Boys will be Boys

I had my first real job at the age of eighteen. I say "real" because the only source of income I had generated prior to that, besides the bi-weekly allowance from my parents, was delivering flyers around my neighbourhood. I was thirteen and that lasted just over a month. Thus, my first real job where I had regular hours and a regular paycheque was at eighteen when I worked at a telemarketing firm in downtown Winnipeg. The work itself was easy but tedious. I was especially elated that I just had to verify calls, rather than making them. 

Turnover was high at the company. Winnipeg had somewhat of an industry niche in the field during the nineties and the place I worked was not upper-tier, just a stepping stone to a stepping stone. For me, it was income in between graduating high school and attending college in the Fall. I wanted to be a designer. I wanted to see my work on billboards. I wanted – perhaps I should say needed – the recognition for my talent. Interrupting people's dinner with solicitations was not what I ever envisioned as a long-term thing. But moreso, as time went on, the office culture was not what I ever envisioned either. 

I can't remember his name but I do remember his face. He was a dopplegänger for British singer Robbie Williams. The nerdy managers adored him. I feel like they looked to him as the cool guy they would never get to be friends with outside of the workplace because he wouldn't otherwise give them the time of day. He, of course, played up to it as well. More time spent cracking jokes in their offices meant less time doing actual labour. Within a week of him starting at the company, he made me feel very uncomfortable by making lewd, highly inappropriate comments. I tried to ignore it – it was just words, right? – but it did bother me. I had never been around a male that was so aggressive before. I didn't know how to react. I felt like an animal in the wild with a predator infiltrating the midst. I was on-guard but admittedly weak. I sensed he would eat me alive. He was older (late twenties) and seemed more worldly. I was naive and relatively inexperienced. And it was just words, right? 

Words that eventually evolved into him placing his hand lower and lower down my back each time he tried to get by. Words that evolved into him surprising me from behind by initiating a shoulder massage. I still did nothing because I was too intimidated. If I spoke out, if I expressed my discomfort, then I would ruin the "fun" atmosphere that the managers wished to cultivate. Also, they liked him and I knew that I was more disposable. Heaven forbid I be the killjoy. Besides, I was only going to be there for a few months prior to starting college. I thought I could bear it. 

Then, while sitting around the office one day, he wanted to know my thoughts about "making babies" with him. This would make me retch at my current age, much moreso when I was only eighteen. I lied and told him that I had a boyfriend, to which he replied bluntly "that's okay, I just want to f*** you". I left work that day feeling cheap. Feeling less than human. Feeling as though the sum of my existence was just a collection of body parts in animate form created for the servitude of men. I was very, very confused as this was not what I thought being an adult was going to be like. My parents always actively aimed to empower me growing up. But then another lesson was awaiting me. A much harsher one. The next time I went to work, I was called into my manager's office for reprimand. I can't even recall what it was about. Had I somehow shortchanged the vending machine in the lunch room? I hadn't done anything to the best of my knowledge but lo-and-behold, Robbie Williams' dopplegänger was also present during what surely should have been a confidential conversation. As my manager blathered on about being disappointed with my performance, Robbie Williams' dopplegänger stared at me in defiance. It was a look most women have probably encountered in their lifetime. I've experienced it a few times since. All at once it subtly conveys to "stay quiet" and "don't f*** with me".

I was demoted that day. It was a shitty job with a shitty, toxic office culture that has had no influence on my current career path but this experience has still stayed with me ever since. It informed me as to my place was in the world. That I, as a female, would have my gender used against me.

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This past week, the Harvey Weinstein scandal has taken over from Trump's latest foibles in capturing headlines. There are a lot of famous, influential names being mentioned and for some this may just be reflective of "Hollywood" and its hedonistic ways. But I feel that Hollywood (and all of pop culture) holds an accurate mirror to society. Men taking advantage of positions of power is not new and certainly not limited to the entertainment industry. However, getting men to realize and accept this amongst their brotherhood remains a challenge. 

I've had conversations with respected, intelligent male friends and acquaintances that downplay this behaviour and seemingly excuse it. They shrug it off as simple fact that some men are like that and "boys will be boys". I've also heard the darker subtext though that women are lying in order to get something. "They are after money" is a common retort. Also, revenge. When I ask what they'd think of me if I made similar claims, I always get "you are not like that". But here I am. I have nothing to gain by relating this. I could even write a much, much longer journal entry about all my direct experiences with toxic masculinity but I don't really discuss it. It just feels a part of life in terms of being a woman. That men feel they have ownership of your body and your dignity. But it shouldn't. It should also be pointed out that every close female friend I have has also been sexually assaulted in her lifetime. This has nothing to do with seeking attention or superficial remuneration and everything to do with the simple fact that a lot of men don't view women as human.  

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After leaving the telemarketing firm that day, I never returned. Not even to pick up my last paycheque. I also never told anyone at the time. Not my friends. Not my family. Certainly not my father, who would have literally killed the guy. I simply internalized it, feeling ashamed and low for something that was done to me, not by me. I have been very fortunate with subsequent workplaces where this type of behaviour hasn't been displayed. However, I have still encountered it with many other men that have come-and-gone from my orbit. Entitled men that become both verbally and physically abusive in attempts to demonstrate their power. Men that use coercion to get what they want over common courtesy or respect. The Weinstein story is, again, simply a mirror that is making us look uncomfortably at our blemishes as a society. I have no faith that things will change in my lifetime but it is encouraging to see people using their voice to share, relate and move towards that betterment. This isn't something a woman has to face alone. 

🍷

My favourite month of the year is October because the weather cools, because pumpkin spice everything, because Halloween, because wine, wigs and pretending you are a supermodel in a George Michael music video just feels especially right on a Friday night: 

Culture Days

Culture Days is an annual celebration of Canadian culture that allows citizens to engage and interact with artists, cultural organizations and municipalities from coast-to-coast. This nation has such a rich history and tapestry of backgrounds; with its diversity and inclusive nature, I am proud to call Canada home. 

This year I visited Batoche National Historic site in Saskatchewan to learn about metis history, the leadership and legend of Gabriel Dumont and Louis Riel, and enjoy the beautiful autumnal colours lining the South Saskatchewan River. 

Hiking and enjoying the beautiful fall colours at Batoche National Historic site in Saskatchewan, Canada.

Tour of the rectory by a costumed guide, Batoche National Historic site, Saskatchewan. 

Metis beadwork, Batoche National Historic site, Saskatchewan. 

Interior of church at Batoche National Historic site, Saskatchewan. 

Cemetery at Batoche National Historic site, Saskatchewan. 

Earlier this year, I found out that my grandfather – also named Joseph Ouellette – passed away. Seeing this headstone at the cemetery in Batoche National Historic site made me curious about my maternal family history, of which I know very little. 

I got to try moose meat, deer meat and elk meat, all of which I thoroughly enjoyed. 

Collections

I was recently given a ride in a colleague's car and, upon entrance, let out a gasp of delight. Her ceiling was covered in buttons that spanned decades of culture (both pop and otherwise). My favourites were those promoting the legendary (but now defunct) Canadian department store Eaton's and one of Pope John Paul II that appeared to be blessing me from above. It got me thinking of the things people collect. Items that can form a physical manifestation of time and provide curios insight into one's life and true personality.

In my last post I wrote about collecting books published in the 1980s that were basically the literary "gateway drug" for those yet to discover Tolkien. These books not only provide nostalgic comfort for me today but have shaped my development from someone who happened to demonstrate artistic talent in high school to a professional that has been awarded, exhibited and published internationally. I value the magic they have enhanced my life with and I hope whomever inherits them from me in the future is put under the same spell. 

Although most might not understand it.

For that is another aspect of things people collect: one person's treasure could well be another person's trash. I have paid the equivalent of a few mortgage payments on acquiring the original series of those books (including hard-to-find editions that were well-worn, weathered and in worse condition than newspaper lining the bottom of a bird cage). To most it is a foolhardy venture. But what value does one place on memories? What price does one place on that link to a beloved past life? 

My late father's last collection, on the other hand, didn't really cost anything. In addition to hockey memorabilia collected in his youth and international currency collected when we'd travel, my father also had a prized hoard of keychains that he found while working as a driver for Adesa Auctions during retirement. Some were provided by dealerships that offered them as tokens of appreciation but most were found in vehicles that had been seized. I recall visiting my parents and having my dad excitedly share his latest bounty with me, which he'd sort and file according to make, model and perceived "rarity". At the time, I secretly questioned his sanity. But now I appreciate it all. My father was an amazing athlete, world traveller and loved cars. His collections are a tangible thread to his existence.  

As my colleague's buttons show me that she is the fun, unconventional person that I believed her to be throughout our office interaction. 

As my books – where storylines involved discovering new worlds and slaying giants – remind me that my adventurous spirit was always part of my DNA. 

And as my dad's keychains tell me that the little things in life gave him the most happiness. 

Becoming the Warrior

So many holidays spent camping up in the Rockies. Western Canada feels like home to me. The mountains feel like an al fresco cathedral that offers salvation. Because I had visited so often in my youth, there was a time I stopped looking. I stopped appreciating their natural wonder. I was moody and pensive, instead turning inward to explore the world of the woman I would become. Books helped form that person. I recall the literature of the time; it wasn't of Austen or Yeats. Oh no. I still haven't delved into that, to be honest. The books of my youth were pure fantasy. Tolkien played a part, but so did some role-playing gamebook authors that heavily influenced the "choose your own adventure" of my life. 

I would bring these books on the trips out west and read them at night, in my top bunk of the trailer under the stars, and imagine myself being the hero ... and occasionally the villain. Life is never black and white, after all. Those shades of grey run through us all. The words were engrossing but the illustrations really engaged my active imagination. Heavily detailed pen and ink, as realistic as could be for drawings of worlds that only exist in the id.

When I was a kid, I loved to draw. It started rudimentary, of course, but later evolved to mimicking what I saw in these exact books. My teachers didn't even scold me for sketching rather than paying attention in class; in fact, they actively encouraged me to pursue a career in the arts after seeing the creations I would share in the margins of my homework. I recall one particular illustration I made of a scene from Romeo and Juliet that a teacher from an adjacent French-immersien school requested to keep and frame for her office. I was so proud. They even counselled me to get into advertising, rather than fine arts, as it would bring money. But now that I have money, I want that name. I want that credibility. I want that impact of influencing a young girl – just like I once was – to picture herself as the hero of her life. 

I reflect on this because of my recent excursion to the Rockies, where I didn't read under the stars but I did take time to stop, look and appreciate not only what was before me in all its natural wonder, but also what lay behind me. It is interesting to me how random connections in life can lead us to where we are today. That some "nerdy" gamebooks like this could have ignited a spark that would light my future. 

I'm an adult now and while my originals of all these books have been long lost, eBay (and much of my paycheques) has reunited me with a lot of them. They bring me back to my youth. They bring me back to the mountains. To being that warrior in my mind. To becoming that warrior in real life that I always imagined I'd become. 

In an Instant

I had a very different journal entry planned but unforeseen circumstances call for a change in subject matter and tone. I was going to write about my recent trip to the Rockies. It was somewhat of an impromptu excursion, planned just a week prior to the September long weekend, and only confirmed after searching high and low for an available, somewhat "affordable" hotel room in the tourist enclave of Banff. A place I had stayed many years previous had two options available: a family room with multiple bunk beds or the honeymoon suite. The cost was triple what I'd normally pay but we settled on the latter as it included an ensuite jacuzzi which was invaluable after long days spent hiking at high altitude. My partner and I are not married but we know to never deny the small luxuries in life. 

I was going to write about the nostalgic joy wash over me as I first observed the mountain vista awaiting just outside of Calgary. I hold so many dear memories of spending time here with my beloved dad. Nearly every year growing up, we camped on Tunnel Mountain in our trailer (tiny by today's standards of mega motorhomes). The best part of these holidays was spending time in the great outdoors breathing in the fresh air lightly scented with pine and observing wildlife in their natural, unspoilt habitat. This has, from an early age, fed an immense appreciation and respect for nature. On this trip, we encountered a herd of big horn sheep cross the highway near us but in the past I've seen elk, moose, fox, coyote, black bear and my favourite sighting of all, a grizzly meandering along a railway in search for food. It is something I will never forget. The mountains always give me memories of a lifetime. 

I was also going to write about how crowded Banff National Park was. Moreso than I've ever experienced before. This was problematic when our plans for the weekend were continuously disrupted. We were denied entry into several hiking trails as they were all at full capacity. Instead, we kept driving and driving (and driving) until finally reaching Columbia Icefield, the lot of which was also full but I decided to park my vehicle on the side of a gravel road and walk the distance rather than drudge on aimlessly. All of this traffic did make for some harried moments behind the wheel and I needed a break. Some people just can't appreciate the scenery (or speed limits). 

If there were two things my partner learned about me during this trip they were:

1) I must literally pet ALL the dogs; and,

2) I swear a lot behind the wheel.

He expressed surprised at this sullied habit but I explained to him it wasn't road rage or anything like that. No. My potty-mouth is a result of frustration at the stupid, irresponsible risks people take while driving putting everyone on the road at potential harm. We would learn this lesson first-hand a mere two days later. 

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After having a light lunch and posing for selfies with the World's Largest Dinosaur, we left Drumheller and headed home on HWY 9, a single lane highway spanning the well-travelled distance from Calgary to Saskatoon. I had been swearing a lot on this leg of the journey. People were driving like absolute fools, their holiday weekend over and in a rush to return home. Just prior to reaching the provincial border, we stopped for a brief rest to stretch our legs and laugh about how I had just discovered a feature on my car that I have now owned for a year. As we prepared to depart the area, I approached the exit at the same time as someone pulling out of a fuel station across the street. We looked at each other for about three seconds until the driver waived me to go forward. I politely nodded back and continued en route.

These observations of seemingly prosaic interaction and time would have normally gone unrecorded. But after the oncoming events of the following five minutes, will forever be seared into my memory. 

I drove along the highway, in front of me – about 300 yards – was a semi truck. In an instant, it felt less than a second, I observed its brake lights go on and then an explosion of red before me. A vehicle flew into the air, automotive parts sprayed in every direction. I immediately started to shake and pulled my own car over to the gravel shoulder. Thankfully there was no one behind me and I had allotted time to put my hazard lights on. My partner, at first, didn't comprehend why I was crying and wailing "oh my God!" over and over again. He wasn't looking forward, but had been daydreaming while staring at the countryside outside the passenger window. He just witnessed the aftermath of the semi drive into a farmer's field and tried reassuring me that it was alright. That perhaps the driver had a medical emergency forcing him off the road. In between moments of shock, I told him a car had hit the semi head-on. He handed me my phone and told me to phone 9-1-1. Once I was off the call, he calmly and courageously left to offer any assistance he could provide to those injured. I remained in my vehicle unable to process what I had seen. Admittedly, I still can't. Everything feels surreal. 

A number of people stopped, also offering aid to those in the smashed car now sitting sideways in the ditch. A few even approached me, inquiring if I needed help. When he returned, my partner told me that there was a third vehicle overturned in the ditch that we had not previously seen. This may have been the car that the other one was trying to overtake. A family was safely able to get out of it. The semi driver was uninjured. The driver of the first vehicle would be killed in the crash. 

I am having a very difficult time processing this. The amount of time this series of events took to occur is shocking in its brevity. One bad – very, very bad – decision has resulted in a senseless death and the lives of others forever impacted in the aftermath. I even still replay the short interaction I had with the individual while exiting the rest stop – if they hadn't have been there, if I didn't have that three second pause of waiting to see who would pull out first, I would have been much closer to the rear of the semi, possibly being involved directly in the collision. My life possibly changing in ways I had not previously envisioned while just traveling for a fun weekend getaway. 

And for my partner, who was swift and selfless in terms of attempting to help, I have the utmost admiration, respect and love. I know his life will forever be changed as well by what he witnessed but I know he has the strength and heart to get through it. 

Appreciate life. 

Then ...

I feel like every Canadian has albums full of photos showcasing the passage of time while on summer vacation in the Rockies:  

My Afternoon:

A post shared by Deborah Clague (@debclague) on Aug 20, 2017 at 2:03pm PDT

The Wonder Years

When I was twelve I said "goodbye" to Parc La Salle elementary school, where I had much developmental growth from kindergarten to grade six, and entered St. Norbert Collegiate. This institution incorporated the spectrum of learning from junior high all the way up to senior year of graduation. Twelve year olds to those legally permitted to drink. It was, of course, not an entirely academic education. As I've always been a very observant, intuitive person, I learned a lot about life early on. 

The school bus stop was across the street from my house and in this transitionary year, I recall being early every morning and watching as my fellow older classmates would arrive disinterested, dishevelled and often late. It seemed school went from being a fun social hub to the bane of our kindred existence (it took me to the age of fourteen to get to this mindset). There was a former best friend, K, who went out of her way to ignore me. She was a few years older than I and we were playmates in our younger years, my Barbie collection being the envy of the neighbourhood after all. Right now though, I was a junior and she had her own tribe. Being friends with me would be akin to babysitting. Just one look at our sharply contrasted appearance – me with clean pressed tucked-in shirts and her modelling various Metallica tees cooly draped over torn jeans – was all the reason needed why it would never work. 

There was another older girl, M, that befriended me though. She was new to the area and probably sensed that we could be losers together. I recall attending my first after-hours dance with her. I was so excited to have graduated from mimicking Janet Jackson's moves in my parent's basement to now getting to show them off to others. I ensured my outfit was perfect; a white body suit with red Guess jeans that I saved up multiple allowances to purchase. At this age – let me remind you that I was twelve – I was not interested in sexualizing myself. I didn't know how. I was simply desperate to be seen as "cool" to a group of peers and I knew that somehow involved designer jeans and the ability to sip Orange Crush like a mimosa. After dancing to the "Humpty Dance" (the lyrics of which I didn't understand), I was flattered and admittedly surprised when my new friend told me that a number of guys from her grade wanted to meet me. I very (very) shyly obliged foolishly thinking that they had heard about my high grade point average and were not simply mesmerized by the fact that my white bodysuit top had become see-through in the lighting of the dance hall and that my braless non-existent breasts were on full display. No, I learned that later. For that evening though, I was simply happy to be popular. Even K noticed the shift in high school hierarchy.

At the bus stop, I also remember observing young love. There was a boy, D, who lived the next Bay over. Outside of our morning commute, I only knew him as one of the dudes who would play street hockey in our shared backlane. He represented middle-class Canadiana right down to the hoser haircut. While his girlfriend didn't live anywhere near this particular bus stop, she would put forth the effort each morning to meet him there so that they could ride together. Her background was very different. She had come from a broken home and was weaving her way through the foster system. I knew of a number of these students. They seemed to emerge and then dissipate with little notice. I always imagined how difficult it would be to live such a transient existence during a period of life where stability is so precious. Despite this couple's differences though, they had found something. I remember how he looked at her, that deep gaze of appreciation and wonder that I always longed to feel myself because in adolescence, getting a boy to like you is profound. The pair formed a template (and expectation) for what I would desire as my teenage years evolved. 

And so it was a bit shocking, at the time, when they broke up. I was never certain of the reasons. They were probably silly and it was probably dramatic but as they went their separate ways, I observed that D seemed depressed. His demeanour a bit more sullen. His eyes a little less full of radiance. I learned the end of love and its subsequent heartache would not be pleasant. 

I never did see her in person again. 

A few years later, her picture would be on every newspaper cover and featured on every newscast. She was murdered by an acquaintance she had met; her body discovered in a forested region of eastern Manitoba. I recognized her visage immediately. Her teenage features now frozen in time, an early lesson on the darkness and unjust nature of life. 

Summer in Manitoba (Part II)

My best friend likes to wake me up by sitting on my face. I gasp, choking for air, and this reaction causes him to move over and stare at me intently. Where words are not possible, he uses his big brown eyes to beg and plead. Shame on me that I love him so much, I let him get away with it even though it's 6:00am and I am on vacation desperately wanting to sleep in long enough to just wake up when Price is Right is on. Sigh. 

I always thought any slumber-related demise for me would be an accidental overdose of sleeping pills but this has made me realize it may end up a result of involuntary manslaughter on his part. 

He cute though. 

There are so many great areas to unwind in or around Winnipeg that I don't totally mind the early morning wake-up call by a 20lb pooch desperate to explore all the new sights and smells outside. It gives me some much needed exercise (as well as an excuse to later indulge in an afternoon nap).

My absolute favourite place near Winnipeg is La Barriere, a 323 acre park a very short distance from my mother's house. Its forest trails hug the snaking La Salle River and I've always marvelled at how tranquil it is. I don't think I've ever seen more than three other vehicles parked when I've visited, although the assumption of solitude may be misleading at times. I, uhm, do have a story about ... er, stumbling upon two individuals ... erm ... 

It's also a great place for birdwatching. 

Another great spot to reconvene with nature is Assiniboine Forest/Assiniboine Park, which at 700 acres makes up one of the largest urban forest areas in North America. This was the first place I took the dogs while visiting my hometown. We explored for hours. And after Reggie dived into the pond (nearly dragging me with him), I ended up cleaning my new car for hours. His personality is vastly different than Monty's. Where Monty is a happy-go-lucky lapdog constantly trailing my shadow, Reggie is the most stubborn, indifferent canine I've ever known.

I'm so proud. I've taught him well. 

I'm very partial to the south-end of the city, as that is where I was raised. St. Norbert is a historic, bilingual neighbourhood that lands just on the periphery of the city proper. Within walking distance of my mother's home is Trappiste Monastery Provincial Park wherein lies the burned architectural ruins of Trappiste Monastery founded in 1892. I remember skipping school as a teen and spending the afternoons here with my friends, watching the clouds pass by and dreaming about what our future selves would become. As an adult, I now walk the dogs there to ponder that exact same thing. 

To discover more great reasons to visit Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada click here or here.