The auction was on. People piled into the Bourgeois house out of curiosity, no one really wanted to buy a house after what had happened. It was five years ago. The city waited out of respect for their past Mayor François Bourgeois but the taxes had to be paid; the law said 18 months in arrears and a property had to be auctioned off to cover at least unpaid taxes.
A young girl was lagging behind her mother, staring at the wallpaper where the little Amelie had slept. She remembered sadly, playing Barbies here. That was before the Bourgeois Massacre.
Skip, skip, hop, hop,
she turned around on one foot
threw her pebble on six
the hop, hop, hopping followed;
heard a whisper, stopped transfixed,
then a long deep moan
she stood on both feet…forlorn
little child frozen on square five
not budging, terror took over her
dared not move her head,
just her eyes from side to side,
the moan grew louder, longer
her eyes just gawked…
she turned her head swiftly
to the right and THERE she saw it
from the dark basement window
it looked like a man…an old man
with long shoulder length white hair
he looked exactly like Ebenezer!
MOAN
GROAN
BEUHHHHHHHH!
She turned her four yr old body
and stode frozen, staring, tears streaming
down her chubby cheeks….
MOAN
GROAN
BEUHHHHHHHH!
And then she hurled t
he loudest piercing yowl!
the engineer on the oncoming train
must have heard the howl.
Grandmother came running down the stairs,
grabbed her by the shoulders
to shake her back to reality
shouting at the THING at the basement window
“Stop scaring the child like that, GrandPa!!”
then hugged the child close to her bosom,
whispering, Shshshshshshshshsh.
How come I don’t think of listening to my favourite on-line radio station? I am on-line so much with work, with blogging and today I realized when I am home weekends, I often write in silence. Granted, sometimes I do prefer to shut out any distractions for my thoughts are enough and if I add lyrics and melody, I get overwhelmed and cannot concentrate. It`s different at work, however. If I am writing a “story to share” or on-line counselling, I may put in my ear buds and listen to music to block out the business and voices heard on crisis call centres.
Today I was chatting with a cyber friend/writer/poet extraordinaire/blogger and sharing how I also love music and how it can impact on my mood. No surprise there, right? Look at folks who listen to music on the street, on the bus, train and Métro. You see some bobbing their heads, swaying, lip singing, moving their shoulders and walking is sort of cool too. Oh, Oh, That reminds me! Have you ever noticed when you are driving in the car especially in the city during a busy time and you are listening to funky music or rock and roll (whatever is your pleasure)? Observing the pace of some pedestrians seem to match just perfectly the beat of a song you are listening to. That is so cool! Haha, it is funny when it is a fast upbeat tune and you see some people pick up their pace to beat the light or of course if you are a Montrealer, well, we just jaywalk…sometimes quickly sometimes not so quickly. If you`re the driver being cut off by a warm body, well, you have to stop…so that may interrupt your music mood for a few seconds. Just crank up the volume and let it go and enjoy the harmony and not your inner frustration…It`s Montreal! deal with it (smiles) it is part of our culture.
I think that is something I may want to work on a bit now…patience and driving. The cyclists especially are out and in the city they usually do not think of motorists, so I need to be mindful of that and pretend I have a twin that is on her bike just as I am leaving for work in my car. Oh, yeah, and leaving a bit earlier may help to avoid that “road rage”. {Gotta work on that one!}
Back to my original question, why didn`t I think of that? Since I am so often on-line, I must remember to log on to Jango.com a free radio station that you can add ONLY your music delights, favs and no commercials. I guess I stopped a few years ago when our agency put in a firewall that blocked that site…but still, I can use it at home…and that is exactly what I am doing now as I write this post. I am listening to Phoebe Snow right now crooning Poetry Man. Now how appropriate is that, that I am ending this with this song playing? Serendipity? Coincidence? Nah, I’ll leave those questions for another question for Linda Hill`s Stream of consciousness prompts {wink wink}.
What am I selling? Well, when I first started my blog Stop the Stigmait was to get on my soapbox and bitch about stuff. You know, those who used politically incorrect words to identify people with special needs and people with any kind of mental health condition. I had followed a few blogs on various topics and the first one that stirred me to start this was Herding Cats.
I am not an expert but yes, I am an advocate and realized Stigma went a long way and I wanted to also talk about racism, bullying, sexism, homophobia and any label we put on anyone to discriminate them. And whether it is intentional or not…it is still NOT okay.
We often talk about the misunderstanding of mental health because we do not see it but there is also the misinterpretation of chronic pain. There are so many physical ailments and conditions that cause pain to people at various degrees. Unfortunately, these people are often misjudged or have little or no sympathy because no one can see scars or physical proof of the debilitating condition. So that too is included in this blog. And this latter item has touched me for suffering myself, with chronic pain, I feel supported here. I also admire these heroes that suffer so much more than me and share positive posts of support and encouragement to their readers.
If I were to choose a word of what I am selling, I guess it is awareness…creating an awareness on such issues that are important. I often read in comments, “Gee, I had not thought about that.” That is my bonus.
I never realized that I had joined a community that was so caring and the interests varied so much. Poets, writers would comment here and there and that gave me a glimpse on other possibilities to write. So that is when I started my other blog, Cher Shares. This was a place to express myself in writing with narratives and poems. I learned and am still learning from amazing and generous creative writers here to improve on what I do have a passion…writing. Thanks to interesting blogs that offer prompts to tickle my muse, I have produced more. What am I selling at Cher Shares? Nothing, really, I am just sharing with friends and WordPress friends my thoughts in stories and poetry.
I love to talk about things that are close to me, mean something to me, and that is my message at Stop The Stigma; I enjoy writing in prose and poetry sharing my humble narratives with WordPress relatives
at my blog, Cher Shares.
I have always believed that books find me. You know when you are searching through stacks of books at a library or when you have a list of authors and the book you want is not on the shelf? But hey,! your eyes are drawn to the title or the book jacket of the book next to where your find should have been. You take out the book, read a bit about the author, perhaps a snippet about the novel and you bring it home. You discover you truly enjoy this author and you read several of his or her published works. You have made a new friend, the characters in the book are a part of your life for a little while. Has that ever happened to you?
I find that happens with people too. Some people come into your life because you were meant to meet…there is a reason, a purpose. Years ago when I was completing my internship as a Family Life Educator, I became closer with my supervisor and my mentor. My mentor became a good friend, a confidante and spiritual guide in many ways. I aspired to be like her…if only a tiny morsel of her some day. She was a very compassionate person.
When I completed my internship, I was hired on contract to continue offering life skill workshops for the rest year at this community clinic. My friend and mentor, had worked as a Family Life Educator at a private school on the hill of our beautiful city, for almost 10 years. She wanted to take a sabbatical and complete her degree in English Literature. (I never saw the relationship with writing and English there too considering how much I have turned to writing in the past year.) She asked me if I would replace her at the school and she would recommend me to the headmistress for an interview.
I was so excited. I had returned to university as a mature student, graduating in a less conventional degree than our province was familiar in the francophone community, so finding work, I was aware, would be a bit of a challenge. So many institutions were not familiar with the intensive and comprehensive programme our department that Applied Social and Human Sciences offered students especially with our rigorous applied characteristic. We had to apply much of our learning to ourselves, be in counselling if we wanted to pursue counselling courses and to take our learning to a higher level and an option to take part in the internship and be certified. But, all this hard work was not known, hence not recognized in our province. This opportunity D was offering me was a godsend! A great way to improve on my skills as well as get experience. So I said, yes.
A few weeks later, I had an appointment for the interview. I was so nervous. I had let my punk shaved head hairdo grow out a bit and it was now a more natural colour (did away with the orange or purple) and dark blonde on a short bob looked just right. I wore a long skirt and blazer with pumps (not time to wear my comfy Doc Martens) and arrived twenty minutes before my scheduled time. I was so impressed driving up Mount Pleasant in my humble Renaud V…up, up, up, the steep hill avoiding the rear-view mirror as I would visualize my car flipping over backwards. The houses around this school were like being somewhere in England with the old and beautiful stone houses; they were spectacular!
I sat quietly across the secretary’s desk. She had a nice warm smile. I sat and admired the woodwork on the walls, the dark stained molding and started to get a bit nervous. I decided to freshen up before the interview. The washroom was just in front of the secretary’s desk. Final check in the mirror, lipstick applied, hair in place, I went to take my seat and waited again. The secretary got a buzz, and that was the headmistress calling me into her office. I thanked her and turned around to walk into the office when the secretary called me softly, “Um, you may want to adjust your skirt a bit before going in Madame G’s office.” I place my the palm of my hand along my hips to smooth my skirt and as I reach the back I feel a huge bulge! My eyes widen, my face turns white, then beet red…At that moment I quickly turn facing the secretary still wide-eyed and tug my skirt out of my pantyhose so quickly…no one could have noticed except Ms. S and me. Phew! I just exhaled in a loud whisper, “Thank you” with pleading eyes and went into the office.
I got the position and taught social skills and sex ed. there for five years and Ms. S will forever be my friend and saviour…her offering that very first day, to me was like hearing, “I’ve got your back!” in more ways than one {smiles}.
The bell rang and Tina rang as fast as she could to her locker, grabbed her coat and got on her bike. She could hear Barb and her friends whispering, “Hurry up, let’s get her.” They trailed behind on their bikes but fortunately Tina was taller than all of them, longer legs and bigger bike. She was a good 5 blocks ahead. Tina looked over her shoulder and knew she wouldn’t have to go in hiding, she’d lose them quick enough once she got to the foot bridge. None of them lived near there and they didn’t know all the shortcuts behind the church.
Safe, this time but what about all the other days. She’d have to tell someone sooner or later, she couldn’d stand this. For the past 5 weeks four of her peers at school had heard of a rumour spreading about her father. That was Barb with her big mouth and distorted stories. But the students believed and and Tina was so ashamed. Rumour was that her father was a “drunk and robber”. She looked at her nails in disgust. She had none left, she had started chewing the skin now she was so nervous. What could she do to stop those girls from chasing her and yelling, “Your daddy’s a drunk and a robber. You’re a loser , loser, loser!!”
She dug into her school back to get out a sheet her teacher gave all the student to have signed by parents. She didn’t remember what it was. She hadn’t been listening much, she was too distracted now. She was always daydreaming so she wouldn’t have to think all the time.
Later that night her mother gave her the signed permission slip, kissed her on the cheek and said, “Good luck, darling. I hope you win.” “Huh?” Tina looked perflexed.
“The permission if you are chosen to spend an afternoon with Jean Beliveau of Les Canadiens de Montréal and you get to meet the entire team.” How could she not have heard this…OMG, Jean Beliveau was her hero!! He was the gentleman of all gentlemen in hockey!
The next day, the teacher announced that she had all the permission slips. The teacher was to choose one student and put it in fishbowl with the other classes of the school. They had to wait until the end of the day 10 mintues before the bell rang.
At the 3:30 p.m. there was an announcement on the speaker, “The runner ups have all been submitted…and the winner is…Tina Gagnon.” Tina could not believe it. She looked up at her teacher…her bullies gave her looks with daggers but the rest of the class clapped their hands. Tina`s cheeks turned red. Her teacher asked her and the 4 students who had been bullying her to stay in after the bell. OMG, now what, Tina thought. Her belly was churning and she thought she was going to throw up.
The classroom was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Mrs. Grant leaned on the front of her desk and looked at each child. Tina had no clue what was going on.
“I know you are wondering why I asked you all to stay. I received a disturbing phone call from the ticket master at the train station two weeks ago.” Tina gulped. This was her hiding place when the bullies caught up to her. She would stop at the train station that was half way home, run into the washroom and lock the door and pray and wait and pray for the bullies to get tired and leave. She had been doing this for a month now.
Mrs. continued. “Monsieur Castonguay said he was concerned about 4 girls who were chasing a certain student here and yelling curse names and chanting things about her father. Do you know anything about this, girls?” The four culprits lowered their heads in shame. Tina just managed to blush…it seemed the only thing she could manage at this point.
“After he called I asked a student from another class to follow Tina and see who was chasing her. You see monsieur knew Tina very well and asked her what the problem was but she refused to name her assailants. She even begged him not to tell her mother or the school. Now that is pretty darn brave and nice of her don`t you think? So my other student came back with a report after following Tina and her “chasers” for two weeks and gave me the names of each student.
Now, I know who you all are and you know what? I am not going to tell your parents THIS TIME. I chose Tina`s name to be put in the runner ups to see monsieur Jean Belliveau because she deserves this treat. And that will be a lesson to all of you, that being mean and vindictive to anyone NEVER pays. Have I been understood?”
All four heads bobbed eagerly and Tina was no longer blushing but had the most radiant smile as she puffed out her chest and stared at her teacher.
“Hello, you’ve reached a counsellor. How can I help you tonight?” I waited. I heard soft sobs; he spoke so fast, I could not decipher his story. “Are you safe right now? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I am safe. I’m at home alone. My parents are at my school meeting teachers. It’s the parent-teacher meeting tonight. They are going to kill me when they get home!” His voice reached a high note and he sounded more like a young, scared child…not his fifteen years.
He called out of helplessness…a last resort. Wishing to protect his family as youths usually do, he needed to get this off his chest for the first time. Tonight, he wept on the phone for the first time a practice he was accustomed doing privately … his nightly lullaby.
He was worried about his parents’ reaction on their return. He had an 82% average and usually he got 90+ He talked about his listlessness and difficulty concentrating lately, his insomnia, his depression…
“I can’t remember a night I have not cried myself to sleep since I was 11. My parents say I exaggerate and that I’m just going through adolescence.”
We talked about these “depressed” thoughts and I suggested a doctor could help to ensure he had a proper diagnosis and address his melancholy and his insomnia; I asked him to describe what it was like for him to feel sad every day, how did he interact with friends, was he involved in sports. He said he wore a mask at school. He quickly added his parents were not abusive and supportive. “They always tell me they love me and want me to go to them if I need help.” He broke down sobbing again.
I asked him what he was thinking…I wondered what triggered the sobs. He hesitated, “Well, I know my parents mean well but they always criticize me and tell me it’s for my own good. But I am so tired of hearing them talk to me like that…it hurts so much.” He sobbed softly.
He told me what his parents often add to their supportive messages, my mouth dropped as I heard it, “We love you, we care, what are you STUPID?!” I was silent. I felt like I’d been kicked me in the belly. I could not imagine how hurtful it must feel hearing such “criticism” day after day, for so many years.
We explored which trusted adult he could ask for support. Someone who might be able to help his parents understand how he feels. He thought of a family friend, his father’s best friend. I asked him if he would consider seeing his family doctor. He seemed wary about seeing his doctor without his parents knowing even if he was permitted at his age but would consider emailing his father’s best friend after our phone call.
He sighed and said he was very tired now but would call us again. “It feels good finally getting this off my chest. Thank you.”
The prompt for this story says to Dream Big. Wow! I can make up a story, a poem or write about something I have always wished for. The options are endless and you know what? Today my dream may be different from my dream tomorrow or next week. Are not dreams part of who we are? Are they not mere escapes at will in order to survive the world in which we live? Since this is my birthday weekend, I decided to add more than a dream and more like a celestial dream…something over the top and a dream I have wished come true many times.
A call of hope
Dawn tilted her head as she listened to the other teen at the end of the line. Let’s call this caller Gabriella. “I can’t take it anymore,” she wept, “My father is coming home in a few hours and I know he’s going to…you know….”she sobbed softly. Dawn could hear the fear in her caller’s voice. She was barely a teen, her mother died last year . Gabriella had no one but her father now. He’d started drinking heavily after his wife died. She had an auntie and grandparents but she was too ashamed about what “they did” that she did not dare ask for help…until tonight.
Dawn listened, and tried to reassure her caller. She asked her if she could go to her auntie’s house for the weekend and it would give her time to think about what she might want to do later. She encouraged Gabriella to call the youth line again from auntie’s house.
Dawn waited…there was a long pause. “I guess I could go but he won’t let me stay overnight usually because, ….well, you know…” Dawn thought about that for a moment and did something she has never done before. “Go to your auntie’s right now. It’s just a short walk. Bring a bag of clothes for 3 or 4 days and once you get there, tell your auntie your father gave you permission to stay over.”
Gabriella interrupted, “But I already told you!!! He will be angry and he gets violent when he gets mad. He’ll just pick me up there and drag me back home. I’m too scared to do that.”
Dawn repeated softly, “Sweetie, I know you’re scared. You are a very brave girl. You reached out here tonight and took a chance to tell someone about your situation. I get it. And you know what? I trust that you can do one more brave thing and that is to go to your auntie with your bag of clothes. Leave a note on the kitchen table saying your auntie needed you to babysit and help her with the children for the weekend. Then call me as soon as you get settled at your auntie’s. Is that okay? Call back here and ask to speak to Dawn.”
The caller hesitated and then said, “Okay, if you say so. You will be there when I call back?” Dawn reassured her that she would. They disengaged.
Dawn then went into the quiet room where counsellors often went to unwind after a difficult call. She shut the lights, put on her “special music” her smart phone, lied down on the comfy couch and put in her ear buds. Soft angelic voices hummed softly, followed by a violin crying melodiously and Dawn could feel herself drift off. Her soul seemed to lift from her body and float above her for a moment and then it floated away.
Gabriella hurried to pack her bag and walked the 4 blocks to her auntie’s house. As soon as she walked up the steps, her auntie opened the door as if she were expecting her. She said, “Hey there, Gaby, I was waiting for you. It’s so weird. I fell asleep a few minutes when I put Jimmy to bed and had the weirdest dream. You were crying out to me running away from a monster. It was the scariest thing.” She hugged her niece warmly. “Well, come in sweetie.”
Gabriella’ father arrived home and shouted out to his daughter but there was no answer. He looked around the living room, went to Gaby’s bedroom and then came back to the kitchen and saw a note on the table. “I’m staying at Auntie Sue for the weekend or maybe longer. She needs me to help with Jimmy and the baby, Gaby”
He was fuming with rage. He threw the table against the wall. Suddenly, he heard a strange sound, a violin a woman chanting; then he saw his wife! But it couldn’t be.
She floated right through the living room wall. The music continued and this apparition that resembled his wife floated up closer to him.
“William”, the apparition said. It was not the voice of his wife but her face was so, so, lovely! His wife who he missed so much was here. The voice seemed harsh at first. “William, I have an important message. Sit down and listen. I will only say this once, so pay attention.”
The voice spoke of the Great Spirit of slipping to the other side and consequences. It was a long speech and although he was scared there was something peaceful about it. As the apparition slowly lifted, the strings of the violin intensified in a melody that wrapped him with intense emotions fear, guilt and wonder. He wept for the first time since his wife died, and wept and wept. Then he called his sister-in-law.
Gabriella couldn’t believe her ears! Her auntie gave her a message from her father. She was so surprised.
Dawn heard a knock at the door of the quiet room. Her colleague announcing that her break was finished and time to get back on the phones. She stretched and could not help feeling tired despite her nap. She felt like she had run on her usual 6 K run on Lakeshore. She rubbed her legs and went to her workstation. The phone rang, “You’ve reached a counsellor, how can I help you?”
“Hi, Dawn, I have a caller who says you told her to call back, let me patch her through.”
“It’s Gabriella. I’m at my auntie’s like you told me to do. And the strangest thing happened. My father is going to rehab and will be away for a few months. He said we’ll talk about my staying with Auntie for good and maybe he’ll just visit me for a while instead. Isn’t that strange?”
Dawn smiled, nodding gently a tear running down her cheek.
Written for: The Seeker’s Dungeon. This week’s prompt is Dreaming Big (running from March 6 – March 12) Click here to see what other writers have contributed to this week’s prompt as well as last week’s.
Tournesol dans un Jardin 