The last stop was the room with Henry Moore sculptures. I tried to explain “draped figure” and wished for a demonstration sheet as visual aid.

I would like to announce that I have a new pair of cotton tights from Grassroots. This is mighty important information. Grassroots is where my inner hippie rejoices — lots of candles, hemp bags, and notebooks made from recycled tires.

Stewart and I have declared today a Buy Nothing Day. Hooray! So far, so good. No impulse buys. No debits or dexits. I like it because the day feels more meaningful; it just hangs together better when I put my consumer self on hold for awhile. And since I’m sort of broke right now, the break from spending can only be good.

Last night we were musing about urban, industrial life, how it’s not so subtle subtext is SPEND, SPEND, SPEND! It made me think about my greatgrandparents Fred and Lizzie who had a farm and raised mules in Missouri. I imagine most days were Buy Nothing Days, though I can’t see them calling them such. Buy Something Days were probably a lot more of a novelty. I remember Gran saying they rode out the Depression fine because they grew their own food. We had a hard enough time finding something tasty to eat during the blackout of 2003.

On a Thursday night a few months back, I saw a conscientious objector from South Dakota at the University of Toronto. Before I saw him in person, I had heard Jeremy Hinzman’s name in Quaker circles and then on a CBC radio program which narrated stories of Vietnam and Iraqi war resisters in Canada. Hinzman’s quietly humorous voice had impressed me, especially when recounting his “reason for visit” to immigration officials at the Canadian border: “We’re going to visit Friends.” Luckily the border staff didn’t detect the implied F, but if they had noticed it might have spelled trouble for the visitor and his family, for these kind of Friends welcome fugitive soldiers, even shelter them in their homes, just as they did for Underground Railroad refugees more than a century ago.

As an American who immigrated to Canada via Britain, I sympathize with Hinzman’s plight and agree with his position on the war. That’s why I was so keen to hear the views of a former US military insider. I have also shared some aspects of Jeremy’s situation, such as sheltering at the Society of Friends’ Meeting House when I first came to Toronto almost three years ago. Although I was fleeing isolation from my family instead of a command to fight in Iraq, I think displacement is universally disorienting. Moreover, as a peaceful American and daughter of a Navy man, I wanted to learn more about Hinzman’s experience.
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The west side of my LINC classroom is basically two enormous windows. They’re great for watching the alley traffic near Coffee Time. While I was sitting at a table happily filling in the attendance after class, an incoming student (for the next class) pulled up a nearby chair to face the window. We shared a quiet existential moment watching the snow fall.

Yesterday I was reading The History of God in a coffeeshop when a elderly man asked if he could sit in the opposite armchair. Pretty soon we struck up a conversation and I learned that he’s 83, a Midwesterner like me, and a WWII veteran. We talked about Maimonides and Israeli politics. I enjoyed his stories.