Well played Grandma, well played.

Mum posted a reminder on facebook today that not only is this weekend the festival of Imbolc and St. Brigit's day but that it is also the source of her mother's middle name. My maternal grandmother was born in 1914 on January 31st. Custom in Ireland at that time was to name your child with the closest religious feast day (perversely, the roman catholic church was the original culture jammer). So on January 31st, 1914 an infant girl named Marie Brigid O'Sullivan launched into this world for a much too short life. She died of skin cancer in her 50s after a lifetime of tanning (which is still a strange fascination of women in Ireland, despite all evidence that this practice leads to skin cancer). My grandmother was also the victim of torture known as symphysiotomy. The long term effects on her health due to this horrific procedure we might never know but she got sicker and sicker after each of 6 live births and had to remain hospitalized for a very long time after her last child was born in 1957 (her pelvis had to be rebroken since it hadn't healed correctly after the procedure).

I have written about my maternal grandmother before. She was a fantastic storyteller (or in Irish, seanchai). How do I know this? Well one of my earliest memories involve her telling me the story of the food growing in her backyard.  She was dying and Mum went back with me and my infant sister to spend a few months with her. We were the only grandchildren she ever got to meet. I am the eldest of 18 grandchildren (and a still growing posse of great grandchildren and two great great grandchildren) on my maternal side so there is a huge gap in our lives due to this loss. I remember her pointing to the fruit trees and her telling me that they were planted in that location in order to maximize the sun they would get. Grandma literally planted the seed of my food justice activism because I remember being fascinated with how much thought went into something like the fruit I enjoyed eating.

Despite her early death one particular story of hers continued on in my life and has had a lasting legacy. I had an early talent for mathematics and was often told the story of how my grandfather was also gifted in math and had scored in the top 10% of the national Irish exams in math. Alas, as the only son he had to forgo studies in the subject in order to support his mother and sisters after his dad died just as he was finishing secondary school. As a child, Mum was given strong encouragement by both her parents for learning to do arithmetic in her head so she wouldn't be stuck serving tables. Grandma often told her the story about her dad as an explanation for the talent she was displaying. This encouragement helped her to excel in maths and is was what enabled her to have a successful career as a corporate accountant. And this encouragement also helped me excel in maths and I felt so proud obtaining the mathematics degree in 1990 that my dear grandfather was unable to obtain.

So imagine our surprise when in 1996, after my grandfather passed away, we were all back in my mum's childhood home in Ireland clearing out some bedroom cupboards and we came upon Grandpa's Leaving Certificate. His standing in Maths? Ordinary level/pass.

So today dear Grandma, I am having a good chuckle in your memory as I unpack into a new house and hang up my two framed degrees (one math, one engineering) obtained via a story you told to your daughter and that she passed along to me. In the parlance of today's world:  well played grandma, well played.

Dancing towards Canada

I wore the yoke of an immigrant child often.

But in the past few weeks, with Daughter graduating high school and simultaneously embarking on her first serious relationship, I see how there was no need to wear that yoke at all.

After nearly forty-five years of poignantly feeling the absence of family - with the crescendo happening through my 30s and dwindling down as I coasted through my early 40s.  And perhaps, upon this writing, I may have ditched it altogether.

Mother talked yesterday of her feelings getting on the boat in Cobh, Ireland in January 1967, a mere few months before my birth here in Toronto, Canada.  I have heard her talk of this before but it seems that yesterday I really heard her for the first time.  Perhaps it is because I am now 45 with a young female daughter at the dawn of her own life journey that I can see how the decisions of our forefathers really come home to roost on the subsequent generations.  And I see how the yoke I was wearing is non-existent for my daughter.  I am sure she has her own limiting shackles that will cause fear and trepidation to creep into her decisions since I am far from the perfect parent that I set out to be 18 years ago and heck, life is just like that.  But the yoke I had, the yoke that demanded family where there was none, the one that demanded substitute family in lieu of the real thing (leading to decisions like joining self help groups and immersing myself in, gasp, strict catholicism - complete with an anulled marriage -  until my early 30s), the one that led one early boyfriend to affectionately point out the chip on my shoulder (regularly), that yoke seems rather ridiculous today.

Because, what I heard from my mother yesterday was how she wanted to dance when the boat pulled away from that dock in Cobh.  I heard about how all of the immigrants nearly danced with joy.  There was celebration and no tearful goodbyes.  The people that got on that boat wanted very badly to leave Ireland.  My parents themselves were literally escaping the shame of my too early birth and on the boat my mother was relieved to let the waist of her clothes out and be publicly very pregnant for the first time.  On that boat, there was no talk of regret, there was just anticipation of a new life in a country that offered a religious and personal freedom that was unimaginable to the immigrants on that boat.  A country where a marriage date and a subsequent birth date would not be held up for inspection and judgment by an entire community - a community that shunned regularly, with females being the favourite target.

And now, over forty five years later I wish I could go back in time and join my parents on that boat and lead the dance.  And then go back in time again and tell my 18 year old self to drop the yoke.  But heck, life's just like that, right?

And oh yeah, Happy 145th Birthday Canada and thx for welcoming a couple of knocked up newlyweds back in 1967 - this vast country provided a safe refuge that has allowed our tiny family to explore cultures/lifestyles/cuisines/ambitions/relationships/careers/places that would never have been dreamed possible had I been raised in the not-quite-former-church-state known as Ireland.

Seaweed, wonder ! bread and soda pop

Daughter begged me for a drive to school today. She attends a downtown high school that is adjacent to Toronto's Koreatown.  She is heading into the final few months of high school so I'm an easy and melancholic target these days.

While in New York City I discovered a delicious snack food in one of the many stores and shops that are scattered throughout their subway system: wasabi flavoured seaweed. I have done a half hearted search here in Canada (unsuccessfully) so this morning I thought I'd check out the large Korean grocery store up the street from her school (P.A.T. Central, serving the community since 1972).

I have spent a few mornings in the last few years perusing this store after dropping Daughter off at school. I enjoy the dizzying array of foreign goods. I have purchased a few interesting fresh and packaged goods...including ingredients to make my own (delicious) Kim Chi from scratch.  Today I was there before they opened so I pulled into the parking lot in order to wait. For such a large store they have a very small set of receiving doors. As I waited, I watched two receivers negotiate 4 pallets of wonder bread and then a taller shipment of two litre coca cola bottles into the store.

As a rule, I rarely drink soda pop and after hearing Dr. Vandana Shiva talk at York University this week I don't think I'll ever look at soda pop the same way.  We all know, or should know, that soda pop and it's wide-scale deployment is contributing significantly to the diabetes and obesity epidemic.

But did you know that besides the pillaging of our bodies, the manufacturing process for soda pop involves huge amounts of water which is contributing to the pillaging of precious water resources in communities that have very limited water resources?

Dr. Shiva told the story of one village in India that had the 'good economic fortune' of having a coca cola plant move in. Jobs. Prosperity. We all know the spiel. The tar sands are being touted in a similar manner.

After a few years, the women in this town staged repeated protests and finally had the plant shut down. The reason? The opening of this plant, with it's huge water requirements, had led to the eradication of the local water supply and these women were fed up with having to walk miles and miles in order to obtain and carry back water for their families.

I think of this story as I watch the coca cola and the wonder bread get pushed through the doors of this long running Korean grocery store.

I again saw these same pallets when I went inside, prominently placed next to the more traditional items. I wondered how many 1st generation immigrant Korean children are facing their own diabetes diagnosis after being brought up in Canadian households with parents who shopped in Koreatown and bought North American 'treats' like coca cola and wonder bread. And then these same children go on to feed themselves at college/university with cheap processed food.  The stage is then set for an adulthood of 'convenience' foods that might fill the stomach but leave our entire body starving for quality food.  These processed foods have a basic nutritional deficit since synthetic additives are known to harm our bodies.

This sad immigrant tale can be applied to many of the new cultures brought to Canada after the 1967 change in immigration rules that allowed multiculturalism to blossom here.  Unfortunately, these new immigrants were also working long hours, often with both parents doing so, and they were simultaneously gobsmacked by the sudden access to cheap convenient foods.  My Irish born and raised mother tells me about how she couldn't get over the size and variety of ice cream products in 1967 Toronto grocery stores - the year my parents emigrated/escaped, pregnant with me.  Back in Ireland, ice cream was only commercially available in two forms in 1967.  Fresh whipped cones (that tasted deliciously fresh due to the fresh cream and eggs used) and plain white slabs that were purchased on an as needed basis from the corner grocer since freezers were not in people's homes at that point in Ireland, even in the larger cities.

And speaking of additives, I left the store without my wasabi flavored seaweed. All of the brands they carried had far too many additives. I have dried wasabi powder at home and nori seaweed so I'll try making some myself.  But I didn't leave empty handed!  The contents of my bags contained very few preservatives and no mysterious sounding chemical additives. I look forward to exploring a few more dishes with the products I purchased.

An only

In my lifetime I have seen the disappearance of the large family in the socio-economic landscape of North America.  We all know of them.  The families with 4 - 10+ children.  An old neighbour of mine, 10 years my senior, is the eldest of 14 children.  Both my parents came from small Irish 1940s-50s families...four children in dad's, six in mum's.  The largest families I know today have four children and they are anomalies.  Most families only have one or two children...sometimes three (gender 'triplets', as often as not).

In most modern North American families the parents decide when or if there will be other children.  The miracle of birth control has allowed this decision making to be easily enforced and the availability of safe access to abortion makes any errors in judgment or failures of birth control remedied effectively (if desired).

However in some families there are choices made, either by nature or nurture, that disrupt this parental decision making pattern.  I was raised in such a family and it is only quite recently that I have accepted this.  I had one sibling, a sister, for nearly forty years and then, she disowned us.

Seeing the starkness of that last paragraph brings a lump to my throat.  You know that saying, "You can choose your friends but not your family."  Well, my sister wised up to this about five years ago and got the hell out of her own personal Dodge which included the entirety of her blood relations - and all connections to Canada.  So although she did not choose her family, she claimed personal freedom by firing the lot of us and moving overseas.

I played some part in this and tried to own the whole thing, for many years. I only recently realized that as usual, I was overcompensating.  Trying to take blame on where blame was not due.  In fact, there is no blame to be had anywhere in all of this.  It is comforting to finally realize this.  In my small 1970s immigrant irish catholic family we were victims.  Each and every one of us. Victims mostly to a society that has changed with an alarming and ferocious speed since the dawn of the industrial era.

I admit to being overwhelmed by sadness at times about this loss.  I also admit to being angry that I am left to deal with aging parents on my own.  I find I have a grudging admiration for the tenacity it takes to follow through on this.  A tenacity that I feel, for myself, is best directed at other things.  Like staying off the smokes and exercising daily. 

Throughout the course of my life I have often been overwhelmed by feelings of being trapped.  As a single parent this was manifested quite magnificently.  Wisdom is now allowing me to see that the only thing that ever traps me completely is my own attitude and by blanketing myself with the feeling of being trapped I am unable to see anything to move forward towards.  Being trapped is a very safe way of being.  A comfort zone, if you will.

In order for me to loosen and start to remove the blanket that traps me I know I don't need to fire my family.  But I do need to acknowledge that I really am now an only child. And there is no-one and nothing to blame for it.  It just is.

Click pic to find source:  an excellent blog post about the
advantages of being and raising an only child.