In life of Pi by Yann Martel, the story is described as "making you beleive in God"

How many letters are in God? 3.

Pi also has 3 religions ---- just like the sides of a triangle

Pi = 3.14159....

Iluminati confirmed

don't be afraid to take up space

everything is worth your time, nothing is worth your pain

there is no best version of yourself - embrace this

people who tell you not to be angry want you to turn a blind eye to your own pain

vinegar will probably be able to do the job of whatever product you're spending money on

love is never passive

stop laughing at things that aren't funny to impress people you don't like

those who critique you without telling you how to improve never have your best interests in mind

love and respect yourself unconditionally

Keith Haring,

You taught me that love is bright and bustling,

radiant, throbbing,

a heart beat, a laugh,

and dancing, and marching.

Keith Haring,

You taught me that love is anger,

radiant, throbbing,

a heart beat, a shout,

and dancing, and marching.

Thank you

I like the few pictures we had of her. In one, she stood beside her husband, both dressed up fancy and staring at the camera stone faced, in another she was with her kids, standing to the back a little bit, still unsmiling. She was alone in my favourite picture, wearing a plain dress with her hair piled ontop of her head. I have her lips and her eyes, I think we hold ourselves in the same way.

She's a great-grandmother, or an aunt of some sort, I'm not sure. I found the pictures in a pile of documents; letters, postcards, obituaries, wedding acouncements. They're all written in French, I can pick out a few words.

This is what I can piece together:

1. She lived in New Brunskwick, somewhere.

2. She had several children, a husband.

3. My mother mentioned, in the vaugest terms, that she was Aboriginal. Either Mi'kmaq or Maliseet, if you go with geography.

4. My mother mentioned, in the most descete way, that we don't talk about her.

5. I don't know her name, I will never know her name.

She is barely a relative, my family has made sure of that. She is my eyes and my lips, but she will never be the subject of our family anecdotes, our fond rememberings. I did not go to her funeral, did not stand around with adults I hardly knew, eating sandwhiches and trying to look sad. I did not dread visits to her house, I did not hold her hand or play with her hair, or hold my breath while she hugged me.

My understanding of this will always be vauge, white, and bourgeois but here's the thing - The role of First Nations in Canada's history has always been pushed to the side, something lying below everything else, reduced to photographs and lips and eyes. We cannot forget that our country was built on the bones of those who have a rightful claim to the land - I cannot forget the ways that my family may have built itself up by cutting away this woman, cutting away anything that did not make us white and bourgeois, a family who's understanding of this is allowed to be vauge because we no longer have to live with the consequences.

I know I should be thankful for my country, for the opourtunity of the new world, but forgive me if I find it impossible to put our history of genocide aside. I am thankful for life, I am thankful for the food I eat, I can never be thankful for Canada.

"Today we are burying Amelia Kingston for the third time. We're pretty sure she's dead this time around." Says Reverend Bernard. Tired of giving the agreed upon eulogy he stops speaking and throws a handful of dirt onto the coffin.

From a spot underground the bereved hear a yell. They look at the motritican disappointedly. John Kingston, an uncle who once owned a gym and now thinks himself strong, sighs and goes to help pull up the coffin for the third time this week.

Recently, I've been doing a bit of mentorship - helping middle schoolers prepare for high school, making sure kids don't kill each other during dodgeball, stuff like that.

I see myself in a lot of the kids, the ones that hang back from the crowd, the ones that spend lunch hour drawing or reading instead of playing with their friends. These kids come in all shapes and sizes, you wouldn't be able to find them in a photo. And yet, there's a common trait: every action that they take, every decision they make, every time these kids move, they are asking themselves two questions:

Who am I?

When will they find out?

I've asked these questions a lot myself.

What does it mean if I don't want to have a husband? When will they find out that I only said yes when he asked me on a date so that people wouldn't think I'm frigid? What does it mean when I think about kissing a girl before I fall asleep at night, and when will they find out that it's the only thing that will calm my nerves and put me to bed?

The thing about being separate from the crowd is that it's lonely.

It's lonelier still to be separate from yourself, to not have access to a vital part of who you are.

In fourth grade, I was asked to write about my future - what my job would be, if I would have any pets, if I would be married. I could answer the first two questions just fine, but the last one left me stumped. At eight years old the idea of marrying a man sent a chill down my arms and made me want to vomit. What was the other option, though? Be alone? I knew this wasn't what I wanted either, but at least it was better than settling down with a guy.

What did I really want? I wanted to get married to the girl I had been daydreaming about during car rides for a year. She was a doctor and a beautiful one at that. A bright smile, a perfect tan, a little on the short side so that I could lean down and kiss her. She would do the dishes and I would make the food. At night she would come home exhausted in light blue scrubs and we would cuddle together with our favourite books.

I decided to leave the marriage section blank, but when I showed it to my classmates they told me that I should say I was married, or at least engaged. Who doesn't want to be married by thirty? Who doesn't want to be in love?

In response to their complaints, I added two sentences about a live-in boyfriend.

See, I didn't think that the future I wanted was an option. The things expected of me because I would someday be a woman filled me with dread. But what did this mean? And what would happen if I explained it to my classmates?

What would happen if they found out that I was so Different?

I thank God that I've grown out of that mindset. I thank God that I've had enough mentors, other people who were unabashedly themselves, that I've been able to see that the future I want does exist (and maybe she's not a doctor with a perfect tan, but she's going to be an engineer, we cuddle up with our textbooks when she comes back from class, and when she promised, after a week of dating, that one day we would be married the idea filled me with nothing but joy.)

Now, when I see these kids, the ones that stand out, I make sure to be as true to myself as possible - to show them that there's nothing wrong with being diffrent, nothing wrong with blazing your own path, and nothing wrong with telling people who judge you to shove it.

streetcars screech and

how could he how could he

here a corner

left right left right

this transfer is expired

watch where you’re going

slept on the deck at robert’s place

falling on the

red green red green red green

for coffee

don’t watch her keep your eyes on the

sun is bright but

the woman sobs why is she

tut tut looks like rain

and turn

here a streetlight

just the bus the bus is two dollars

spare change spare change

yellow

oh a cloud and

do you know how to fucking drive

last night was crazy

sobbing like she lost her

schools of people around each bend

buses turn corners

for adults it’s three twenty five

she says one word and the world stops

the two of us, the rest all drops

in my arms she holds me tight

we lift, so slow, in sacred flight

I got most of my education from what people like to call an "alternative school", which basically just translates to "school with no rules". We had 1 hallway, 60 students, and 4 teachers who we all called by their first names. We would often host community lunches, during which all 60 of us would squeeze into a single classroom and eat food that we had made.

During one of these lunches I was sitting with my girlfriend at a table that we had managed to snag from the crowd. We were talking, flirting, eating off each other's plates - just being real gross in general. There was a cup of water on the table and, assuming that it was my girlfriend's, I took a sip. I figured there wouldn't be a problem with that.

There was a problem with it.

As I took a few more sips from the cup, I noticed one of my teachers staring me down from the serving table. I caught her eye, confused as to why she was giving me such a dirty look, and lifted the cup to my lips once again.

This went on for a while, the teacher staring at me as I drunk self consciously. Neither of us broke eye contact. I figured it was the natural progression of our stare down when she began to walk towards me.

She was a small woman, but looming over me she seemed much bigger than possible. I placed the cup back on the table and craned my head up to see her properly.

After taking a few moments to assert her dominance, my teacher bellowed out the scariest words I have heard in my life:

"Why are you drinking from my mug?"

It's no surprise to me that my girlfriend broke up with me soon after that incident.