He shuts the driver’s side door of his 2010 Mercedes Benz e-class sedan with relative force and begins walking towards the trunk. The trunk pops open so promptly to the touch of a button that Roger Biglen imagines it somehow anticipated the action. After all, to call his morning routine predictable would be an understatement. With briefcase in hand Roger gently lowers the trunk, lets gravity take its course, and begins to walk towards his building.

As he makes his way up the street in a slow but determined fashion he sees the young faces of a crowd ahead. Though not too large, the crowd seems to be a spry bunch: moving about and waving signs. In his middle-aged wisdom, Roger estimates the mass to be about 25 strong but knows that it will surely grow over the course of the day.

Now approaching the crowd, constituted largely of what he would consider ‘kids’, Roger reads (almost aloud) the words on the closest sign: “A FEW PROSPER, MANY SUFFER”. Suffer underlined for added effect. The woman holding the sign glares at him and purposefully faces it in his direction.

Trying to withhold a scoff or a shake of the head, Roger enters his building and takes his all too familiar elevator ride to his office. A place that feels more like a hideaway now than a place of business.

After about an hour of mundane morning tasks, Roger buzzes his secretary, Brenda, for a cup of coffee. The buzz itself being enough to indicate what he desires. It is that time of day; no words need to be spoken.

Brenda was one of the finest people Roger had come to know. Her well-rounded personality typified by her ceaselessly beaming positive expressions. Despite her youthful spirit, Brenda was the only person in the office older than Roger (he always assumed around mid-sixties). Why Brenda had yet to retire he couldn’t say but suspected that she truly loved to be around the people in the office, or maybe just people in general.

As Brenda set the china cup of coffee in front of him, he smiled as if to thank her.

“Brenda”, Roger says rather hoarsely and clears his throat for the second word he’s said all morning, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead”, she answers in genuine tone.

“What do you think of these kids outside?” With an emphasis on kids as if it would in some way affect her answer.

“Well,” she pauses, “I can’t say I’ve really formed an opinion. Many of them seem nice enough. Their message certainly doesn’t come without reason. Although, I can’t say I agree with their fashion sense, that worn out attire is quite drab”.

Her comment about fashion seemed to camouflage the striking part of her answer for Roger. ‘Doesn’t come without reason’, lost in her lackadaisical observation of something as inconsequential as clothes.

“I’ve heard what many of them have to say”, Roger says, “and a few of them seem to be very articulate. But they’re all so young. They are barley old enough to understand the challenges of life and they have already decided to reject them. What happened to embracing challenges and overcoming obstacles? We are blessed to live in a country where success is so achievable and these kids want more. Want what? Life to give them their dreams on a platter? To give them a fat bank account so they can go spend their money on whatever the hell these people buy? I can’t imagine their prerogative.

His last word hangs in the air. The silence that has fallen on them seems slightly uncomfortable for Brenda.

“No, I can’t say that is what they want.” Brenda says in a kind of prolonged sigh, “Equality, Roger. These kids, they see the limitless power of the few and subsequently the corruption of the world.”

The words of the sign now burning in Roger’s mind.

“And they don’t think I see that?” His voice now booming with character, “They think I don’t see corruption? These kids, they have yet to be callused by the harshness and unforgiving nature of reality. Their minds are so sensitive that they actual react to such truths of unbalance. And to think that they can change the world with their wishy washy principles. Peace, love, community: they have swallowed these ideas like wine and are drunk off their promises!”

The poetry of his last sentence takes Brenda back a step. It seemed rehearsed.

“They are just concepts, Brenda, they don’t create anything, they just simply are. The system can’t be governed by such things”.

“But they offer hope”, Brenda rebuttals, somewhat to the surprise of Roger. “Thoughts of these things give us… something. They give us a reason to keep going.”

“But they don’t!” Roger insists, “Putting these theories into practice is a pipes dream. No one places the success of their neighbour over the success of themselves. The world is too hard for that! You have to fight tooth and nail to make it anywhere. I wasn’t born on third base, Brenda, I hit a triple and, although some would have you think otherwise, everyone has a chance at bat”.

Roger feels as though this baseball analogy may have fallen short of Brenda’s understanding but does nothing to clarify.

“But what do I know?” Roger continues, “I’m just the bad guy, sitting up here in my comfy office thinking of ways to screw the common man out of his hard earned money. The axis of evil, no doubt”.

Roger laughs lightly. His sarcasm does nothing for Brenda.

“You’re not, Roger, and that is the most frightening part of the world we live in. Even one lowly actor in this tragic play-of-a-system perpetuates the very worst of its attributes. Evil surrounds us like a fog that we cannot see, and the banality of it all is what keeps us blind. Isn’t that the most terrifying thing, Roger? Even with good intentions and motivations we, within the system, further inequality. These kids do not believe you to be evil, and if they do, they suffer from a greater ignorance than even the worst of the greedy and the powerful”.

He stares into her face and sees something he’s never seen in it before – a kind of intellectual glow. He has never talked to Brenda about politics or anything of that sort but supposes that he always new her heart lie slightly to the left.

Roger nods.

“Wise words” he says with a tone that sounds sincere but that he knows is not.

“Oh, and before I forget, Brenda, could you take my lunch order?”

Pull a few flowers to make your path
with love and attention the route made will last.
engage in destruction and playing the game
and the fun will soon vanish as your lost in a maze
the road served a purpose and it led you a way
that was carved by a fellow or a lady once upon a day
whoever they were they proceeded with reason
whether it was to get to mcdonalds or to the 4 seasons
They could have considered that they had harmed mother nature
Or maybe they were passerbys who didn’t see the danger
So I stop at the inn and I got an MGD
and met a fair maiden who got the same thing as me,
there was power in my decision to choose the main road
There was power in my decisions which speed I should go.
I spend a night with her and decided to spend one more
then paid her in lump sum for in fact she was a hoar
It was she who had the power for that was hooker lane
I said thanks for the sex but I must be on my way
I must learn to create my path or else I’m sure we’ll meet again.

“Think of five excuses you would use for incomplete homework” The teacher boomed. “Then write it down”

Apparently this was supposed to be a fun assignment, but it wasn’t. It was as boring as it was pointless. But I was a kid, I didn’t really think of why we were told to do it, I didn’t see the point to anything we did; I had learned to just do it.

“And be creative” he continued “no ‘my dog ate it’, think of something unique.”

So it was a creative assignment. I could do that, it was right up my alley. So what excuses could I come up with for not doing homework…I started thinking.

It can’t be a dog, what about some other pet, a cat could scratch it up, a rat could run away with it. What about a horse trampling it, or a bird making a nest out of it? But those are still pet things; I could do better than that. My little brother flushed it down the toilet; that was a good one. There was a tornado, and it sucked my homework up, and left everything else the same.

I could just picture a tornado coming and taking my homework, its soul purpose being to annihilate all matter of unpleasant things. That was definitely a good tornado.

“Young lady!” the teacher barked, “what are you doing?”

Thinking, that’s what you told us to do.

I thought what I didn’t say. Outwardly, I just shrugged. Apparently when he said “think of five excuses” he was talking about some other kind of thinking I wasn’t aware of, one that you could clearly see someone doing.

“Get to work” He growled, and walked off.

But I didn’t have anything yet, nothing I wanted to write down. He was going to read it, and my ideas were stupid, they were something anyone could come up with. I had to think of something better, something no one else had. But he told me to write. I didn’t want to write, I wanted to think. I didn’t want to write my stupid ideas, because then he would read them and tell me they weren’t good enough. I had to think of something good enough, but he didn’t want me to think, he just wanted me to write. I had to think quickly of something to write before he got mad. What was the best idea I had? I had quickly forgotten what I had been conjuring up in my mind. I tried to get back into the flow of thought I had before, the ideas were getting better, they were building and he interrupted me. I stared at the blank paper and thought, but now it was hard to get back my train of thought. I had to write something, but what did I want to write?

“Young lady, you’re trying my patience!”

Why did he keep doing that? Why didn’t he just let me think? Did it really matter if I got this done now or not? He wasn’t taking it until tomorrow; I could do it at home. Why did it matter if I did it in the classroom or not as long as it was ready to hand in the next day?

“Do you want to stay in at recess and finish it?”

Apparently that was supposed to be a threat, but not to me it wasn’t. Sitting alone in a classroom was preferable to being in a crowded field full of annoying kids and bossy supervisors that didn’t let you do anything fun.

I shrugged.

“Fine, you can sit there until it’s done. You’re not getting out of that desk until you finish.”

I imagined staying here all night and still having nothing in the morning. It wouldn’t be that bad, at least it would be quiet here late at night and I would be alone, it was preferable to the company of teachers, or classmates, or anyone for that matter. They all had something to tell me about how I was bad, stupid, or not good enough. Even when I tried to listen they got mad at me. They always thought I was trying to be difficult on purpose, but I just wanted them to tell me what to do, then leave me alone to do it. I didn’t want them looking over my shoulder and watching everything I did, because apparently I always went about it wrong.

I looked around at everyone else. They were all writing, they all had ideas that were probably better than mine. I wanted to know how they just started writing without thinking, and why I had such a hard time doing that. I just wasn’t as smart as them that’s all, I couldn’t think as fast, I was stupid.

I hesitantly started writing my ideas. I wrote lightly, so the ideas wouldn’t feel as permanent, so it was easy to erase and hard to read.

Hesitation when I get up with the finished piece of crap makes me the last one to give it to the teacher. I hold it out slightly, but keep it close to my body, fighting the urge to pull it away and tear it up. Now there was a good excuse for not having you homework done, I didn’t want anyone to read it. I did it and it sucked, and I decided I might as well get a zero without anyone reading my stuff, instead of getting the same thing with someone reading it and confirming my belief in my own incompetence.

But he takes it. It’s out of my hands now, if it was ever in my hands to begin with. Now that it’s taken, I try to forget about it. I hurry out of the classroom and don’t think about the fact that he will read it. I will get it back, get my bad mark, and then I can shove it somewhere out of sight and out of mind.
If only I could do the same thing to myself.

The closest thing to our shape
is the shadow like impression the summer sidewalk scorched together.
The only warmth I feel from your body,
the lambent lights from seedy bars you said that we should someday enter,

But never did.

Now all I have is the impressions of your pen;
The shape of your writing, your only shape I have left.

And I’m compelled to make a palimpsest,
But it’d just be another impression of you
that I could never forget.

I could write the words “I love you,”
But all they’d ever do is give you stipulation
to put doubt between us two.

And you could easily erase those words that yearn
to put me in your Canon-

But who are we kidding?

If anything at all,
I am just another woman’s underwriting.

It was Wednesday, according to the Gregorian calendar, and Sunday, according to the Roman. The weather was perfect, according to the weatherman, though “perfect” is a subjective viewpoint. It was sunny, with clouds and a light breeze. The perfect day for Jill’s garden party. Large circular white tables sat at the top of a little hill in an enormously large garden. Heavy cutlery and neatly folded napkins sat by ornate China plates, cups, teapots. Jill wore a frilly dress; her dogs wore similar frilly outfits.

One of her dogs wandered around to the back of the house to a bush where, just a week ago, it has buried a bone. She hunted around for the exact spot, but found a snake instead. She growled at it. It hissed back and bit her. Three minutes later, after much hacking and spitting, and then whining and seizing, she was dead. Three steps from the bone.

Back at the party, several hundred guests were discussing the latest in politics, art, fashion, philosophy, and the top forty music charts. Jill was looking for Jack. She scanned, with her hands like binoculars, across the tables, through the band, through the food, and spied him feasting on hors d’œuvres. She crept up to him, heels noiseless on the grass.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he mumbled. “How do you do?”

“I’m great. How are you?”

“Great,” replied Jack, then searched for something else to say. “Great party.”

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

Jack swallowed. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said excitedly. He could hardly contain his excitement. From his jacket pocket, he produced a small box. It was brown with flecks of green. It smelled like roasted chestnuts.

Jack swallowed. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said excitedly. He could hardly contain his excitement. From his jacket pocket, he produced a small box. It was brown with flecks of green. It smelled like roasted chestnuts.

“I got this yesterday,” he said.

“What’s it do?”

“Oh it’s great. Look.” He opened it. It played Fur Elise in a music box kind of way. In the middle of the box sat a big red button. Jack grinned. “Isn’t it great?”

“What’s that do?” asked Jill.

“That’s the best part. That’s the apocalypse button,” said Jack.

“Brings about the apocalypse?”

“Yep,” he said and pushed it.

The heavenly chorus sang Ha-lle-lujah! The sky ripped in two. Cats into three. Satellites dropped from orbit, slamming down into Earth at terrible speeds. Television sets lost reception. Radios spat out sounds of mewing cats. Every volcano continuously spat out molten lava, covering everything and everyone for miles in burning liquid. The earth’s crust ruptured. The light breeze went from zero to sixty, ruining hairstyles all over the world. A green-skinned, bearded man began flailing the screaming masses left and right.

Garden tools sprang to life and began skewering guests. The band started playing Nearer, My God, to Thee. A man cried out, “The lord is upon us! Blessed is his holy name!” and was promptly perforated by flying forks and broken bits of a China teapot. Couples began having sex on the caviar. They muttered unintelligibly in their respective native tongues. A more conservative woman led a man away by the genitals into the house. Food reverted to their animal states. Bass emerged from a bassist. A violinist erupted in a shower of salmon which flopped around on stage. The instruments began playing the band, Yakety Sax.

Up above, pilots flew their planes into other planes in brave demonstrations of World War Two Japanese kamikaze attacks. Chickens spilled out of overhead compartments. Passengers began herding other passengers out of the planes, who jumped willingly. A tremendous display of cooperation.

Down below, children began singing It’s Raining Men. Hallelujah! sang the heavenly chorus. Buildings crumbled, sending wood, bricks, and steel girders flying in all directions. Birds fled in terror. Art lept off their canvasses and started sparring with their admirers in two-dimensional space. An old woman wandered around with a sword in one hand, a severed head in the other.

The snake under the bush behind Jill’s house found that he could speak again. It slid under Jill’s dead dog’s dress and coiled around it, hissing all the while.

Jack and Jill leaned against each other under a table.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“I love you.”

“I’ve made a mess of things.”

“I know.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Yes.”

Then the planet lost gravity, zipping into the black of space, spilling buildings and salmon and chicken and caviar and people into the void.

My bitterly complicated relationship with America stems from growing up in Windsor, Ontario. Residing adjacent to a bridge from Detroit, I experienced their glorious shopping malls, lavish restaurants, and promise of opportunity. Yet I was also exposed to a reality which the majority of people neglect; complex and deep seated racial issues, poverty and, as Eminem portrayed, the wonders of 8 Mile. The universal idolization of America baffles me for this very reason. It’s a country divided by religious and political ideology, lacking quality education, employment, health care, and becoming progressively less informed about the world beyond its borders.

Living out my impressionable years by the Detroit River, I was constantly bombarded by American culture, music, and television, while simultaneously being taught that anything Canadian-made must be of a lesser quality. My peers would criticize my love of Instant Star or listening to Billy Talent, and I had to keep my love of Canadian Idol under the strictest confidence of my closest friends. The consensus among my peers was that Canadians simply lacked talent. I had hoped that when I moved further inland to Waterloo, the Canadian identity would be much more realized; regretfully the power of American culture rang just as strong as I fear it does all across Canada.

Fear of the cultural invasion by the United States is legitimized by surveys, which find that only 37% of Canadians watch domestically produced television. In this month alone, the only Canadian-produced program to break the top 30 shows watched was the news. This fear sparks government involvement, and makes CanCon regulations and tax credits crucial to the preservation of the Canadian television industry. The problem with enforcing these laws, which stipulate that 60% of programming must be of domestic origin, is that producing shows for the sake of meeting content regulations can hinder the quality or audience-reception of a program.

The primary hindrance however, is a cyclical process in which exposure to American programming leads Canadians to identify with their popular culture; as a result, stigma is attached to Canadian television for not meeting expectations. Canadian programming tends to be more high-brow than most U.S content. With the rising interest in trashy American reality shows, how can George Stroumboulopoulos or Rick Mercer even dare to compete against the drunken tomfoolery of the Jersey Shore cast?

Constant put-downs of Canadian culture unconsciously damage the perception of our own country. Ironically, a large portion of American produced films and television shows are filmed in Canada, written by Canadians, and feature Canadian actors. Castle’s two main actors both hold Canadian citizenships. It seems people don’t take issue with programs featuring Canadian talent, as long as they come from a country deemed more powerful, professional or talented.

It’s this imperialistic influence of American culture that puts tension on my relationship with America, and for that matter, the frustratingly close-minded people of Canada. I struggle to understand the negative stereotypes that determine anything made in Canada is unlikeable.

I was fortunate enough to have parents with an immense sense of nationalistic pride, who ensured I was exposed to a plethora of Canadian content regardless of where I grew up. With a family who once lived on the prairies, Corner Gas became a household favourite. As a child watching Mr. Dressup was a magical experience not to mention Fraggle Rock, Breaker High – the obvious turning point in Ryan Gosling’s career – Road to Avonlea and of course the critically acclaimed Degrassi.

More recent programs like Being Erica and Little Mosque on the Prairie have been well-received and broadcasted internationally. Yet despite an increase in positive press and international reception, I overhear an overwhelming number of people laughing off anything shown on CBC. Even as I attempted to research this topic, comment boards and blogs were consumed by negative discussions and intellectual comments such as “Canadian TV sucks.”

And so I struggle, feeling insignificant and unable to influence any change in the perceptions of the Canadian culture I hold so dear. I’m powerless to persuade decision-making processes to networks who avoid producing Canadian content as they are so often poorly received by the public and become nothing more than a company debt. The only course of action is to spread the word that Republic of Doyle is quickly becoming one of my favourite television series, and encourage others to support Canadian programming in the hopes that our Canadian identity overshadowed by the powerful American networks can find a way to prevail. Instead of criticizing an industry we are greatly uniformed about, we must begin to fund, support and improve Canadian television together.

I would cross the bridge every morning on the way to class. Often I’d look to the stream that ran underneath and stare at the ducks as they ate. But today I noticed something curious and unfamiliar. In a small cardboard box wedged between two rocks, was a stuffed animal. Peering out of the box, and directing it’s black, marble eyed gaze toward me, it waved. Confused, I carried on walking, and averted my glance to the sidewalk ahead.

The little thing was there again the next day, but more eager, leaning out of the box and waving. I chose not to look away this time, and instead met it’s black marbled eyes with mine. It continued to wave, and I continued to walk.

On the third day, it rained. When I crossed the bridge, I could see that the cardboard box was falling apart. The waving animal was absorbing water as well, and as the stream gained momentum and splashed into the box, it’s eager wave had been weighed down. I walked on and got to class, as an unsettling feeling started to absorb me.

On the way home I decided that I would help the little thing, and so, carefully, I walked down to the muddy bank to pick it up. It looked at me with it’s black marbled eyes, and though it remained expressionless, I could sense it’s gratitude. Gently, I squeezed the water out of it’s heavy body, opened my bag, and placed it inside. When the rain had cleared up, the animal climbed out. Affectionately it wrapped it’s little arms around the back of my neck, before laying it’s head down to rest, and for the remainder of my journey home, I wore a silly grin.

I have seen evil,
I have witnessed great despair.
I have wept not only for myself, but for the fate of humanity.

I have seen the breakdown of a family,
I have felt the synthetic fibers and people that make up a courtroom.
I have fought both systematic and institutionalized violence.

I have felt agony and then nothing in a matter of seconds

I have wept for my country.
I have wept for my religion.
I have wept for my friends.
I have wept for my attacker.

I have wept for passive victims and the internalized shame and guilt they must feel,
but probably cannot openly discuss.
I have wept on help-lines; I have wept to social services.
I have wept to my friends.

However, I did not weep in front of my rapist.
I did not weep in court.
I did not weep during my 5.5 hour cross-examination.
I did not weep when the Defense Attorney asked me to put on my rapist’s sweater.
I did not weep as my brothers sat and watched my 3.5 hour testimony.
I did not weep as my attacker’s friends & family glared at me.

I am not a passive victim of violence.
I am not a victim, nor am I a survivor.
I was surviving long before my attack and will survive long after.
I know what happened to me; and I know who I am.

I am 1% in Canada with a 10% chance of conviction.

I am an upper-class, privileged white woman.
I am your sister
your friend
cousin
co-worker
employee
classmate
girlfriend
daughter
I fought for my life and won.

I have seen evil; I know evil.

And I have conquered the depths of humanity’s horror.

I won;
power

If someone is not satisfied with an outcome, they edit it. They will actively go out of their way to discover and eliminate the mistake. Though the art of editing is typically associated with the field of journalism and writing, it can be applied to human interaction or, in a layman’s term, our social life.

We have all sat down and critically examined our group of friends, to determine who still fits in with the tone and structure of our life. Like a misspelled word, the ones who do not make the cut are scratched out permanently in red ink.

Having power is simply another means of control. Power over a situation, your body, or another person is naturally seductive, and ever forbidden.

Getting the upper hand is a game that everyone plays, but no one admits to. It is the ultimate game of wit for those with a hunger and passion for the cerebral. People are inherently controlling. This is the dark, seedy underbelly of humanity that is rarely discussed.

While I waited at a red light, I saw him walking, a steady, but abrupt pace. One leg stiffer than the other. He wore the same leather jacket, the ring in his eye brow. His long black hair hung around a stoic face, a face that seemed hard. I recognized him instantly.

A few weeks ago, we met at a rally in front of the children’s aid society. I asked him why he was there. “Judged unfit” he said, “Taken,” “No goodbyes.” He told me his child died in foster care. The most important thing taken from him, all he had left was the power to protest, to make them think they had not broken him yet.

The masked vulnerability in his gait, in his solid gaze staring straight ahead, holding his coffee in a paper cup. Tears sprang to my eyes as I watched his walk. Trying to embody toughness, to show disinterest through his walk – but his entire being cracking with sorrow.