As I sit in my seat my mind races faster than the scenery that passes me by. Life is constantly in motion, never giving us a chance to absorb the moments that will one day be vague reminders of our past. The moments we love, cherish, and hold onto, the moments we despise, regret, and try our best to forget, but become forever indebted too. These are the things that will shape our future. We spend most our lives just trying to keep up, the same way my eyes feel looking through this window on our final drive home. How could I of known this would be the last time? Maybe I would have paid more attention to detail; perhaps I would have just enjoyed this moment for what it was. Instead I sit there feeling guilty. I’m a ball of emotions wrapped within my own questions of why things happen. I feel a sense of shame, mainly because I didn’t fully want to be there. At the time the feeling had me perplexed to why I felt this way. My eighty-pound frame sits anxiously in my seat, nervous to even speak more then two-three word sentences. This confuses me even more, because we should be comfortable enough that small talk would be a natural reflex, but he seems to have the same look as I do. The regret and fear mixed with thoughts of shame for not wanting to be there years prior, and myself feeling similar thoughts for not wanting to be there at that very moment. These emotions are clear to not only us, but also anyone who would encounter us on these outings. It’s a strange feeling when the act of silence expresses so much more than words could ever explain. This was normal by now; we’ve had our share of awkward moments to know if we wanted a strong relationship we had a long road ahead of us.
It was May 25th, my birthday, I had just turned twelve, and my father had decided to take me out for the day to pick up a gift. It was also our chance to hang out, and spend some much needed quality time. This wasn’t the norm, and one of the few recollections I have of this time period with us getting to know each other. I harbored so much built up anger for this man I had a hard time even getting motivated enough to do these things, but his offer to take me to the record store was an opportunity I would never pass up at the time. I had a passion for music, this was around the time I was slowly falling in love with it. I figured since my mother wouldn’t be there to intervene, it would surely be my best chance to get the most profane rap album I could get my hands on. My mother had just found god, and rap music was the devil in her newly cleansed eyes. She was still trying to force “Christian rap” in my stereo, I just didn’t see the appeal of a group called “The Gospel Gangsters” at the time, I had nothing against them, I’m sure they’re great, but at the age of twelve, listening to music with language your not even allowed to repeat in your own home is much more alluring I’d say.
After a day of sifting through albums, and getting some music my mother would chastise me for even bringing in our “holy abode” I was more fixated on getting this music through my mothers’ door and safely concealed in my bedroom. It was going to take some James Bond tactics to get this music past her and I was carefully constructing the blueprints of this elaborate scheme in my head all the way home. This would break up the monotony of feeling awkward around my own father, taking my mind off the situation at hand.
The particular moment that always stands out to me the most on this day was the ride back home. The silence at times felt so uncomfortable it was almost deafening to my ears, every bump or exterior noise outside the vehicle increasing tenfold as we travel back to our final destination. While driving, my father reaches into his center console storage compartment, and pulls out a birthday card he had stuffed in there prior to us meeting up. He hands it over as he stumbles over words to what he’s giving me, kind of an embarrassed look masks his face as he glances over while his eyes move slowly back to the road. It was sad to see, at the time I didn’t understand it, but it’s a memory I’ve analyzed to death throughout my older years. Why would a grown man look so afraid to give his son a birthday card? That is what I often asked myself. My father wasn’t good at showing emotion, or letting me know he even cared for that matter. The face he made in that moment kind of said it all to me, it was his apology, and it was the look of “I’m sorry son, I’m really trying here bud” at least this is what I made of it as I matured, and came to understand things as an adult, now.
Sometimes it’s the little things that count the most, the smallest of gestures, or in this case, a simple look into some ones eyes that could explain everything in a single moment. I saw his shame, embarrassment and regret, that this had been the first birthday card he had given me in many many years. I really wish I would have kept that card, but I was twelve, and cards were corny, besides, I was more concerned about the parental advisory sticker stamped on the front of my new CD. I didn’t know this would be our last drive home.
It was six days later, May 31st, and I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was just another typical end to a long school day; I was about to walk home with my best friend at the time like I always did but for some strange reason my grandmother showed up to school to pick me up. This was unusual I always looked forward to my walks home, so I refused her ride, and begged her to let me walk home with my friend. She reluctantly decided to let me but ordered me to walk straight home. She then leaned over and whispered something in my friend’s ear, something along the lines of making sure Steven comes straight home, it’s an emergency. He obviously tells me immediately as soon as her car drives away; I then instantly think there is something wrong with my great grandfather, who at the time wasn’t in the best of health. I was very close with him and had been bracing myself for news like this for a while. The worry hit me so hard that my mind was racing faster than I could keep up with, turning my enjoyable walk home into a full-fledged anxiety attack, terrified with each step closer to home to what this dreadful news could possibly be.
I remember walking into the house with that same deafening silence spread through out the air, my mother looking very distraught while struggling to find the right words to put a proper sentence together. She composes herself for a moment, and finally tells me my father had died earlier today in a car accident. That’s all I really remember, my recollection of the events that happen after that become fuzzy. I’m assuming I cried, but I couldn’t promise you I did, at least not that day. I was sad, it was a horrific event in my life, but mostly I felt cheated. I finally seen my father taking the initiative to try and be a good father and now he was gone forever. I’m left here to always wonder. I compare it to a bad ending to a movie that kind of just ends without explanation to what happens next. I often wonder if we would have been close or distant today. Would he have been the grandfather my kids deserve? These are questions that will never be answered. What I hold onto are the handful of good memories, and little moments like the one mentioned above on that drive home. A moment that to some might be meaningless, but to me, I hold onto and cherish it for what it was to this day.
My Father. May 14, 1959 – May 31, 1995.
I often think it was fate that we were brought together just before his passing. The couple months we spent together are what gave me any real memories to hold onto after his death. It was a small glimpse into the man he was but without those times I’d really have nothing else to look back on. I forgave my father eventually for his absence; it took years to put the pieces together to come to this point. I can’t change what has already happened, and I accept that. I’m a better father because of it. If anything I learned a valuable lesson in more ways than one. I enjoy the simple moments just as much as the bigger milestones that come with life. So I thank him for that, I hope he found his peace with me as well. Until we meet again, I try my best to absorb all that comes my way, no matter how fast life moves within my visuals.
My life wasn’t all tragic events and heartbreaks; but getting to happier times did take some bumps in the road and many wrong turns along the way. Being raised by a single mother of two comes with its ups and downs. The odds were stacked against us immediately. We didn’t grow up with much; for the most part we were raised on government welfare, but it definitely made life much more interesting. We moved around the city every few months in my earliest years as a child. My mother was very unstable and my father for the most part was off living his life without us. I remember going back and forth to my grandparent’s house anytime things got really bad. My grandmother was kind of our saving grace, always there to catch us just before we fell into complete chaos. Years later my mother would meet my brothers father, who had two children himself that lived with him. He really wasn’t much better than my own father, and if anything would probably take the second place trophy of the two. My mother endured many unhappy years of abuse from this man. It was probably some of the worst memories from childhood. Being the odd ball of the family was extremely hard to deal with as well, mainly because I was his only stepson of the four children, all boys at that too. Imagine three chubby blonde children than the dark haired skinny kid walks in. I couldn’t blend in if I tried. I also really didn’t want too, I hated this guy more than onions on my burger, and I still dislike onions today with a passion. Eventually my mother realized that some people won’t ever change, and her newfound prince charming would never be the man she imagined him to once be. She could no longer play house and hide his evil in disguise, it was apparent to everyone this relationship wasn’t a healthy one. My mother’s newfound courage to get us out of this bad situation soon brought us to my favorite neighborhood of the many we sampled over our travels across town.
The street was called Normandy, and I loved absolutely everything about that block of government town homes built to house mainly single parent welfare recipients. It made my dysfunctional family dynamic feel somewhat normal. No one could say they were better than the other; we were all there for similar reasons, being below the poverty line. To live in this hidden gem of a neighborhood you had to house at least two kids per town home, so imagine the amount of kids running ramped throughout this one block radius on a day-to-day basis. There was never a shortage of things to do, kids to play with and trouble to get into.
My house on Normandy.
The early 90’s were the time of hockey cards, playing marbles in the dirt, and frustrating gaming systems like the Atari. I loved Ninja turtles, The Goonies and WWF wrestling, jumping off my couch replicating Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka off the top ropes, or pretending to rip my shirt off exposing my 24” inch pythons like my idol Hulk Hogan was all a daily routine. I remember begging my mom to let me wear my pants backwards to school since Kris Kross made this fashion trend the newest fade of the time, and putting cuts in my eyebrows was a must to be as “Fresh” as Vanilla Ice with his hit “Ice Ice Baby”. We stayed there for many years, the longest we had lived anywhere, and that stability made me a much happier kid.
My mother actually let me put those cuts in the eyebrow.
The summers on Normandy were always legendary. The thing about most families living here was the parents really didn’t care what we did on summer break. No rules applied, kids of all ages were let loose to wreck havoc on the block, as long as they stayed out of their parents’ hair for a couple months. Kids would be running around outside way past dark, riding bikes up and down the street past 9 or 10pm was just normal in our world.
There was a store at the end of the block, just around the corner from us; I remember it selling everything you could imagine, especially lots of toys. One day the store was broken into just after closing. For some odd reason the news got back to our neighborhood, I’m just assuming but I’m almost positive it was someone from the street who was the guilty culprit. Some how the rumor of the break-in turned into “the store is closing down and everything is free” a pretty ridiculous way to have a going out of business sale, but hey, we went with the more appealing choice of the two. I remember the sea of people charging in that direction like some sort of stampede, parents included. I guess this was their chance to partake in the “no rule” street policy also. As I sat on my front stoop, I watched moms and dads bolt down the road like it was the 100-meter dash, with TV’s, Toys and even patio furniture in hand. The look of panic and exhilaration across their faces to get these bargain sale items back home safely radiating from their faces. I remember hearing people screaming and laughing with excitement, it was like Christmas came early for us. After an hour or so, the store would be stripped to its bare bones.
Later that night, I remember hearing a knock on the door; my mother gets up, turns her new TV down and heads to the door, while my brother and I played in the living room with our new remote control cars. “Hello ma’am, not sure if you were aware but the store down the road was burglarized, would you happen to know anything about this?” asked the police officer “umm, no I don’t sir, but that is horrible to hear” said my mother, as my brother and I sat in the living room with the most evil grins on our faces, probably not the best example a parent should set for their kids, but it was a celebration for every welfare-raised child living on Normandy that day.
As I was going through my collection of stolen goodies; wondering why my mother thought it was necessary to steal five Atari game systems, I came across a Michael Jordan basketball, I had never really played basketball or been good at any sport, but I figured this gave me enough reason to at least try. To my surprise I instantly fell in love, it came so easy to me, and I felt like it was second nature. I had tried other sports in the past that I was absolutely horrible at. I tried playing soccer and remember having no interest at all, instead of running for the ball I’d walk around the field singing Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young” in my head, while my mom and grandmother watched from the sidelines wondering what the hell I was doing. I tried karate also; I was such a wimpy kid I’d flinch if someone sneezed in my presence, so that really didn’t work either but basketball was different, I became obsessed with it, and it felt amazing to actually be good at something, it wasn’t a feeling I was accustomed too, but it was exhilarating and it would be my rock through-out public school to high school. It kept me busy, definitely kept me out of mischief in a neighborhood where trouble would be the easiest alternative to get into. We couldn’t afford one of those cool retractable basketball nets most the kids had these days, so my mother’s boyfriend at the time bought a rim and drilled it to the side of the house. It wasn’t the sturdiest thing either, since it was essentially drilled to nothing to keep it in place. Every two-three days it had to be re-drilled in place after the bigger kids would yank it off the side of the house. It also made the most horrific noise inside the house anytime a ball hit the rim, I’m surprised my mother even put up with the noise, but I guess it was better than us taking over the inside of the house and making a mess.
The infamous basketball.
One day one of those bigger kids on my block stole my precious Michael Jordan ball I’d become so obsessed with bringing everywhere with me. There wasn’t much I could do, I might have been good at basketball but I was still that wimpy kid that gave up on Karate. His name was James; I remember that because he wrote “James Ball” right across the thing right after punking me in my own driveway. He was a stocky kid and had more muscle than I probably have as a grown man today. I’m guessing he was about five years older, or maybe he just looked that way to me. He was a scary kid and I’d probably still hand over my ball today If I saw him at a local court.
Times like this, when things were out of my hands, and we had no other option of intimidation we’d call “Grandpa Frog” as we use to call him. He wasn’t the old wrinkled man sitting in his rocking chair sipping a tea type of grandpa; he was the outlaw biker who had no respect for authority type of grandpa. His name was Bernie Guindon and at that time it was a name most people knew and feared. It didn’t take long before I was back playing with my basketball, even though the words James ball were now plastered across the thing, but whatever Gramps did it worked.
The boxing days.
Bernie was a colorful character, full of life and very out going. The type of guy everyone wanted to be around. I remember he exuded great energy and kindness that would instantly make anyone gravitate towards him. His wife at the time called it the “Bernie Charm” which made it easy to convince anyone to believe anything that came out of his mouth. His passions were motorcycles and boxing. He was a fighter for the majority of his life, and eventually found himself winning a bronze medal in the Pan Am games. Although, his fascination with motorcycles might have been his biggest downfall that would later turn this squeaky clean charmer into the notorious criminal mastermind he is today. It was all he knew and good or bad it was his love, and no one would tell him any different.
The way I remember him.
It was the 1960’s and the now notorious biker gang Satan’s Choice ruled the underworld of the drug trade. Bernie, who previously had been part of other friendlier bike clubs, had moved on to the more exciting outlaw side of the fence, eventually joining forces with Satan’s Choice. He was a very active member with his fingerprints scattered on all ends of the clubs dealings, whether legal or illegal, and that Bernie Charm was the same exact thing pushing him up the ladder of the Satan’s Choice rankings. Eventually, the national president and founder Don Harris, started to fear for his life, so deep in the crime scene it was almost too much responsibility, and not what this founding father had in mind initially. He eventually decided Bernie was the perfect candidate to pass the torch to in 1975. Bernie took the opportunity with open arms and turned the club from an unorganized group of members with no direction, to an army of drug soldiers who controlled the streets every move. This would eventually land him and his team into the history books of Canadian crime syndicates and being the name of the 70’s-80’s that was on every law enforcements mind.
In 1975 Toronto was a flourishing city, disco runs the club scene, and nothing accompanied this better than drugs and alcohol. The police are very aware of the Italian mafia being the lead distributers of cocaine through out the city, they are forever playing the cat and mouse game hot on their tails. While all this attention is being invested in the Mafia’s of Toronto, the new emerging biker gang Satan’s Choice is almost free to do as they please. Distributing PCP aka angel dust across the city and country with out any cause for concern. PCP is a very misleading drug, that can cause extreme paranoia, violence and suicide, and this is what was controlling the streets in mass quantity.
While the RCMP, national criminal intelligent service, gather information on known criminals controlling the Toronto streets through their research of mafia affiliates, their research eventually lands them to Bernie Guindon, who is now public enemy #1 in drug trafficking suspects within the city.
Toronto’s Yonge St. is filled with strip clubs, and sleazy massage parlors, with flashing neon lights bombarding the nightlife on every corner. This would be the perfect spot for Bernie and The Choice to set up shop to use for their new booming street business. They invest in a massage parlor, which Bernie worked at on a regular basis; all the money laundering would run through this “legal” business venture. Packages of cash would come and go just as frequent as legitimate customers, while Bernie would orchestrate every move behind the counter on his throne. The profits became enormous and booming became an understatement with the numbers sky rocketing into the millions of dollars.
The RCMP wasn’t fully fooled like Bernie and the rest were assuming. The parlors phones were tapped frequently and eventually lead them to the drug supplier and location. The operation ran very much like the hit TV show “Breaking Bad” but instead of trailers and random houses for lab set ups, Bernie and The Choice decided to take their lab cross waters to a small remote area in northern Ontario called Wawa. Bernie’s close associate was already a very wealthy man that owned a private island in the area, which they decided would be the perfect place for the biggest drug lab ever to be constructed in Canadian history. It was run 24 hours a day to keep up with the street demand. By the time the police found their way to this location through hundreds of tapped parlor phone conversations, the building housed eighty eight million dollars worth of illegal PCP ready to be shipped out for further profits. Although, Bernie himself was never found with any illegal substances in his possession ever, he ends up with the stiffest sentence of all, getting seventeen years of hard time in federal prison for his involvement. His associate gets ten years, and left Bernie to this day with the burning feeling that someone cut a deal of a life time, leaving him with the short end of the stick.
After serving nine of his seventeen-year sentence Bernie was fresh out of prison, it was the late 80’s, and this is when my grandfather would appear in my life. I had no idea of any of this stuff even happening, and I probably wouldn’t care at the age of six years old, I was just happy to have a cool grandpa with a Harley.
Although he didn’t come out to the millions of dollars they lost in the bust, he was taken care of by the club who showered him with money, cars and I’m sure lots of woman, all this for their leader who took the wrap and did his time. I’m assuming I was born when he was confined in the midst of his prison term, my mother being his first child of twenty children that we knew of, I became the first grandchild of many more to come. This made us have a very strong bond immediately; I remember he would always reiterate the title of first grandkid to everyone like it was an accomplishment I should hold up high. He might have had more children than six normal families would combine, but he was proud of them all and took the time to make everyone feel special.
I remember every year he would come by on his bike and pick me up on my birthday, and we’d drive straight to Toys-R-Us to get anything I wanted. I can’t say I loved the ride on the bike; I was always terrified, and felt like I couldn’t breathe as I clinched onto the back of his leather Satan’s Choice jacket for dear life, as we bobbed and weaved through the 401 traffic with the wind slamming me in the face.
With such a busy life and the itch to partake in the same types of activity he was imprisoned for still lingering in his mind, he would often drift in and out of our lives, until later taking a back seat as the active grandpa I once knew him as. He might have been the cool grandpa that was loads of fun, but he definitely wasn’t the stable one.
My grandmother had left him years before any of these stories above had occurred, my grandmother would be terrified to watch a stolen cable signal, let alone be involved in anything drug related. She met Bernie as a young teen and soon after had my mother at the age of nineteen. Fed up with his new change of direction, and foreseeing a future with no promise, she left him soon after the birth of my mother. She then would meet the man I call my grandfather today. He may not be related by blood, but he has been in my life since birth, and has always been the stable one I could call on for anything. He’s the total opposite of everything Bernie was, honest and hard working, and spent majority of his life in the skill trade of plumbing working for GM like so many others of his generation. He migrated from London England to Canada in the 1970’s, former Army veteran who would apply his stern tactics learned from years of being military minded in our day to day lives, he instantly demands respect to anyone who encounters him, he kind of holds that intimidation factor Bernie actually possessed but in a total different type of manor.
He still holds onto the thick accent he inherited from his homeland, which at times makes it hard to understand him, especially as a kid with his alternate ways of pronouncing the most common of words. To this day I swear he’s saying “Let’s go to the mail” when he’s trying to say “Let’s go to the mall”, at times we still find this amusing and have good laughs about it.
My grandmother tells me they met at a valentine dance, which I still can’t picture this man even attending such a thing, since romance looks like the last thing on his mind. I’ve probably seen them kiss five times in my thirty-two years, I know they love each other, but I guess affection isn’t the way this militant man shows he cares. He’s provided a good life for the people around him, although, maybe the cheapest man I’ve probably ever met, he would never let anyone around him suffer. I would have never been able to travel outside of Canada if it weren’t for him; family trips to Disney World would never be something we would of experienced living off government assistance for most my life. I’m grateful for all those material things, but more so thankful for him being that rock that holds the family together. He’s a protector, and always made me feel safe. I can’t say we were the closest growing up, mainly because I wasn’t used to the order he demanded, but now as a mature adult I realize he just wanted the best for me. As an adult I feel we are much closer, and in ways I’ve earned his respect going from that lazy kid watching TV in his basement for hours on end, and eating all his food, to the responsible mature adult I am today.
My grandparents. The look of love.
People have come and gone out of my life quite frequently, my grandparents on the other hand have been there every step of the way, especially my grandmother. I can honestly say she is my best friend; I’m not even ashamed to admit I’m a full-fledged mama’s boy when it comes to her. The bond we made in my childhood was one that I’m grateful for, and I feel extremely lucky to have her. Although, she might baby me a little too much, and sometimes I think she still looks at me as that little kid incapable of doing anything for himself, I’m really not complaining. If I were to check my voicemail at anytime there would be at least nine unheard messages from her at any given time yelling “Steven, pick up the phone, can you hear me?” She never did get the concept of physical answering machine equipment to cell phone voicemail, I’ve told her a million times I can’t hear her yelling through my phone. I’ve come to accept she didn’t embrace the new digital age, granny just keeps it old school. Although, she didn’t take to new technology, she does try to remain youthful. She’s light on her feet, always on the go; which earned her the nickname the energizer bunny. She still bleaches her hair just like she did back in the 80’s, and rejects anything that would imply she’s old. She would refuse the senior discount at restaurants if it weren’t for my cheap grandfather who never misses a chance to save a buck.
We have rituals we never break and have consistently done for years on end. We never miss Fiesta week for some perogies and cabbage rolls every June at the old Dnipro Ukrainian hall that I use to dance at myself as a kid. My grandmother and even my great grandparents were all Ukrainian show dancers at one point in time. Although, the traditions of our culture have become way less active in our everyday life after my great grandparents passed away, we still keep up the yearly routine and it always makes for a trip down memory lane.
Soon after the death of my father, I ended up moving in with my grandparents. My mother’s mental state wasn’t the greatest, she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and her mood shifts became unbearable to handle. Traumatic events like my father’s passing probably didn’t help matters and made everyday life living with her very challenging. I often remember being very confused as a child; it was almost difficult to keep up with the quick transitions from extreme happiness to complete depression. Large parts of my childhood I felt I was always doing something wrong to provoke her. Wasn’t until many years later I realized it had nothing to do with me, and it was something she struggles to control.
The move from my mother’s to my grandparents’ house happened just before high school, and felt much like an episode of “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” going from having next to nothing, struggling with my mother to get by financially, to living worry free and being taken care of. My grandmother spoiled me; I always had the newest Jordan’s, fashionable clothing and newest gadgets. It was a far cry from the kid who was once made fun of for wearing the same pants one to many times to school.
During this time I felt a sense of guilt for leaving my younger brother behind to deal with my mother alone, he was five years younger than me, and a little too young and hard to handle for my grandparents liking. My brother was a very hyper kid, mischief was his middle name, and he would never miss a chance to get into some trouble. ADD (attention deficit disorder) would be what the doctors said was the reason he lived life like a loose cannon. Ritalin was the drug they’d push on him to mellow him out. Probably the only kid I’ve known to get kicked out of pre-school, how he managed that I will never know, but he did it in record time. His name was Devin, I feel horrible saying it now but they use to call him “Devin The Devil”, He was bad, but it was an unfair title, people would magnetize what he did wrong most the time, and overlook what he did right. Maybe with more praise of the good things he would have realized it would benefit him more than causing a ruckus. He was a very smart kid, but the ability to focus on something was his downfall. A bright teacher once picked up on his intelligence and figured out that the work was too juvenile for him, and not challenging enough to keep his attention. His short attention span would lead him to pick up many talents and move on to the next one just as quickly. He learned to play guitar in a matter of weeks by himself. He also would pick up the most random of talents that most people would never think to do. He mastered the art of “balloon modeling” which is the art of making balloon animals amongst other figures. It was odd at first but he was amazing at it, going from small figures to enormous balloon structures, eventually landing jobs making up to five hundred bucks a day at store openings and birthday parties displaying his hobby of the month. I think he was a gifted kid, and had the tools to do anything he wanted with the right guidance and direction, and to this day when family members knock him down for the bad he’s done I disagree and praise him for his accomplishments regardless of how small.
The two closest friends I’d meet from this move and would later stick around to this day would be Faraz and Murray. Faraz is Iranian and his parents had moved here for a better life years before. Murray is Jamaican, and proud of it, he’d be representing his flags colors even in the clothing he’d wear.
Murray’s the reliable friend; he’s the guy you call if you’re moving, short on some cash, or suddenly break down in the middle of nowhere. He’s the first one at every birthday party for my children asking why the hell everyone else is so late. When in all actuality he’s an hour early. He’s not the guy to go to for advice, as he’s the most laid back person alive. His advice for every situation is “ah, forget about it”, words of wisdom from the great Murray Lynch, rules to live by.
Faraz is the joker of the bunch. Nothing has changed over the fifteen years since we met and we still act like the same seventeen-year-old high school kids who once roamed the halls together. Put us two in a room and our maturity levels immediately drop. He’s unfiltered, says the type of stuff that makes you cringe and shake your head in complete disbelief. Not everyone finds this entertaining, but my little clique of friends always did.
Faraz’s wedding day. Him and Murray thought this would be a great shot for the wedding album.
People from the outside looking in who are unaware of how us three friends operate would probably question if we were really friends at all. At times we are so bluntly honest with each other it’s down right cruel, we’ve grown so close it’s almost a brotherly love thing where nothing could really be said to break us apart, regardless of how ruthless. Our hang outs usually consist of myself making fun of Faraz’s big nose, in return Faraz making fun of my big head, and either one of us telling Murray how disgustingly ashy his feet look. No harm, no foul policy for us three; all in good fun and keeps us on our toes, and in Murray’s case his very ashy toes.
The type of stuff my friends and I do when we get bored.
Although I found some friends I really related with the town of Bowmanville was still a tough adjustment, it might be only 30 minutes east of my former living quarters but it felt worlds away. Instead of basketball the craze was hockey, which is something I didn’t understand at all. It also made finding friends I could relate with a lot harder than my old stomping grounds. Coming here felt like a complete time warp, this underdeveloped hick town felt way behind in what was going on in my world. Rap music was uncool here, and the fashion was laughable and misunderstood to most. Weird looks and slick comments to what I was wearing or listening to were common. It was very odd since everything about Hip Hop where I came from was the “in” thing. Years later they’d finally catch on, but that didn’t mean I didn’t go through years of looking “different” because my musical taste and fashion was a little unorthodox for this backwoods town. Luckily, when I reached high school I would meet a group of guys with similar interests. Living in a town where dressing like a skinhead was cooler than a hip-hop head would make for a lot of confrontations.
Bowmanville was filled with misguided teens that would toss racist slurs around with no remorse. They were unfamiliar with cultural diversity and not exposed too much outside of what they were raised in. The town was predominately white, myself included, but hockey and grunge rock wasn’t my thing. So I was kind of an odd ball from the jump, and branded to not be like the rest. My group of friends was no different. In the sea of cliques of white kids would sit our group of multiculturalism. We all gravitated to each other from either being different culturally or different in what was considered “normal” and acceptable in this town that refused to change.
We’d constantly be reminded that we were different. It was never surprising to hear hateful comments under the breath of passing classmates. It was frustrating; I never adjusted to the change. I was used to not even acknowledging such things as race but became forced to living here every day with constant reminders’ that really opened my eyes to a whole new side of people and their differences.
For the most part I was still a popular kid and well liked, minus a few Ignorant kids who couldn’t see past our differences. I mostly just coasted through school under the radar the best I could academically. I wasn’t one to seek attention, pick up vices like smoking because other kids were doing it, or feel the need to hit every house party possible to just be seen. If anything I strayed away from popularity, feeling comfortable with being alone a lot of the time. I wouldn’t say I was a totally depressed teen, but a lot of my past struggles made me more of an introvert by choice. I probably noticed this more than others, at times I’d pretend to be the social butterfly most assumed I was just too seem normal, but half the time I’d be more content at home listening to music or playing basketball alone for hours on end. I’ve always been a deep thinker, more of a listener than a talker, never feeling the need to overtake situations with careless amount of words just to be heard. I wouldn’t say I’m really shy either; I just don’t like to talk for the sake of it, quality over quantity I guess you would say. It takes a lot for me to put trust in people, probably because it’s been broken one too many times. When my walls do come down with people I turn into the biggest clown and nothing is off limits no matter how silly it is. This is probably why I’ve kept the same friends since high school, when I find people I relate with I hold onto them and don’t feel the need to have too many new faces in my inner circle.
The years passed and my friends and I grew together, eventually all having kids around the same time. I am blessed with two beautiful children that I absolutely adore, two little girls. Although, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want boys both times, I’ve learned more about myself, and woman in general, attending to these two little princesses over the years. I’ve traded in the dreams of attending my son’s basketball games for dance recitals with cute dresses and make-up, scary monster costumes on Halloween to fairies and princesses’ costumes year after year. I can honestly say today there is only a very small piece of me that still wants a boy someday. If that never happens, I’m very content with these two amazing young girls. Being a father has been hands down the best experience of my life. They’ve been my drive and motivation to keep going when I feel I have nothing left in me. It could be the worst day of my life and I can’t help but smile every time I see there precious faces light up as soon as they see me.
My oldest daughter Jazmine turns eight in a few months, which makes me realize how fast time really goes by. Feels just like yesterday that she was born. You’d swear I was the baby in the hospital the day she was delivered with the amount of tears I shed. I remember the emotion of knowing I created that little girl over took every ounce of composure I had left and crushed it to pieces, I completely broke down in front of everyone, I was a wreck, but it was the single greatest moment of my life. I wanted to hold her, protect her, and let her know how much daddy loved her. She was the cutest thing I had ever seen, little chubby squashed up face, so much so that I could barley see her eyes, with a thick coat of dark black hair covering the top of her head. She would grow up to be the delicate one of the two children, nurturing and kind. She’s the type of girl that if she knows your’re sick she wants to attend to you and make sure you’re ok. She loves to cuddle and be loved. She’s timid, but very outgoing at the same time. Emotional, and could cry if you just looked at her the wrong way. She’s creative, loves to draw and enters her own world with her toys, which reminds me of myself in a lot of ways. I think she takes after me the most of the two children with her creative imagination.
The beautiful Jazmine in her dance costume.
My second child Jordyn, who is still very emotional, in many ways the complete opposite of Jazmine, and they both compliment each other well with their differences. Jordyn might be the more impatient one of the two and it’s been that way since the day she was born. I remember her birth happening with a blink of the eye, so fast no one was ready for it, especially me.
Jordyn being the comedian that she’s known to be.
The nurses that day were expecting a long day and night ahead of us. I was restless and sick of sitting in that dull hospital room so I asked the nurse how much time she thought we had and she guessed at least a few more hours. I decide to go downstairs and make some phone calls to inform family on what was happening. I remember taking my sweet time, since that room was dreadfully boring at times. I nonchalantly make my way up the elevator as I compose myself for what I thought would be a few more hours of waiting, when suddenly, I hear a baby crying. I looked around and the hallways are bare, not a nurse or doctor. Kind of strange I thought, as I made my way to the room at the end of the hall. As I got closer to the room, that noise of the baby crying began to increase and became much louder with every step. I turn the corner into the room and to my surprise, there was my second child and I missed everything. It was the weirdest feeling to walk into a room unprepared like that; I was mad, but overly joyed with happiness. I wanted to ring that nurse’s neck that told me I had hours to waste, but I was so happy she was here and healthy and I enjoyed the moment as much as I could so I quickly juggled my camera out of my pocket to snap some pictures before the moment passed.
Jordyn is the feisty one, speaks her mind always, and sometimes terrifies us in public with what could possibly come out of her mouth. Not that she’s a rude kid, both my children are very well behaved and polite, But she’s the more inquisitive one of the two, If she is thinking it or unsure about something, she will ask. While Jazmine eats like a bird pecking at her food, Jordyn will swallow down her whole meal and start looking over at my plate like “daddy, you going to eat that?” Jordyn is definitely the comedian of the two, she makes things interesting and there is never a dull moment when she enters a room.
I can never say no to this face.
While Jazmine loves the attention and never misses a moment to cuddle, Jordyn could care less and I often find myself trying to win her over for hugs and kisses. She doesn’t like kissing me; she claims my kisses are messy and gross. She’s very scornful and wipes her lips as soon as daddy plants one on her. Jazmine on the other hand loves an opportunity to get love and affection.
I feel like I have the best of both worlds with those two. They are my pride and joy and biggest achievements in life. I do everything with them in mind. The future looks bright for both of them, and I can’t wait to see them flourish as the years pass.
Throwback of Jazmine and I.
Finding Myself Lost 