When the world was younger and I was much younger now, eyes all over the world was enthralled by Man going to the moon in 1969. It was a big thing then. A new concept and a monumental moment in history.
Where we lived and worked, my family sat around a small black and white television set glued to the screen. I recall a man in a grey bulging suit walking around somewhat carefully. Neil Armstrong may have been on the moon, but to my childish mind, it was not that much fun.
I just needed that candy. Despite the fact that we lived in a grocery story that was filled with sweets of all kinds, nothing was that interesting. I must have tried them all and wanted a change.
I looked at the TV set and drew a blank. I asked my parents if I could go to Wong's store, just half a block from our store. Despite the fact that they were our mortal enemy and competition, I didn't much care. Even despite the fact that a little Chinese girl in my life despised me and never said one word to me, starting from Grade one on, didn't deter me one bit. I had to get to Wong's.
It was hot that day and I walked to the store by myself with no coat. In a little while, I entered the little shop and admired its many prizes. We didn't have all these small, cute looking candies in a plastic counter, or even the sweet powdery sugar substance that could be sucked lovingly from a straw. It was incredible and I armed myself with some goodies to take home.
When I came back, Walter Cronkite, a news commentator, gave a play-by-play of the Man on the Moon news story, and my family took it all in.
Except me. I was vaguely aware of its significance. But mostly on the mind was the troubling question of why we never had the same kinds of candies that Wong's carried.
It also occurred to me that the little girl Katie who had an ongoing hatred for us Chan's, may have thought me to be a spy. Katie and I were both the same age in the same school and in my class. But for some odd reason, we never got it on.
It may have started in Grade 1 when Katie and her friend, Parminder looked at me with distaste, Parminder looked at my shiny shoes and proceeded to step on them. As we moved through the grades, my sisters and I never spoke to the Wong children, nor did I take to talking to Parminder who was the lone East Indian girl in the school it seems. She wore her hair long and shiny and as she passed, her hair smelled of some kind of cosmetic ethnic ingredient.
When I went to Wong's that day in 1969, I knew that Katie lived upstairs in the shop, too. But I never asked to talk to her. Her mother took my money and I guess Katie was upstairs watching the story about the Man on the Moon, too.
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Letter to Mr. Slim : Good Riddance to You and All Your Lessons
I never was much of a student in High School. Prone to day dreaming of my future as a writer, I suppose, I couldn't stand my History class, especially when it was taught by Mr. Slim.
Back when I went to school in the seventies, teachers followed a curriculum designed to boor students to tears, and make history confined to the corridors of dates, names and incidences. Mr Slim was no exception, and he conducted his class like a robot, and carefully pulled out a pile of notes from his briefcase and started to recite.
He pulled out dates and World War II incidences as though it happened centuries ago, rather than mere decades ago and I could care less whether some leader of the Allies forced his way through the German barriers, or even what was the significance of Vimy Ridge. There was no History Channel back then, and it must have been too novel at the time to bring retired members of the Canadian Army to class to conduct lectures outlining the realities of war.
Nothing stuck on me and it showed, especially in the results of my exam where my marks failed to both excite me and my History teacher. Nor did Mr. Slim appear that he cared.
He came to class each day, well dressed, and carefully opened his well cared for notes, which he proceed to recite from as though it was as significant as Mozart's music. Of course, now I realize the price that men and women paid for in the great Wars, and take away so much information from shows such as the History Channel, etc on television.
Although I must have been close to seventeen, and still undecided about my job ambitions, at one point, I did ponder to be a teacher. But after observing Mr. Slim, who must have been in his late fifties conduct his lectures in such a boring, distant manner, I clearly decided in my mind's eye not to be a teacher. He clearly seemed to be doing his job for the money, than for the real pleasure of encouraging young minds.
I like movies and whenever an opportunity came to see one, especially in school, my eyes immediately perked up. On this one afternoon, Mr. Slim put on a World War II film that showed a celebration of soldiers and women. It may have been a victory moment, and as the film neared its end, the black and white reel displaced young and happy men frolicking with young and willing women, who were of Japanese descent.
Mr. Slim suddenly interjected a remark to the effect that this display of white men and yellow women frolicking together was deemed to be disgusting, forbidden and downright madness. He spoke his mind that white men and yellow women should never get together for romantic reasons and each ethnic group deserves to socialize romantically among themselves. Although the exact wording of Mr. Slim may be off somewhat due to time, the general gist of what he had to say is exact.
It was then that I realized who he really was. Mr Slim: a racist.
At that time, this obedient, poor student wanted to walk out when my teacher waxed into his ugly discourse, but I said nothing. I remarked about Mr. Slim's outburst to my siblings, who also agreed that he was a racist, but nothing came of it. Until now.
So Mr. Slim, after all these years, you are finally outed.
And yes, Mr. Slim, you should have been replaced years ago by someone like Mr. Sidney Poitier.
It's too bad that for too long, years of young minds have been twisted by Mr. Slim's racist ideas.
And when I stepped out into the sunshine of the streets after finishing his class, it was no surprise that I encountered name-calling from young groups of racists, who probably had Mr. Slim as a History teacher.
Back when I went to school in the seventies, teachers followed a curriculum designed to boor students to tears, and make history confined to the corridors of dates, names and incidences. Mr Slim was no exception, and he conducted his class like a robot, and carefully pulled out a pile of notes from his briefcase and started to recite.
He pulled out dates and World War II incidences as though it happened centuries ago, rather than mere decades ago and I could care less whether some leader of the Allies forced his way through the German barriers, or even what was the significance of Vimy Ridge. There was no History Channel back then, and it must have been too novel at the time to bring retired members of the Canadian Army to class to conduct lectures outlining the realities of war.
Nothing stuck on me and it showed, especially in the results of my exam where my marks failed to both excite me and my History teacher. Nor did Mr. Slim appear that he cared.
He came to class each day, well dressed, and carefully opened his well cared for notes, which he proceed to recite from as though it was as significant as Mozart's music. Of course, now I realize the price that men and women paid for in the great Wars, and take away so much information from shows such as the History Channel, etc on television.
Although I must have been close to seventeen, and still undecided about my job ambitions, at one point, I did ponder to be a teacher. But after observing Mr. Slim, who must have been in his late fifties conduct his lectures in such a boring, distant manner, I clearly decided in my mind's eye not to be a teacher. He clearly seemed to be doing his job for the money, than for the real pleasure of encouraging young minds.
I like movies and whenever an opportunity came to see one, especially in school, my eyes immediately perked up. On this one afternoon, Mr. Slim put on a World War II film that showed a celebration of soldiers and women. It may have been a victory moment, and as the film neared its end, the black and white reel displaced young and happy men frolicking with young and willing women, who were of Japanese descent.
Mr. Slim suddenly interjected a remark to the effect that this display of white men and yellow women frolicking together was deemed to be disgusting, forbidden and downright madness. He spoke his mind that white men and yellow women should never get together for romantic reasons and each ethnic group deserves to socialize romantically among themselves. Although the exact wording of Mr. Slim may be off somewhat due to time, the general gist of what he had to say is exact.
It was then that I realized who he really was. Mr Slim: a racist.
At that time, this obedient, poor student wanted to walk out when my teacher waxed into his ugly discourse, but I said nothing. I remarked about Mr. Slim's outburst to my siblings, who also agreed that he was a racist, but nothing came of it. Until now.
So Mr. Slim, after all these years, you are finally outed.
And yes, Mr. Slim, you should have been replaced years ago by someone like Mr. Sidney Poitier.
It's too bad that for too long, years of young minds have been twisted by Mr. Slim's racist ideas.
And when I stepped out into the sunshine of the streets after finishing his class, it was no surprise that I encountered name-calling from young groups of racists, who probably had Mr. Slim as a History teacher.
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