Nighttime. It is paradoxical for me to tell you that nighttime is the most comforting time of day, or in this case night, out of the 24 hours each of us have every single day, before the clock seems to reset itself and another dawn breaks with new opportunities (if I feel like channeling my inner Anne Shirley of Green Gables right now). But in all honesty and seriousness, there is something magical about the post dusk hours. Those hours too far removed from the new day to make you all paranoid about not getting enough sleep, if you take these moments and reflect on yourself, your aspirations, on your life, they can show you perspectives you never have time to consider during your sun-filled and soy mocha latte sipping days. Usually, for me these hours encompass approximately midnight until 2am, before my OCD kicks in and I snuggle up beside my fiancé and beg myself to go to sleep. But those precious moments are beautiful. The fiancé is peacefully asleep, breathing steadily and calmly, drifting deeper into lala-land, our crazy neighbor upstairs managing yet another night without going completely bonkers and keeping the noise to a suspicious minimum, and the twinkling lights hanging on the balcony balustrade of a resident’s unit a block across from us still burning brightly, as the sounds of the big city slowly decrease to a low hum of occasional cars, the late-night bus and the neighbourhood drunk, who never fails to make his lonely trek home known to the sleeping population. And then, everything goes quiet as the nighttime sky remains an inky blue-black for another few hours and, if I am lucky, is speckled with those few stars that burn brightly enough to shine through the pollution hanging in the air. I said it’s paradoxical for me to claim the night so comforting, because for those who have known me for most of my life, nighttime, darkness and the quiet used to scare me beyond comprehension. I will get to that in just a moment, but for now, I would like to spend some time remembering the one person, who has provided me with a different outlook on nighttime.
Deeanna, or Deena/happydeena as her Skype profile still shows her name and rotates between those three names, almost menacingly for the past three years. The last time I saw Deeanna was at the international airport seeing her off before she left for Germany, her home. She spent a year in W, studying various subjects for a career in journalism, and we met in a voice acting class. It wasn’t so much voice acting, as it was intense training to hone and, in my case, uncoil my tightly wound vocal chords so that I could extend my speaking volume without cracking my voice or losing it all together. What that usually meant was that after every three-hour session, every Friday morning, I would end up crawling out of class wheezing and trying to manage another asthma attack. The good news is, after having survived this intense training my voice has never been better, my asthma attacks have vanished and I can speak loudly without using the entire staccato scale. It wasn’t until after our final exam (in the Drama/Theatre world of university studies that meant performances, in this case singing a song. I will not go into any detail about that, since I would like to forget having to put my fellow classmates through a rendition of Godspell’s “Day by Day”. I sincerely dislike that song) that we decided to have a coffee date on the campus lawn. From late April until late August of 2010 we were inseparable. She was the first friend since I was twelve years old in whom I could confide without any fear of judgement or jealousy. She would not beat around the bush when she wanted to know how my date went the previous night and would just blurt out: “So, how was last night? Did you let him twitch a bit longer?” It was refreshing to have a friend I could truly trust. I was working and took three courses during that summer, but I have never been less stressed about exams, assignments or light night shifts as during that summer. She was also partly responsible for getting me together with my fiancé.
It was in early August when the two of us decided to go to a house party of a new friend’s friend. As with all university house parties, there were too many people, music blasting too loudly and pissing off that friend’s friend’s housemate, cheap beer and plenty of good late night talks. Deeanna came up to me after having spent some time talking to a group of people and said to me: “You know that Ryan guy? He is pretty intelligent, you should go talk to him.” She gave me a wink, but no nudge. I smiled at her, tried to find this guy in the crowd of dancing people and said: “You know, there is something about this guy. I can’t tell you what it is, but I will let you know when I figured it out.” She beamed at me and we continued to have a good time until it was time to call it a night. I gave “this Ryan guy” a try and completely fell in love with him.
Without any exaggeration, I can say that that summer was the best summer I had up until that time. Our friendship may have been a short one, but it was filled with love and respect and lots of humour. I showed her my favourite places around W, knowing what might appeal to the German exchange student, I was a shoulder to cry on when her boyfriend back in Germany cheated on her and I always lent a helping hand. She brought back a part of my past that I didn’t know I missed. When I met her back in 2010, I had been living in Canada for almost 11 years, leaving Germany, my home country as far behind as possible. But with her presence and loving nature and began to see a different side of that which can be called German that I never thought I would experience, let alone miss. In late August of that same year I helped her carry all of her luggage from W to the international airport, which took us about two hours and two transfers to achieve. Independent as she was she decided to save some money and take public transportation by herself, with two large suitcases and a carry-on that should have been checked as well. I wasn’t scheduled to work that day, all my exams were over, although I cannot even tell you that I remember any of them, I was so confident and non-obsessed about them; it was quite uncharacteristic of me. I remember having so much fun at the airport. We took photos inside this big elevator impersonating soccer players, I crashed the luggage trolley into a pillar (I swear, it came out of nowhere!) and at the end I kissed her cheek and made her promise me to take care of herself. I waved goodbye and then made my way home, alone in an unknown city, hours away from home. I made it back to W close to 2am, feeling more alone than I have ever felt, including the first time I moved out of the parental abode. I had this sick feeling deep inside my stomach that my intense demand for her to take care of herself could not prevent what was going to happen to her in the future. After my 30-minute walk home, since the buses stop running at midnight, because nobody needs public transportation after midnight, I spent another hour or so tossing and turning in the early morning hours, trying to shake the feeling that this was the last time I saw the friend, who I began to consider a sister.
Unfortunately, that sick feeling was right, two years later I found out about her death via a Facebook announcement. Her boyfriend never answered my messages and none of her other friends in Germany ever found out how a young woman in the prime of her life just dies days after being on Facebook chat. During that same year, I moved in with my fiancé, living in the big city and giving me a sense of nostalgia, since I was born and raised in Berlin. The loud hum of the city during the late summer nights, city lights and the occasional star in the dark sky were what I grew up with, it was familiar; it was home. I was crushed by her death. She gave me hope for a Germany I could yet discover, more importantly, she taught me the value of second chances. A young woman that saw no evil in any human being and enjoyed life was taken too soon. So, during those late nights when the city finally hushes to a dull hum, I can feel her. I can feel her standing right behind me, smiling her warm smile, ready to call out “Kit”, slightly raising the pitch of the last consonant to show familiarity with the name and person. With her right there with me during the same hours I spent going back home all those years ago, I don’t feel afraid of the dark anymore. The dark feels familiar, safe and closer to the person I could trust for the first time since my friends when I was twelve years old.
Now you know why I don’t feel scared in the dark anymore, but it’s time go further back into my past to explain my origin, the move from Germany to Canada, and the origin of my fear.
I was born in Berlin, Germany in 1984. I always felt very cozy towards the 80’s, maybe, because they represented the most secure years of my life. I loved the 80’s; big hair, even bigger shoulder pads, pants that could be hiked up right beneath your armpits, and most fun of all, you never knew if you were walking behind a woman or a man. Men wearing those cut off t-shirts, showing off their hairy bellies and carrying their boom boxes. And most of all everything seemed more comfortable. At least in retrospect.
I used to be daddy’s little princess, at least up until I was about six years old. I remember during the summer months, my dad used to pick me up from kindergarten at around 3pm. Then we would go to our trusted neighbourhood convenience store (in Germany they were usually very small, dark and mostly sold magazines, candy, ice cream, cigarettes and comic books. For some reason, no matter which time of day and which day of the week you showed up, the same middle-aged man was ready to sell you the next Mars bar and latest Mickey Mouse comic), my dad bought his pack of Marlboro cigarettes and me an ice cream. Walking home during those precious warm days in the city of Berlin I treasured my ice cream cone, usually the one with nuts sprinkled over the chocolate covered vanilla ice cream, more over I treasured the time I could spend with my dad.
It really didn’t matter if it was the middle of summer or one of the countless cool, gray and dreary days that made Berlin so typical and memorable for me, my dad would carry a filthy, sand-covered Kitti from the entrance of our two-bedroom apartment to the bathtub, where I was allowed to peel off my clothes as the sand rained down into the porcelain bathtub.
As a five-year old little princess, I had long hair that would actually change colour depending on the season. In the summer and early fall my hair cascaded down my shoulders and back in straight, blond locks. In the winter and spring, it turned a mixture of brown and red. One of those late fall – early evenings I was just freshly bathed and wrapped in my bathrobe, ready for my dad to blow dry my hair, when he said: “if you hold still for a while I will try something with your hair. Are you up for it?” I was intrigued, but even if I had rather wanted to play with my dolls, I would not have spoken against him. So, there I stood, while my dad brushed and twisted and parted my hair this way and that way and just when I thought I could not keep myself from fidgeting anymore, he was done. Back in the lovely 80’s it was quite fashionable to have cupboards (in Germany closest are not a built-in feature in apartment units, so potential renters would have to buy them separately) that extended the entirety of one wall with doors that were mirrors from floor to ceiling. So, my dad turned to me with one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen him have and said: “All done, go take a look, you look like a mannequin (German label for high fashion model).”
26 years later I still remember the reflection that greeted me on that late afternoon like it happened yesterday. The girl that looked back at me that day was not the girl I thought I was. Wearing my fluffy, pink bathrobe, my hair framed my face and gently flowed past my shoulders in beautiful, voluminous waves. I felt pretty, I felt beautiful, well, as beautiful as a five-year-old could feel. I felt like I mattered to my dad. He spent probably the better part of half an hour styling my hair, making me look like one of my dolls, humouring my vanity and I have never felt this real, this confident, this much accepted by my father before then or sadly since. As I was smiling at my own reflection, running my fingers tentatively over those gorgeous waves, my dad quickly pulled me back down to the ground of reality by saying: “you are aware I can’t do this every day, it takes too long.” I answered that I know, but I hoped deep down inside that he would be willing to pamper me once in a while. It never happened again.
Instead my father distanced himself further and further from me, because he was afraid of what people would say about his relationship with his daughter. Now, over 20 years later, I can say that all people would have thought was “there is a father, who loved his daughter and isn’t afraid to show it”. Unfortunately, my father wasn’t secure enough with his own affection for his daughter and then later for his son to ignore the funny “what-if” voices inside his head. I spent the next 10 years of my life striving to obtain his approval. Just recently I realized that the only time I can ever remember my father saying those precious three words to me (“I love you”) was when he yelled at me for touching too many things while being in a store. It made me feel so uncomfortable that I didn’t know where to look or what to do, honestly, I was just hoping this little lecture of his would be over soon, because I could not look him in the eye. So, as I said, nevertheless, I spent the next decade acting, thinking and dressing in the hopes of obtaining his approval. Looking back, I can hardly believe that I had any friends at all, considering how I acted most of the time. I was loud, very opinionated, terribly judgemental, had little patience and never felt insecure in behaving like a buffoon in front of them. Thinking back, that is the picture I have of myself. If it actually is true, I cannot tell you with certainty, but whatever the case might be, as Stephen King said in Different Seasons: “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12 – Jesus, did you?”, because the truth was, they accepted me the way I was, no questions asked.
Now, you may have asked yourself, dear reader, what these two seemingly unrelated stories of my past could possibly have in common or could possibly have to do with the overall message of this greater story. Please remain patient as I attempt to make sense of it all in the following pages. As I said, I spent my commencement into puberty desperately trying to earn my father’s affection, or actually just his general acknowledgment of me as a person, female and independent of his control for 10 years. Mind you, not every minute of that decade was complete and utter agony. I made the best of it and so did my mom and my brother once he was born in September of 1990. The years passed with the creation of traditions; birthdays, holidays, various days during the summer months during which the family (my father’s side) decided to hang out on the balcony (2m deep by 5m wide), all of them facing the south. All of my immediate family lived in the same apartment house, my mom’s mom, my father’s mom and dad, my dad’s sister, her husband and their two children. I must mention now that my father’s family was one that embraced the dramatic side of life. If it was too hot, they would make a case of it. If it was too cold, they would let everyone know that my father’s sister, Heidi, would trudge through snow with much effort and lots of expended energy…the snowfall for that particular day was a total of 3cm! Like she was claiming Mount Everest. Anyway, the years passed in an oblivion of family gatherings that actually provided me with a sense of comfort and regularity, not that my every-day life wasn’t regular by any means. It was during those years that I grew particularly close to my cousin, my aunt Heidi’s daughter. We used to walk to school together, until something happened, which I cannot remember and we just came to a mutual agreement to make our 5-minute walk to school on our own terms. Although, we did meet up during the warmer and brighter months during the year to catch up.
While I am writing this, it is becoming quite clear that someone outside our two-person group may have had an influence on the amount of time my cousin Doro (short for Dorothea) and I used to spend together, more than I was ever aware of before. I hope this will become more evident to you, my dear reader, as the story progresses.
Traditions were formed, one of which were the annual keyboard practice sessions, once a week starting in September. Usually these began once the days began to grow quite short in the middle of September. As I said before, when I think back on my days in Berlin I think of damp, cool, grey or even dark days, since once summer is over, days in Berlin start to become very short indeed, and I mean 4pm completely dark short. My father spent his midday Sunday hours at his sister’s place, like clockwork and since my cousin was home every time I stopped by, we would hang out together. Once my cousin and I realized that the days have grown significantly shorter we began to practice for our autumn/Christmas tradition: practicing the keyboard, playing various Christmas songs, with each person playing one hand. I loved that tradition and it gave me something to look forward to each weekend.
Before I continue any further describing various family traditions in endless details, I would like to change directions and attempt to fuse these two sides of me, which I have described above, together by giving a brief, yet as detailed as possible narration of my family’s move from Berlin to P/Canada, emphasizing the struggles and changes a teenage girl goes through, while adjusting to a whole new culture.
Now, please imagine one of those slow fade-outs that can be seen on TV when the story must abruptly change from a general narrative to a more detailed narration, slowly bringing into view the setting of the Berlin international airport Tegel.
“Oh my god, she is actually smiling at us!” exclaimed Isa from the other side of the glass wall, separating the departure lounge from the general walk and check-in area at the airport. Well, what else was I supposed to have done? Cry, scream, proclaim my love for the long-time crush that didn’t even show up with the rest of my group of friends that came to see me off on the adventure of a lifetime? That’s the thing, call it luring or just wishful thinking on my father’s side, but at one point I believe he really did mean all those promises he made to me and my brother of having a better life in Canada, our soon-to-be home. Promises of more time spent as a family, opportunities for us kids to join clubs, make friends, enjoy a backyard.
After many years of battling a silent war with anorexia and the immense stress I put on myself to be top in every class, I sure could use a change in lifestyle, maybe one that would introduce me to a more relaxed and generally happier version of Kitty, extreme in every sense of the word. So, here we were, my family, my grandparents, aunt and uncle, and cousins, and of course my friends, who decided to skip first period to see me off. What a great gesture. As I looked into Isa’s tear-brimmed eye I knew that I would not see her or any of the others for a very long time, but I was willing to make that sacrifice for the opportunity at a life without great pressure and more freedom. I turned around and saw my brother, Philip, and my mom, smiling at everyone, also full of hope. Then I saw my father standing slightly behind them, but almost standing over them, with a somber, yet better-than-thou smirk on his face.
“Why aren’t you smiling, papa? I thought you would be happy?” I said through a particularly big grin that started to make my face ache.
“No, no, this is the way it’s supposed to be, just like this.” Came his rather cryptic answer, as he surveyed the scene in front of him. My smile froze on my face and there was a small knot forming in the pit of my stomach. I tried desperately to push it further down, to make it go away, like it was never even there, but a seed of an indisputable doubt took root inside that began to scream quite loudly. Dear god, I hope this works out. Please, let this be a good thing, I thought before boarding the plane that would take us to Frankfurt and then onward to fulfill my father’s long standing dream of moving to Canada. I should mention that this glorious day that will go down into my family’s history was also my 15th birthday. That’s right, I spent my 15th birthday sleeping on a plane and receiving birthday greetings from the immigration officer at Pearson International Airport.
After, spending a day or two at a friend’s house near the Kawartha lakes, during which I had to share a pull-out couch with my brother and experienced the most intense cravings for junk food at around 3am, we were on our way to P, with a van packed full of our bags and provisions to last us at least two weeks, compliments of the friend’s wife. We made our way to P, the perfect suburban paradise. The kind that hosts the upper middle class during the evenings and weekends and who make their way to work in the prosperous city of T by day. Two-story houses line the small roads leading into nowhere, adorned with perfectly manicured front lawns. Front lawns!
As we passed through the area with these magnificent houses that each held just one family, I couldn’t believe that there is a difference between front lawns and backyards, nevermind that people would be fortunate enough to have both! Front lawns, indeed! “Wow! Look at those houses! They are gorgeous. I can’t believe we are going to live in a house like that. I’m going to have my own room!” I may have squealed a bit, realizing that I may have my own little domain, in which I can let my imagination run free. Just the thought of it came to a screeching halt as my father laughed his condescending laugh he reserved especially for me whenever I voiced my own hopes and dreams that did not align with his expectations for my life.
“Oh, I don’t think so. First, we’ll be living in whatever place we can find, rented at least. Don’t expect anything, Fraulein Schmitt. You and your outrageous dreams.” He loved to use my last name in conjunction with the German equivalent of Miss whenever he wanted to point out another “flaw” of mine. My hopes for a better life came slowly, but very surely crashing down from Cloud 9. To my father’s popular and never wavering belief that I am just a dumb airhead, whose every word uttered is just another lie to coax people into doing what she wants them to do. A belief that prevails 16 years later and only got stronger over the years. I just want to say, I am not a manipulating beast and I hope I can prove it throughout the course of this narration. Of course, I knew life was not going to be easy and luxurious, money was tight. We were on a one-person-income with a bunch of expenses still coming our way. Immigrating to a new country is anything but cheap. My parents found a semi-detached house for rent in the lesser upper-middle class part of P. The walls of the living room were striped in white and light green, the shower door was crusted with mold and there was the suspicious outline of a rat in the vent of the bathroom ceiling. But first we had to spend about a week in my father’s boss’s old house that he had already sold, because my father did not pay enough attention to the newspaper ads announcing houses for rent in P. Sharing a pull-out couch with your nine-year old brother for a night or two is one thing. But spending a week’s worth of nights on a pull-out couch with your nine-year old brother and your mother is a whole other story. It was an old couch. There was a metal bar that ran across the mattress that would hit me just below my shoulder blades and a lovely rogue mattress spring pressing its way into my lower back just at the spot my lower back pain has been chronic, as long as I can remember. Also, as I remember correctly, during that first week in P I think I had only one, maybe two showers. Looking back, I can recall that it was a particularly cold autumn. With temperatures already plummeting below 0°C during the day, my mom only did what she was used to back in Germany. When it got too cold in Germany, and by cold I mean -5°C for a few days in a row, people would take extreme measures. In the old apartment houses the tenants did not have any control over the temperature in the unit, so instead they made sure not to get sick by reducing their risk catching a cold, including not getting wet. I think you can see where I am going with this: my parents forbid me to shower for about four days straight, because it was too cold outside. I woke up on the third morning, curled up in a little ball on about 10cm of space on the pull-out couch, asking my mom in a sleepy voice:
“Can I please take a shower today, my head is itching so bad, I can’t take it anymore?”
“Your father said it was still too cold to shower today, just put your hair up and wash where necessary.” My mom’s answer came and pretty much ruined the rest of the day for me. I was wondering, if it was already too cold to shower, indoors, in the middle of November, then when will I be able to have another shower? May? For some reason, they finally relented and I could shower, maybe my lovely body odour brought them to their knees or they realised that in Canada, waiting for warmer weather to shower is just silly. My brother and I spent most of the time at the boss’s house getting familiar with Canadian customs, which meant watching hockey at night, observing the high school kids walk past our street in the morning and afternoon and hanging out in the backyard. I already had a pretty good idea that I would be attending the secondary school that was a mere 5-minute walk from this house. I really hoped I could walk to school from our rented house once we moved, since I was so used to walking to school in Berlin. Actually, if I leaned out far enough on my old balcony, I could see my school. It was a little hope for the familiar that I had left behind. Unfortunately, that would not be the case. As I mentioned just a little while ago, we found a rented house about a week after making camp in the boss’s house. It was the lower middle class area of P, single-story houses, front lawns grown with large trees, using up most of the nutrients in the soil leaving not much for anything else to grow. There were no in-ground pools in any of the neighbouring backyards. Our front lawn was over-grown with some climbing plant and I found a message in my closet written by the previous owner’s daughter, telling any other occupant to “f*#%@ off”, this is her home. Turns out she was pregnant and they had to move. When it came to the room selection I had another thing coming. Philip decided to use his younger child charm to secure the larger bedroom of the two spare ones in the rented house. It went something like this: Philip, standing in the larger bedroom, with the view of the backyard: “I am the youngest and the one with the most toys, I should need to get the bigger room!”. With each word the volume of his voice raised to such heights that I was afraid the neighbours would be able to hear us. Moreover, I was afraid my mom would tell my father everything detail by detail, if I was to make a point of being the older and needing enough space for a desk, considering I am about a year and a half away from entering university, but instead I swallowed what I thought was my pride (but was actually my logic) and let my brother have the bigger room. So, to come back to that earlier excitement of having my own room, it was quickly subdued as I found myself settled in a room the size of a shoe box, about to do my homework on my bed.
The next 11 months were spent looking at the brick wall of our neighbour’s house, hearing a little bird chirping me awake at 7:30am on a Saturday night. You may ask yourself how the first few weeks of school went for me considering I haven’t mentioned a word about starting school at a new town, let’s not forget it’s in a whole new country on a whole new continent.
Well, what can I say? To sum it up, I really tried to fly under the radar, since my ultimate goal was to make it through my last years of high school and just make it into university. And I tried, I honestly tried, but it all sort of went down the tube from the moment I met the principal in order to sign up for high school. To make a long story short, the principal humiliated me, tried to make me believe I’m worth no more than a place at an immigrant school and thought of me as a sexual object when he said to me on the way out to the guidance counsellor:
“Well, Kitty, how old are you now?” he asked in a clearly pretend lower voice in order to obtain a higher level of authority than he would ever receive from any student or “adult” around.
“I’m fifteen.” No one at that point told me that it is common courtesy to add “sir” at the end of the sentence when speaking to someone of higher status or in general is just older. Either way, the principal didn’t seem to mind this slip of formality, looked down on me and said:
“Well, then you will have a boyfriend soon”. My mom protested loudly, claiming:
“Oh no, she won’t. She is here to study, not to have boyfriends!” On the one hand, I am glad for my mom sticking up for me this way, because I am more than just an object of some teenage boy’s sexual desire. On the other hand, I knew that this was the beginning of a very lonely few years, without guy friends or girlfriends, without many friends at all.
The next few years dragged by in a blur of suburban monotony. My father was commissioned to work the weeks in T, spent the weekends at home, which meant that during that time no one had better make any noise while the man of the house catches up on his beauty sleep during most of the day. There were Saturdays and Sundays spent in my pajamas until 3pm, teeth never brushed, because the rush of the water through the pipes was causing my father to wake from his slumber.
A few weeks before my 16th birthday we moved to a new home. It was newly renovated to my parents’ tastes and completely without any personality or memories of our former life. We moved a little further up the ranks, so to speak, living now in the area that was considered middle class, period. But that didn’t keep my father from making us feel like we are wasting his money. I needed new shoes, which I bought from my own pocket money, and he would yell at me; I bought myself a new top, because frankly I wanted to fit in with the rest of the crowd at high school, even just a little bit, and he would yell at me for wasting money. Recreational pursuits, even the ones organized by the school, were out of the question. My parents found out that kids could go to school on full scholarships and they decided I should be one of them. It didn’t matter that I was still getting used to the language all the subjects were taught in. And, more strikingly, my ability to understand chemistry was reduced to practically zero once I enrolled to English-speaking courses. But all of that didn’t bother my parents, I had to be the best and I had to get those scholarships, no matter what. They never even stopped once to consider what that amount of pressure would do to me. They compared me to my brother, who, according to them, was motivated by monetary gain. He was also not the one to apply to university with all of the other OAC and grade 12 students in the county. That was about the time I decided to rebel against everything that came into my path. When I say rebel, I mean, I wouldn’t do my homework, so my average slipped from a solid 85% to 75%. I never did any drugs or had any alcohol binges. I kept my virginity until I thought I might as well give it up to the last clean, virgin guy I knew. Honestly, after my sick love affair with anorexia, I thought “acting out” in this way would get me someone’s attention, someone to listen to me without any personal gain, or presumptuous opinions. How wrong I was! On top of that, I hated my high school. Suburban paradise be damned, there were more inter-clique conflicts and bullying going on than in an inter-city high school in the troublesome part of Berlin. The only difference: they talk behind your back. Perfect hair, perfect make-up and quite frankly always reminding me of the metaphor used in the film “Mean Girls” they are just all out to get you, acting like animals at the watering hole. Students were pretty much running the place, but only the popular ones. Teachers were basing their grading on how much they liked the student. One teacher sped down the hall on his scooter, while yelling at a student for not taking off their toque right after tumbling in from a snowstorm raging outside. Another was known to have dated an OAC student and pick the girls’ softball team based on how much they would flirt with him. I should know, because I got drafted after giving him the googly eyes, but was cut right after turning all professional. Moreover, and what made me hate this whole charade even more was how people reacted after the sister of a classmate committed suicide because of bullying. She was bullied into killing herself, yet my then-boyfriend and his best-friend (I swear he had a thing for her) complained about the fact that the distribution of graduating pictures would be postponed until the following week, who would ever do such a selfish thing? Either way, I stayed with my then-boyfriend, mourned this poor girl’s death in silence and had no clue where to go from here. I had not been allowed to participate in any recreational activities, was pressured into getting better and better grades, had barely any friends and missed my real friends so bad, I had no idea where to turn.
The person, who snapped me out of my desperation, was the academic advisor of the program I hoped to start in the fall of 2003. She was a real person. She was honest, without filters and would have been even more direct with me, had it not been for my mom sitting next to me, during our meeting with her a few months before graduation. She looked me straight in the eye and said:
“Work hard! Work very hard, if you want to get accepted”.
I buckled down, studied, paid attention and made sure all my assignments were handed in on time. I wanted to get one of the few spots reserved for the people, who got accepted to the Kinesiology program. I needed it as well, considering I would be able to survive the lecture and tearing apart of my character by my father, if I did not get into that program. I wanted to be a doctor and this was a unique way to get into med school. I worked hard. I raised my average and despite the whole conversion of OAC and grade 12 students that made the OAC students feel like a bunch of failures, because they were taking grade 12 classes again with students they barely knew, I made it. I got my pick of which program to choose at the university: psychology, English, or Kinesiology. Kinesiology I picked. I was over the moon and left my then-boyfriend behind, which I should have done the moment he thought another person’s life was not worth the delay in getting our graduation pictures.
I barely made any friends and the ones I made weren’t really worth keeping past high school. Now I was ready to move out of my parents’ house and begin my undergraduate studies. Moving three hours away from home was a bit frightening, but I was ready to begin my life on my own. I was supposed to live off campus right from the beginning, renting a room in a house about an hour’s commute from campus. My parents thought it would be beneficial to stay away from the noise and distractions of university life. The day my parents dropped me off at the house and all my boxes were brought up to my room, my father turned to me and said:
“Now that you don’t live at home anymore you can hand over your house key”. I thought he was joking, but he actually held his hand out, waiting for me to unhook my key and give it up.
“You can’t be serious! She can still come home whenever she wants. It is still her home,” my mom couldn’t believe what she was seeing, but my father wouldn’t budge.
“Well, she can let us know ahead of time and visit like a proper visitor,” was all he said.
Wasn’t that just great. That was probably the sneakiest way of ever kicking out one’s own child. For almost four years I was not allowed to leave the house unless it was under strict supervision of mister vigilant over here and then all of a sudden I found myself watching the van pull out of the driveway of the house I am about to call my new home, waving with a painful and fake grin plastered on my face, without so much as a “we will miss you” from my father. If you are confused by this strange behaviour, then you can imagine how I felt as I made my way up to my room to find my pajamas and try to get some sleep before my first class the next morning.
During the first week or so I found myself once again knowing absolutely no one in my courses. I went from my Kinesiology classes to my general science classes, taking notes, writing midterms and papers and spent the better part of two hours on the bus going to and from campus. I was tired and stressed most of the time, with classes running all day and labs usually happening in the evenings. So, the first year at W University came and went and before I knew what was happening, I found myself back at my parents’ house, as a guest of course, spending the summer doing chores and helping out.
One day during the seemingly endless summer between first and second year I received a phone call from my ex-boyfriend, and having been encouraged to try and be friends by my mom, since we have known each other for quite some time, I agreed to meet him for coffee. The meet-up went as good or as awkward as a meet-up between exes could go. Light conversation, rather uncomfortable silences and then the common “I should really head home” plea to end this meeting. Then I received a text messages from my ex, asking for another coffee date, I responded with a question of my own, wondering what his intentions actually were with this new found old interest in me. His response: “Fine then what about dinner?” Needless to say that was the end of our friendship.
A day after this exchange my mom came into my makeshift room, looking very nervous.
“Kitti, I wasn’t going to say anything, but your father and I are worried about you spending time on the phone with your ex again. He is going to distract you from your studies. And don’t let it slip that you actually met with him. Your father would be furious. He is not in the mood to go through another break-up again.” So many thoughts and comments ran through my head as I heard my mom’s speech, which was clearly infused by my father. She was the one encouraging me to try for friendship. I would be in W anyway once September comes and my life and my break-ups are still none of anyone else’s business. Privacy or the lack thereof in our family was always a big issue.
That was the most “drama” of those summer months and had I known back then how much my life and everyone else’s was going to change, I would have rested some more during those quiet months. So, September started and with that another semester filled with two-hour commute days, labs, classes, a few acquaintances and even more pressure to do well on my exams. Before I knew it, I was back home in my makeshift bedroom a day before Christmas, wrapping presents. My mom was at her part-time job, my father was due back from work any minute and I like so often was in charge of making dinner. My father came home, we sat down to eat and both my brother and I noticed a strange gray colour spreading over my father’s face. He ate without taking a breath and when I tried to look at him closer, he snapped and told me to mind my own business. Dinner finished, I was told to clean up, because my father would go downstairs into the office to surf the web. Once done in the kitchen I sat down by the Christmas tree, my brother having made himself scarce and playing Xbox in his room, I was at liberty to watch my favourite show, Friends. Halfway through the episode I heard a loud crash from downstairs. When I checked to see where the noise came from, I found my father collapsed on the floor, face up, gasping for breath and pointing at his chest. The next 20 minutes went by in a blur, in a strange and detailed blur, where everything seems to slow down, yet move extremely fast. I ran for the phone, then Philip was at my side, both of us screaming at our father to keep breathing, me performing CPR. The paramedics arrived; I waited upstairs for next 15 minutes, answering questions asked by someone. I called my mom at work, our neighbour offered to pick her up together with Philip and meet at the hospital. While getting a ride from the chief medic, we drove down our street and I was disgusted by the sight that greeted me. Everyone was standing on their front porches, the quiet town of P getting their fix of excitement by watching a man half dead being carried out of his house and all those neighbours can do to show some respect is take enough time to put on boots and hat to run down the length of a block to gawk at a scene that really did not need any spectators. On the other hand, I was very thankful for our next-door-neighbour’s help. I was a mess of emotions. At the hospital we were told that my father was the sickest man in the building.
I wish I could say that the next six months just flew by, like in one of those cut scenes the movies sometimes show. At the most tragic, most dramatic point the scene begins to blur and the next thing the viewer sees is a much more serene scene six months later, people smiling and clearly quite capable of having adapted to the new situation. Well, unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. I did not return to school in January. I found a job to help out financially and when I wasn’t selling old women’s clothing I helped out at home. My father came home about three weeks later, still recovering from a double bypass and clearly pissed off at life. He wanted to know everything that happened that evening. So, every day, I got to retell the same story over and over again. It was like living a nightmare every day. He just wouldn’t shut up.
The year passed by with plenty of talks about the same topic: my father’s condition. When he wasn’t in the mood to be the centre of attention, he would yell and scream, basically be the same tyrant he was before his heart attack, just ten times worse. He began to despise, pick fights with me and his belief that every word out of my mouth was a lie was even more pronounced than ever before. He screamed and insulted my mom, ignored my brother and made living in the house like walking through hell. Before long we found ourselves back at Christmas, one year later and instead of celebrating the holiday, as well as my mom’s birthday, we were supposed to celebrate him and once again live through the nightmare of the events from last year. Apparently, we didn’t do well enough, because he rounded on us again, screaming at my mom.
“How dare you spend more time with your children than me! I am sick! I need help! Wasting your time on these hussies!”
“Great to know what you really think of us. We are nothing to you!” I yelled back. He turned on me and was about to put his hands around my neck when Philip stepped between and pushed him away.
“You’re out of here! You’re gone! I don’t want to see you again! Get the hell out!” he screamed, his face turning red and purple.
“That’s your daughter. You are kicking out your daughter on Christmas Eve? If it wasn’t for her you would be dead” my mom yelled back, tears stinging her eyes.
“Exactly, if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have to suffer!” Thanks, father. Good to know how you really think of me.
I couldn’t move out right away, but I did eventually move back to W, closer to campus and with a new major, English literature. I got a job at Tim Hortons, probably the most Canadian job anyone could ever have, and in my free time I volunteered at the student theatre, building sets. It took me some time to recover from everything that happened. Nightmares and insomnia turned into restful sleep, I enjoyed studying and even made a whole bunch of friends in the Drama department. I also met people through my work, interests or just because I happened to be on campus. Money was tight and sometimes it was more than just a little struggle to make ends meet and if it hadn’t been for the job at Timmies, I probably would have lost a lot of weight. My mom and brother came to visit a few times and it was great to see them. It was great for them to see me living my own life. I learned a lot; from making healthy meals, to doing laundry without ruining half the load to time management. It felt great.
Towards the middle of the summer I met even more people, people that soon would become close friends and even one roommate, considering rent seems to always increase, while the service of management and the superintendent continued to dwindle. I met Ryan, Aliso, Jerry, DJ, Dmitri, and many of their friends. All of them coming from different parts of the world. We had great get-togethers at the campus pub, the park, they came by my work and usually annoyed me or tried to distract me from work. All in good fun. Once DJ moved into my spare bedroom, he and his friend Ryan would wait for my nightshift to end and walk home with me, since buses in a student town decide to stop running at 11:55pm. We had game night. Not everyone could make it always, but that made for an interesting mix of friends always showing up and for new opportunities to get to know each other better. Ryan used to hang around our place a lot after we got introduced through DJ, who made a big move on me, but after he was unable to perform due to some softness in his special area, he asked, if it would be ok for us to be just friends.
So, here we were, an interesting group of friends and newly acquainted at Jerry’s place, about to decide which board game to play first. I am usually not a huge board game enthusiast until I actually start playing, but I was excited for this night. It’s been a rough week of double shifts and midterm papers. The scene played out as follows: there was Jerry, of course picking out a few games that he thought might be interesting. Then Ryan, sitting beside me, smiling and asking me about my week. Alison on his other side, sliding closer and closer to Ryan. Dmitri and his best friend DJ, telling a funny story in unison. The punchlines were always hilarious.
“Been throwing any more hot soup at annoying customers lately?” Ryan asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Seriously, please stop teasing me about that. The floor was wet, because the newbie just spilled a cup of coffee and I was rushing. It was a crazy evening and it would never have happened, if you guys had not distracted me that much.” I sounded more exasperated than I actually was, because, to be quite honest I loved having friends that showed up at my work. I loved having friends, period. I nudged Ryan playfully with my right shoulder and we locked eyes for a brief moment.
“So, how about those Eagles this season, eh?” Alison piped up from besides Ryan, a big smile on her face. I recently found out that she had her braces removed, all of her front teeth were leveled and just a few months ago she had that Lasik eye surgery done to remove her need for glasses.
Ryan turned towards her and answered, dropping a whole bunch of names, that quite frankly sounded more like the members of the Jackson 5 than a football team, but what would I know about American Football. In Germany kids grow up with the Bundesliga, watching Ran and Ranissimo every Saturday and Sunday. I mentioned that much in an informative/fun fact sort of way. But apparently, she was also a soccer player and had much to say about playing the game. It turned out she had much to say about everything Ryan was interested in and when not that then had plenty to say about her studies, grades, places she has been with her Science Students Association, her parents’ pool or her dad’s motorcycle. I never knew anyone would think such info could be interesting.
The evening was passed in pleasant company, playing board games, eating finger foods and having conversations, ranging from the newest gossip to more intelligent subjects. I began to notice Alison becoming more and more quiet, focused on the game and definitely scheming to take me down. We were playing “Ticket to Ride” for peace’s sake, but apparently that game was sure bringing out her competitive side, going so far as to sabotaging my next move. When she wasn’t planning to destroy me, those little miniature train pawns included, she was constantly trying to wheel Ryan into another chit chat about football, video games or old movies the used to watch together at his parents’ cottage. The only reason I was lucky enough to hear all of this was, because she spoke loudly and clearly to make sure the people, including me could hear her. Ryan responded politely, flashed his charming smile and turned his attention back to the game. In a desperate move to achieve something, what I am not quite certain, except complete humiliation and an awkward mood for the rest of the night, she addressed the following topic.
“So, it’s interesting how many nationalities are present under one roof at this very moment. I mean, DJ is Indian. Dmitri is Romanian. Ryan, Jerry and I are Canadian. And what are you again, Kitti? German, you said? Yet, all of us have our Canadian citizenship, foreign, yet not. Funny, eh?” she pulled her lips into a smug little grin. I cleared my throat.
“Actually, I am still German. No Canadian citizenship or dual citizenship, just the good old permanent resident status.” I should have probably just kept my mouth shut.
“Really? How interesting.” She arced a perfectly plugged eyebrow, “Tell, why do people come to this country and refuse to get their citizenship? I mean, why do they even come here in the first place, if they want to hold on to their old citizenship? If they are so attached to it, they should just go back. Don’t you think so?” The room went eerily quiet. I could actually hear Jerry swallow. My ears turned very warm. I looked around at everyone, they all in turn looked at me and then at Alison. Great. How to respond? Full frontal attack and might crack a nail, scare the new friends I made, but put a little bitter chick in her place. Or fain innocence, use my puppy dog eyes until someone helps me out. I will keep my friends, but give her the impression I can be pushed around easily.
“It’s a little more complicated than that. Germany doesn’t allow dual citizenship, the Canadian government changed their requirements, you know, new card, new photos, a whole bunch of money to be spent on those again. Keeps the whole getting your citizenship on a back burner. But that’s difficult to understand or even fathom for someone, who never had to deal with sort of stuff before.” I gave her a sweet little smile and just hoped we could just all pretend this never happened and continue to have a good night.
“That might all be very well, but once you make the decision to live here, shouldn’t you actually make sure to take on all of the country’s customs?” Nope, she just didn’t want to drop it.
“Customs?…” I couldn’t believe what was happening. “It’s a multicultural country and I think Kitti is as Canadian as they come. She works at Timmies, for god’s sake.” DJ chimed in with a bad joke. He could never stand tension, so he would make himself into a fool, just to make everyone happy.
Later that night people were lounging all over the main floor of Jerry’s house, enjoying one of the last balmy nights and the quiet before the insanity called midterm season began. I was sitting on the back porch steps sipping my beer and looking up at the stars when I heard someone slide open the screen door and walk across the porch. Ryan sat down beside me.
“I have never felt this unwelcome before in my entire life. I mean, when we first arrived in Canada, people thought it was real funny to do the Hitler greeting when they found out we were from Germany. I found that highly offensive, but at least they didn’t tell us to go back the way we came from. Isn’t that even called racism?” I still wasn’t looking at him. He was a “real” Canadian. Whatever that actually meant, since all of Canada was built on settlers and immigrants. “Since coming here, I have not felt quite like I belong. Like I was worthy of being truly part of this culture. I always felt apart, but I could make peace with it, it didn’t bother me as much as it probably should have. But now! I am so far removed from Germany and yet not a part of Canada. All my life, I tried to do things that would have me accepted by other people and it all doesn’t really matter, because around any one corner I’m going to find another bitter hag that just wants to make me feel like garbage so they can feel better about themselves….sorry, I’m ranting and venting and really, really hurt and humiliated.” I glanced at him sideways, without a word he put his arm around me and just held me. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I felt safe. I felt like everything is going to be ok.
Life didn’t really change after that night. Money was still tight, I still worked at Timmies, midterms and papers were always due way too soon and if I wanted to hang out with my new friends, I had to endure the occasional, conniving remark from Miss Perfect Canada. The more she “teased” as people tried to brush it off, the more I felt insecure, the more I tried to be the best I could. It was a vicious cycle.
Autumn turned into winter and winter into spring. I focused on myself, taking courses in acting, voice training, literature, pursuing my interests and passions and with time the horrors of the experiences I had at home dwindled to blurry memories. I felt at home where I was and comfortable with the life I was leading. A little time before that was actually when I met Deeanna. We were both in the same voice training class and really didn’t speak much until the last day of class. I knew she was a guest student from Germany, but I felt so far removed from that part of my life that I didn’t even know how to approach my fellow classmate, who happened to be speaking the same mother tongue as me. Oddly enough, even after we became good friends, we never spoke German with each other, but she did show me the official streaming site for one of my favourite TV channels when I still lived in Germany.
Around this same time, I got a phone call from my mom that my father attempted to commit suicide. Within minutes I broke out in a severe rash, my insomnia returned and I was faced with a heavy decision: Drop everything I have built for myself in W and move back to help out at home, with what exactly I wasn’t sure. Or stay…
Nighttime. It is paradoxical for me to tell you that nighttime is the most comforting time of day, or in this case, night for me. Now that I have suffered through almost two weeks of the most intense late night anxiety and panic I have ever experienced. Now that I know the truth. You see, up until about six days ago, I was clinging on to that one comforting thought that the hour between 2am and 3am could bring, because it made me feel closer to my friend. The friend I lost three years ago, and whom I took to the airport and did not return home until 2 o’clock in the morning. Even after those strange anxiety/panic attacks would rip me out of my sleep anytime between 3am and 4:30am, I was convinced that this time still held some respite. The truth is I have been haunted by my own ghosts these last two weeks. The truth is that the reason I felt closest to my friend during those early hours for the last three years was the fact that between the hours of 2am and 3am she was so desperate and alone, so lost inside her head and so helpless that she felt no other way, but to climb out of her fourth story apartment window and end her own life. Demons haunt us all. May they be depression, insecurity, the intense need to control everyone around you, or the truth of a friend’s death that you are not yet aware of, as in my case. Life brings with it many challenges and it is how we deal with them that determines our fate.
