Life Is A Beautiful Struggle

I hated high school with the fire of a thousand suns. By the time 12^th grade started I was bored with class schedules, homework and feeling disillusioned about the future. That was the year, in 1991/1992 that I really started to feel the passion for pushing my pen across the page. I submitted a poem I wrote about Simon LeBon's boat accident simply called 'Drum' to my English teacher for a poetry contest. Our relationship was tumultuous because I faked a lot of headaches that year missed several of his classes. I did hand in all of my assignments and did well unless you count the paper I wrote on Dylan Thomas. We were studying the 'roaring twenties' and I had no desire to wax poetic about 'The Great Gatsy' (at the time) because I was reading about Dylan Thomas on my own. At the time, he seemed so much more interesting. So, my teacher let me stray from his curriculum and do my paper on my chosen subject. Unfortunately for me, he discovered this amazing new program that allowed a computer grade our papers instead of his lazy form. I made an astounding 50 percent on that paper. The computer said my language was 'too sophisticated' for high school level, that those reading at high school level wouldn't comprehend it. I protested the mark because I worked my GUTS out on that paper and it was fantastic! He said his hands were tied because all of the papers were graded the same way and he wouldn't take a second look on account of it being fair. He hadn't even read them himself. So unfair. Between that and the fact that when I handed in my poem for the contest and he 'forgot' to submit it on my behalf as he said he would, I lost complete faith in him. I was beginning to feel writing in my bones and he was mocking me while all of the daft hockey players and Colby kids were getting all of the accolades. This was especially distressing when he came up to me on graduation day, shook my hand and said, 'Congratulations on your graduation, you are an extraordinary writer. It was a pleasure having you in my class.' My initial reaction was to slap the stupid hippy moustache off of his smug face. I was devastated. He spent a lot of time at odds with me when all I needed from was a little bit of support. In fact, HE was the one who asked me to submit the poem for that contest. I was hesitant because I wasn't sure if it was polished enough. He assured me it was perfect. It was the only time I ever stayed behind after a class and ate my lunch with a teacher. We talked about Bob Dylan's songwriting, the Beat poets and I felt like I finally had a teacher I could trust. He knew I knew my stuff but he favoured the idiot hockey players because they were the school's gold and set the Eastern Passage kids to the side.

If all that wasn't bad enough, I was also busy trying to figure out my 'after school' plans in the Co-op program. It wasn't an easy program to get accepted into but I really wanted it so that I could gather some focus for what I was going to do after school was done. My essay landed me a seat and I couldn't have been happier. It was a welcome distraction from the dull classes I was taking. I actually looked forward to going to school on Co-op days. My Co-op instructor loved me and I collected perfect marks for pretty much everything I did. I was feeling good. Then it came time to start choosing the fields we were interested in and where we'd like to go and do our work-placements. This was the part I was most interested in. Getting out of that staunchy school and doing something in the real world. I mulled over my choices for a long time and presented them to her with much resistance. I either wanted to do my placement at a newspaper or some type of print media setting or a recording studio. She looked at me like I had ten heads. In the end, she pushed me to take something more 'practical'. Something with a future. I ended up working my weeks at Canadian Mental Health. I was organizing programming for their social club, interacting with the clients and being an ear when they needed someone to talk and that was often. I enjoyed it and liked the people I worked with a great deal but that wasn't where I wanted to be. I wanted to be knee deep in a place where things were created and ideas sprang eternal. My teachers and parents were pleased I took the appropriate route but I was dying inside.

I landed my first job the week after high school ended. All of my hard work at Canadian Mental Health helped me secure a position with Regional Residential Services. I was the new kid on a very seasoned team in a group home for functioning adults who needed guidance and supervision but could do pretty much everything on their own. In the beginning it was intimidating but I soon became part of the family and I came to care about the residents very much. We made meals together, played cards, watched movies, I took them shopping and I eased their tempers and tantrums and I was good at it. I was under the watchful eye of a supportive manager who was filling in for the full time house matron who was holding an administrative position at head office for someone's maternity leave. I was having a great time. I was making my own money and I was good at my job and often told as much. Then the the full time manager returned. I was new and young and she liked her power. The people I worked alongside for almost eight months started to turn on me, mostly because I think they were afraid of her. I tried my best to keep my chin up under the pressure of her coming back. You could cut the tension in the house with a knife. I just kept doing what I'd always done but it was incredibly uncomfortable. Long story short, she forced me to quit over something really stupid, helping one of the residents clean our their dresser. She was a pack rat and it was overflowing with junk. I spent a few hours helping her because my co-worker hadn't had the chance to help her yet. Turns out, she told our manager that she asked me to do on more than one occasion and that I hadn't so SHE had to do it. Complete and utter lie. The politics were dirty and I was ousted because of a power struggle. I gathered my things and went home. Not one person, aside from the residents said goodbye to me. I cried my eyes out the whole way home. That was a hard first lesson in the working world. If I'd have gone and done my Co-op placement at one of my desired locations, who knows where I'd have ended up.

I was heart-broken. Not only with the work stuff but boy stuff too. When it rains it pours, you know? I spent a lot of time in coffee shops with my notebook and a pen writing and observing my surroundings. The tea and music that played overhead was soothing and I was desperately in need of something uplifting. I found an ad inside the door on the poster walls of Paperchase Cafe for a weekly writing group. I called and signed up immediately.

The writing group was every Thursday from 7pm to 9pm, hosted by a kind soul named David Publicover. Incidentally, he ran a group home upstairs but held his meetings in the basement of his house. There I was, dejected and full of woe with my writing tucked under my arm. Turns out it was just what I needed. An eclectic cast of characters came together to share their writings and ideas and offer support and friendship. I lived for those Thursday nights. I was shy as all get out back then but I managed to whisper a few poems and lines and things. David made us all feel really at home. The basement was dark and cozy, smelled of incense and time, the walls lined with books and every nook and cranny full of interesting knick-knacks. Every week we'd all sit together, sip raspberry juice or mulled wine and talk about writing and meet the guest speakers he'd have in for inspiration. I wrote some interesting stuff during those six weeks. One of our homework assignments was to take the item David offered and to write a thousand words about it. He chose a stone African mask for me and I wrote at least five thousand words and called my story 'Ajuji's Stone Beauty'. I wish I still had it.

David's writing group saved me from losing my mind and helped restore my defeated heart. I was still so young and unaware of just how cruel the world could be. I made some wonderful friends and most importantly, I was writing. All the time. I was constantly inspired and his writing group also led me to the friend who helped me get the job at the theatre company. SO many good things came from those few weeks. Partaking in these sessions reminded me that writing was my passion and creativity was just as essential as air for survival.

David is no longer with us. He died some years back now but he was one of the first people contribute to my postcard collection. He traveled a lot and always wanted to share the width of the world with others. He was a welcome presence in my life at a time when I felt very small and insignificant. I owe him a debt of gratitude for his encouragement and for instilling the brilliance and beauty of words in me and reminding me that I was meant to share mine.

He wrote about our group in his weekly newspaper column, singling each one of us out and introducing us to his readers:

Located in the bowels of Dartmouth is my basement hideaway. On Thursday evenings, between seven and nine, and when Jupiter is aligned with Mars, my space becomes a meeting place for eight sensitive souls who get together to write, to share ideas and to energize.

Nicole arrives first. She smiles, and her eyes sparkle. A deep, thoughtful person, I hand her a glass of raspberry juice and we wait for the others to arrive. “I just want to make my mark on the world.” she tells me. I feel that she will. She has much to offer and her vibes are good.”

My friend Charles called to tell me about the column and when I finally got my copy of the paper and sat down to read I couldn't help but feel a little bashful and elated at the same time. I had just spent the last few years before, getting my ass kicked by high school and my first paying job. I had so little faith in myself, had felt so small and here was someone complimenting me for all eyes to see. I hadn't seen myself as David had and it took a long time to succeed in doing so but I did. But, before doing so, I had several other lessons to learn.

I was and still am a work in progress. As they say, it isn't about the destination, it's the journey.

In propinquity,

Nic