Radar

My radar has never been wrong.

I’m sure this is alarming for most.  I find it a comfort.

For years I have been open about being a victim of sexual abuse when I was a child.

The topic is not for general conversation but it is interesting how often I make reference to the fact.

For many people the subject is still taboo.

This is strange when you understand how many are afflicted.  One in three females.  One in three.

I don’t know the stats for men.  I have a feeling they tend to keep their secrets.

But the damage is the same.

We are all broken.

Some are never repaired.

Then I reflect… none of us are completely repaired.   The scars remain.

As for my radar?

I usually know when I meet a victim.  Some minute hint throws a shadow. I can sense it more than see it. But it’s there.

It’s not my place to ask for a confirmation.  And it’s none of my business.

This might be the reason I’ve been more open about my past. If I talk about it many in turn talk to me. I’ve heard so many stories. Secrets have been shared in whispered words and tears.

I believe my radar also works for the abusers. Too many times my skin has crawled when I’ve met someone.  Too many times I’ve looked at a person with the intent to let them know I know. Send them a message with a mix of hate and disgust meant to warn them. If you cross the line and I find proof my Buddhist vows will not hold me back from the pain I will cause you.

I trust my radar.

So far it has not been wrong.

Trust your own gut.

Charles

“I wish Winifred was here listening to this.”

It was the only time during the evening I thought I might cry.

My oldest client will turn 96 next week.  A truly lovely man and an iconic Vancouverite.  Winifred was his beloved wife.  I am his personal trainer.  We met in the elevator in his building. He hired me on the spot. He wanted to keep physically fit. We laughed at our first meeting and have laughed during every workout session since.

During the past year things have become more difficult for Charles.  The aging process is horrendous and cruel. Even music has slipped from his life.  He has not played his ukulele and sang to me for months.

There is a pallor of sadness and resignation filling his room.

“I have a friend staying with me, he’s just moved here from the UK, he’s a musician and actor. I’ll bring him over to sing with you.”

Charles agreed.

So last week I got to sit with Charles as Andrew pulled out his guitar and started to play.  With the first notes Andrew sang I witnessed Charles’ face light up. And I swear I watched the colour return to the room.

At the end of that first song Charles applauded the performance and proclaimed, “He’s marvelous!”

Andrew coxed Charles to join him and before I could have predicted there were both strumming along together. Sheet music appeared and the concert began.  The joy oozed from Charles even though his voice was weak. Andrew was the perfect catalyst to make the songs singable.  They sang together for the next hour.

When Charles said, “I wish Winifred was here”, I knew Andrew had made magic happen.

It’s rare to get the chance to bring someone true happiness.

And I got to witness it all.

Andrew and Charles - card

 

Morally Wrong

When is laughing at something “morally wrong”, wrong?

When my friend uses “hand quotes” to warn me that his next comment or sentence will be “morally wrong”, why do I laugh even harder?

Am I morally wrong?

When did our society become so politically correct?

Or maybe so incorrect?

I can sit here in the privacy of my own apartment and laugh until I cry at my friend’s off coloured jokes and commentaries.  He’s a creative man with the ability to do spot on accents.  Get him started on a topic and his knack for improv will take over and no one can predict what comes out of his mouth.  Appalling, hilarious, cringe-worthy and side-splitting.

I would hate for anyone to know what we are laughing about.  Most topics hedge on something considered “morally wrong”. Or maybe just things we have heard about and would never voice, repeat or laugh at.  Some themes go over the line.

Yes, “morally wrong”.

As I write this, part of me is still giving a little giggle as I recall the look on his face when he makes those hand quotes and gets the twinkle in his eye before he speaks.

Is it like when we were children and swore for the first time?  We were doing something forbidden. Say a naughty word and then fall into gasps of laughter.  But also afraid an adult would hear and we would be in trouble.

Maybe we never grow up?

The “politically correct police” are all around and ready to pounce.

Sitting at home and busting a gut over something “morally wrong” is a little wrong.

And I’m OK with that.

Junk

“I don’t want you to send me a picture of your junk.”

I found that sentence scrawled on a scrap of paper with a line crossing it out.  If it’s crossed out that means the story has been written and added into my book. It’s done. Is this what it is to be a writer?

I laugh as I recall writing the piece… I laugh even harder as I remember the incident that motivated the story.

These things happen when you know young people.  Or older vain people.

You not only hear things you would rather remain secret, but you see things you know should remain secret.

None of us need to be looking a random people’s junk.

Well maybe random junk would be OK.

I don’t want to look at a casual acquaintance’s junk.

No matter how impressive it might be.

Keep your iphones and androids out of your pants.

Don’t post.  Don’t email.

But if you do and if I think it will make a humorous story don’t be surprised if I write about it.

You’ve been warned.

At least I won’t name names or post pictures.

I’ll say it one more time, “Please…no junk mail.”