Monday, August 10, 2015

"It's time to undo Rahim." -Nadia Hashimi, "The Pearl that Broke Its Shell"

The day started with the rhythmic ticking of a clock.  Tick, tock, tick tock.  My eyes flicked from the job application form I was filling out, to the rustic grandfather clock that stood proudly in my newly inhabited apartment, 11-04.  I so graciously accepted an apartment floor that was uncomfortably close to the renovation of the fourteenth floor.  From my position at one of the foldout chairs that occupied random spots of the apartment, I studied the thick layer of dust resting on the clock's face.  It was quite an old clock, one of the few items I brought back from Warsaw, my family's hometown in Poland.  As I scanned the rest of the furniture that was settled, rather precariously, from the waste bin piled high with Chinese takeout cartons, to the unorganized cutlery that lay in a box on the moth eaten floor, I realized I had yet to make this into a home.  Still, one aspect of my living situation was quite nice; I lived alone.  Moving away from Poland from a strictly-Catholic-thankfully-English-speaking-household felt very satisfactory.  I don't feel so secure to label the move as much more than a chance to break my habit of..dishonesty?  No.  Not dishonesty.  Pretending is more accurate.  Hardly an opportunity, as I lacked the one component for this to qualify as an opportunity.  Simply put, I lacked money.   

    Which is why, from a bird's eye's view, I can be seen impatiently filling out paperwork to work as a bartender at Hot Legs, as I am desperate for green stuff.  I dreaded applying for a job that requires a degree, as my wall is bare.  The moment I turned eighteen, after several months of doing neighborhood chores to save for a plane ticket, I left the cold winters of Poland for the promising warmer weather in Collingwood.  And promising it has been, I think, as I view the sunny weather from my dusty window.  The sound of my pen dropping onto the floor awakens me from my ever deepening thoughts.  Spacing out seems to be happening more and more to me these days.  Not taking my eyes off the window, I reach down and pick up my pen.  A quick glance at the clock lets me know I have been sitting in the same position for the past hour and a half.  Tick, tock, tick, tock.  Screw it.  Releasing my grip on the pen yet again, my thoughts moved elsewhere, the act of spacing out retaking its place.  

  Tick, tick, tick tock.  Nostalgia was triggered.  I could feel my eyes glazing over as my eight year old self was brought to mind.  Sitting in my third grade classroom, listening to the ticking of the clock,  I pondered usually deeply for an eight year old girl.  Although, at the time, I could not bring myself to identify as any sort.  My identity, who I was...I did not know.  Perhaps these questioning thoughts could be associated with the teenage stage of life, where teenagers struggle to come to terms with their self-identity, but surely not with a pre-pubetic child.  Today, as I am fully aware of myself, I am also aware of what I need, which translates into working at a gay bar.  

As I get up from my impromptu chair, and cross over to the window, I squint, as the impending sunshine enters my eyesight.  From my view, I can barely see a statue, and what looks to be...a bra?  A bra.  A bra on the statue.  This is an unpleasant reminder, as I look down at my scarcely dressed self.  I sigh.  Unrealistic.  Impossible, maybe.  A bartender's salary brings few luxuries; certainly not the luxury of ridding one's self of a bra...