I'M NOT RELIGIOUS -SO WHY DOES EVERYTHING FEEL LIKE A SIN?

I remember the first guy that I ever liked was Dominic T and I was ten years old. To this day I am still drawn to that dark, Italian look. There was a craze in school that year that one had to write down your secret crush on a piece of paper and little tidbits of information and then share it with your friends. So much for secrecy. My mother found it. She called me into the kitchen and I knew right off that i had done something wrong.

"If you're old enough to be doing that sort of thing..." she began. She then let go on a tirade. I cannot remember the rest of it. I just remember the shame. I felt the heat starting in my ears and filling my body. My cheeks stayed inflamed for the longest time. The gist of it was that if I was old enough to do something like that I was old enough to basically undertake the duties of the Oval Office.

What I had done was obviously bad. Liking a boy was evil. I would not do it again.

I was reminded of this a while back because my neice has a crush on the Jonas Brothers and my mother was joking about it as though it were no big deal. She thought that it was cute.

We were not religious and I was not the sort of person that my conduct warranted any lockdown of the prison gates. I was not boy crazy. Far from it. I took books with me when we went camping, for God's sake.

Something about that day stayed with me for I did not date in school. I opted not to attend highschool dances. The message got reinforced by something that took place later on.

I spent the summer of my eleventh year with my Grandparents in Europe and met some of my cousins. Afterwards, we kept in touch by mail. Finally, a couple of years later, it was time to return. I was really looking forward to it and I had purchased gifts. Due to the frequent letter writing, I had included some stationary. When we arrived at the large family gathering, my cousins were waiting and waving.

"Oh, you can't give them the gift." said my Dad. "They've changed." It took me a second to get what he meant and then it dawned on me. Oh...they'd grown up. They had breasts. I guess as we were now 15 that was normal. They were the same people that I knew from our correspondence. They had not turned into the Whores of Babylon. Yet, somehow, I picked up the very clear message that there was something wrong with their having matured. I was fairly thin and a late bloomer. I pulled back and I know that the visit was marred by it. We never kept in touch again. To this day I do not know what they have gone on and done with their lives. As for the stationary, it sat in a drawer in my bedroom for years.

Not only did I not partake of the normal rights of passage in highschool, but I did not wear makeup. Somehow I also sensed that it would not be okay. After I graduated I went on a student exchange program. Away from home I felt freer and let loose. I bought some tasteful, subdued stuff. My Mother and brother scoffed about it when they saw it on me. I felt like I was the painted, scarlet woman.

Had we been Southern Baptists I could have rationalized all of it. We were not. I really don't think my parents even remember this and I certainly would never bring it up. But, as an adult I still have not introduced anybody to my family as a parter, date, significant other, fill in the blanks or none of the above. Nothing. I start to fidget when somebody so much as hints at asking me out.

It was in university that my anorexia manifested itself. I never had treatment. I always say that my love of reading and my natural insight was my therapy. And hey, it was all free. But seriously, I would not recommend it.

REFLECTIONS ON SEPTEMBER 11 AND REGRET

(Background: A while back I was at work. Technically, we are entitled to a break but it doesn't happen. I like to write or read. While doing it, Blair called and asked what I was doing and I told him that I was reworking something I had written. We started to talk about regrets. I asked him---what would you regret more should you find out that you had a short time to live? That which you did or that which you did not do with your life. He did not hesitate in giving me his answer. Sadly, about a month later he became ill. Tests showed he had cancer. Blair died this past month. So, I finished the piece and it's dedicated to my friend.)

The beauty of the day somehow added to the unreality of the event. There were blue skies over much of the continent that morning. Though it was the first week of school for most, it was so much like summer that the impetus to play hooky must have been felt by many. Even the jaded worker drones had to have heard the faint laughs of Tom and Huck and contemplated calling in sick.

The initial incomprehensibility may have been as a reult of the spate of l970's disaster movies we'd watched. It was the hijacked plane, the towering inferno and Black Sunday group somehow interspliced into one film. Perhaps that without the laugh track, musical score or commentary by Larry King we're no longer capable of processing events on our own. Reality, however, did finally hit. This was no "War of the Worlds" with relief at hand during the next commercial break.

Each year as September 11 comes around, I chose to reflect on how this traumatic event has really affected my life. I do not fly, but as a result of my finances I didn't travel before. I am not in a job negatively impacted by that day. I have never mistaken the white powder on the counter for anything but spilled sugar or salt and I do not scan public places for mysterious packages. My only fear of the postal system relates to my Visa bill.

What I can't get beyond, however, is the last minutes in the lives of those people who fell or leapt from the skies. The people on some of the planes kn ew after the first furitive phone calls what awaited them. They had several minutes to appraise their lives; to become their own St. Peter.

Who did these people choose to call? Did they profess their love or their apologies? As they sat huddled in the back of those planes and went through the balance sheet of their lives did they have more regrets over what they did or what they did not do? Did they lament not smiling at the person on the train that they'd always secretly liked? Did they finally accept their talents and recognize the waste in not developing them? Was it the silence over last night's dinner that haunted them?

The reports that we heard via the media conveyed the concern towards others that these final calls displayed. Not only did they talk about love for their families, but they wanted to reassure them somehow that everything would be all right. "Don't worry, it will be quick", said one caller. They did not seek an outlet for their own terror, but rather wanted to alleviate that of others. "Be happy, I love you and go on."

The ultimate form of altruism was displayed by the rescue personnel and the passengers on Flight 93. The fire staff were proffesionals of whom many must have assessed the situation and realized that they would not make it out. They nevertheless put on their gear and headed up the stairs. There were reports even of untrained civilians who stopped to help strangers in those two towers; this in a city that once embraced its brusqueness and where aloofness was a badge of cool. Some of these people died in the staircases as they could not leave another human alone in that hell. It would seem that the inherent strength and goodness of these people was magnified at the end; they became even more of their true selves.

In the end it is this that I cannot get beyond; the final minutes. The people that even as they jumped to their deaths took the hand of another. Those passengers who had mere minutes to assess, comprehend, plan and act to avoid a far graver catastrophe. As they looked out at that beautiful blue sky and knew that it would momentarily be gone to them forever they somehow saw beyond that horizon and past themselves.

I think of the lines spoken in commemoration of another conflict..."Never have so few sacrificed so much for so many" and ask myself what would I do in those last few minutes? More so, what are we capable of doing now? Finally, why do we allow those regrets to build and why are there far too many moments not taken? So on September 11, I will think of the profound sadness of the day itself but also of the waste and neglect we allow to happen each day.

FILLING THE HOLLOW

I feed the hollow,
Hard, heavy pit within.
Yet all that I swallow,
Doesn't fill, doesn't kill
Doesn't keep the feelings in.

But still I eat.
Frenzied, fast; a furitive game,
Mad dash, a clock to beat.
To shove it down---dark and deep.
All the guilt and all of the shame.

'Til at last, how it aches
Bloated, bleary. A greasy feast.
A carnage of boxes of candy and cakes.
But the void has been silenced.
Numb now, this sleeping beast.

Not a good call

I got off the phone with my mother a while back and my father went to the hospital today. He is back home now, but must go in for tests tomorrow and surgery on Wednesday. At least I am on rest days and I had booked a vacation day for that day, so I shall drive out.

Dad had gone in for Lasik eye work a while ago and he'd had a bad reaction...a detachment. The doctor made sure that he was prone in the vehicle as he was driven to the hospital for the check up so as to not do any more damage. That's how bad it was.

I wrote of guilt the other day and there it comes again. I guess I am feeling now how they felt every day for the longest time with me when I was ill. They need not have done so of course, as they did nothing wrong.

My parents came to this country from Europe with nothing and basically learned the language on their own. Mom was so young and it must have been so scary. Back in those days when you left, you were gone. You came with whatever goods you could pack into a couple of trunks. To make a long distance phone call you had to get on the phone with the operator and book an appointment. The link was always terrible. I doubt anybody now remembers telegrams, but they existed for a reason. When they got here, Dad became ill and had to spend half a year in a TB ward. It was a shameful thing, as only poor people got that disease. Mom found a job in a hospital and then visited him daily after her shift. It was a long, hard recovery.

Years later, my Dad developed cancer. It was one of those ones that most people died from. Through absolute tenacity he made it. But it was so hard to go in to visit him. In days he went from this big, strong guy to a man weighing nothing. He refused morphine as he didn't like how it messed with his head and he had a theory that he needed his faculties to fight it. I had to shut down to go in to visit him. I didn't want him to see that it hurt to visit. I have become really good at doing that with my job.

Mom worked as a cleaning lady despite arthritis. They gave her this thing called "gold treatment shots" (layman's term) to treat it. The side effect almost killed her. The doctor said that had she not gone to the hospital when she did, she had hours to live. Her blood platelet count was almost nothing and she wasn't clotting.

They have gone through so much and really deserve to enjoy their retirement, yet I never see them sitting still. Always worrying about others and fussing around.

Ah, guilt. Me and my shadow, as the song goes. I may be healthy weight wise, but I can never forgive myself. I will go and visit and hope that all is well.

WHO? Controversy and Claire Culhane

A while back I was speaking with a newly minted graduate from a Criminal Justice Institute and much to my surprise he did not know who Claire Culhane was.

Claire was born in Montreal in l918 to Russian, Jewish immigrant parents. Early on, her social activist roots came forth when she joined the Communist Party. This was done as they were the only people at the time speaking out or doing anything about the regime in Spain. It put her on the RCMP watchdog list for life, but was nothing compared to what would have happened had she lived in the U.S.

Her job managed to get her a posting in Vietnam in the l960.s in a medical facility. It was the events that took place at this hospital which really inspired her. She saw that Canada had dirty hands in its dealings with the CIA. She was sickened by the comments made by some of those she encountered towards the civilian population.

When she returned to Canada she became heavily involved in the peace movement and went on a hunger-strike in a "tiger cage" on Parliament Hill. I cannot help but think that had she been younger, people now would remember her more. After all, we still talk of the 60's radicals from the States as they were young and sexy. Claire was 50 when the Tet Offensive took place.

In the 70's she became involved in the prison abolitionist movement. These were turbulent times for the prisons on the west coast there were numerous hostage takings and riots. One culminated in the shooting death of a female classification officer. After this, when another incident took place, Claire was seen by the inmates as a trusted advisor and go-between, as were some people in the media.

My path first crossed briefly with Claire in the l980's at a conference at SFU. She must have been 65 years of age at the time. The topic was prison privatization and as Reagan and Thatcher were in power, this was increasingly the plan of action in the U.S. The learned professors had spoken and Claire, if I recall correctly, was not a slated speaker but nobody was going to stop her. I heard a seat move behind me and up she stood. She gave a talk and a phrase she used still stands out. She called this the "privatization of misery".

Over the years I saw her a couple of times. I'd nod hello and ask how she was. She was active well into the 80's in picketing jails. Until her death in l996 she continuued to write to inmates.

I have met and spoken with people who were involved in the various incidents described in her two books "Barred from Prison" and "Still Barred from Prison". The inmates all consider her a very kind and caring woman. Others state that her facts were wrong. They pointed out that during one of the incidents she was caught removing letters (contraband) on behalf of the inmates.

In truth, I find her thinking on abolition deluded. There are people who must be locked up. You cannot safely allow them to roam the streets. Although mistakes have been made, on the whole our justice system is fair. By the time they hit prison, most people have had several kicks at the proverbial can. Peace, love and understanding does not cure all. But, I admire her for trying and being true to herself. While it was ultimately the work by lawyers such as Michael Jackson who brought down the walls of the B.C. Pen in his landmark cruel and unusual punishment work, Claire was the heart.

A controversial woman. Not somebody that I would always agree with. But, she does deserve to be remembered.

(Photo from Mcmaster University Archives)

As an aside, a quick book review. I haven't read any of these in years, but here goes:

Prisoners of Isolation: Solitary Confinement in Canada

author-Michael Jackson

University of Toronto Press

This is hardly reading for the bedside table, but this is a great overview of landmark, cruel and unusual punishment court cases. For all those people who don't understand why the system seems soft, I may recommend this book. The ruling in McCann changed how the jail system works. You do not need a law degree to read the book.

Barred From Prison: A Personal Account

author-Claire Culhane

Pulp Press

As stated, this is a personal account and includes clippings from newspaper articles. It is Claire's side of the story and is thus slanted. It is a classic in the prison abolitionist movement. It includes photos of the damage done during the riot; large holes in solid concrete and brick made by the force of toilets and beds smashing into it. It is very much a book of it's time (like Abby Hoffman's "Steal this Book").

Still Barred from Prison: Social Injustice in Canada

author-Claire Culhane

Black Rose Books

This time Claire takes on the new, sanitized system. Same old problems, as she describes the riots at Matsqui and Kent. Once again, Claire is only telling one side of the story. It is a larger overview of the system than her previous book. She looks at management this time also and not merely the frontline dynamics.

Book Review---Losing It

Losing It-And Gaining My Life Back One Pound at a Time
Valerie Bertinelli
Free Press

In this book, Valerie Bertinelli offers a biographical overview of her life with emphasis on her struggles with her marriage and weight. The two go hand in hand.

Growing up I remember wishing that I looked like her. I was always thin when I was young, but it's the old adage of wanting what we don't have. Being blond and blue eyed, I thought her dark hair looked more exotic. She also had that bubbley and cute personality that I envied. As I read the book I came to realize that she too felt ill at ease around the much slimmer Mckenzie Phillips and the classic blondes of the era.

While perceived to be the "good girl" she did her fair share of drugs. Her marriage to Van Halen rocker Ed obviously enabled that to take place, as did her working relationship with the aforementioned Mckenzie.

It was the failure of her marriage that caused her weight problems to intensify. But hey, we read all the time how happy and perfect the marriage was---didn't we? Imagine how hard that must be? Not only would she have to act on stage but all the time. To some extent we all do that (we, being women), but the pressure is all the more intense in Hollywood with the ever present tabloids. Whether or not one is given a role is also dependent on how one looks. Young and thin are de rigeur.

Ms Bertinelli came to realize that her weight struggles were not merely about what she ate but more a mirror of her psyche. As she came to terms with that, the roller coaster of her diet stopped.

The book is a quick read. To some extent I think she doesn't fully ask the really hard questions. For example, why would she show up smelling of wine and give her husband a kiss when he was in rehab? To some degree it shows passive aggressive behavior. Other than that, she does admit to some naughty business, such as having an affair. That's fairly bold of her as her script offers really do depend on her being perceived as being nice.

It's a good read if one wants entertainment. It is not a primer on eating disorders. I did like it, however.

WATCH---THE BRIDGE (DOCUMENTARY)

A number of years ago, a family member jumped off a bridge. As a result of that I formed my own little CSI into death by bridge. I think people should know what happens because there's this romantic notion of floating or flying off into some painless ethereal death. The truth is far from it. I won't get into the specifics here other than in a very minor way.

The landing is akin to hitting concrete; one's organs continue to travel and are ripped from the rest of the body as they are pushed upwards. The legs sometimes compact. One does not always hit water as there may be wooden pylons below. Shoulder tears in a large percentage of bodies indicate a desperate and failed attempt to grasp back onto something.

The documentary "The Bridge" does not go into these details but looks at the human loss and waste. The people who opt to jump had friends. Voids were left. These were not humans with chronic disease or pain.

There is one person, specifically, who leaves a haunting image as he paces back and forth. I am reminded of an animal in a cage. This is an individual, I thought, who did not want to die so much, but saw no other escape to a current situation. How sad that sometimes the options we offer people in solving their problems can be so limited.

I like the fact that there is no romanticism of death; this is not Ophelia floating down the river. There is no gothic imagery. Is is life and the people left behind who must deal with the act.

The video is currently available on Youtube. If one is a fan of documentaries, as I am, I would watch it. At least have a look at the trailer. And as an individual who saw what this act does to the survivors, I would beg anybody considering such an attempt, to seek help. Unlike taking pills, you will not have the last minute option of changing your mind and calling for help.