Arabian Night

The cigarette smoke curls, seeking shelter in my nose. I fight to push it out with a deep exhale. It dances boldly in front of me, purple and blue. I wave my hand across my face in annoyance. My eyes begin to blink rapidly, they’re painfully dry. Unconsciously, I shift my body weight which has become comfortably numb against the cheap green chair. The taste of nicotine coats the back of my throat which tightens with anxiety. God, please don’t let me have a coughing fit. I look across the table at the men smoking and laughing in front of me. My dry mouth smiles on cue. I flatter them with a look of intense concentration but my thoughts are as empty as egg shells. I am the only woman in this smoke filled room.

With each deep breath I feel increasingly light headed and yet attentive to the minute details of my surroundings. The 6’oclock news is on low in the background. The voice of the reporter feels like David against the Goliath of Arabic being spoken at the table. I feel oddly connected to this female news anchor, straining to seek out her words as they report in a language I understand.  My boyfriend enters the room and takes a seat next to his friends. I look up with a genuine smile. Isn’t it funny the things you do for love?

Monday Morning

My stomach is in knots. It’s 8:10am and my first class starts in 20 minutes. I smile through the stress. My green robe is hot against my skin, reminding me that I should be putting on my jacket by now. I look down at the woman before me, my grandmother, Sarah Melanson. Her frail body sinks into the chair like a wilted flower. A cup of piping hot tea balances on the table beside her.  It is too hot to drink but if it comes out any cooler I know she will complain. I gently clasp her hand in mine and slide the cuff on to take her blood pressure. My gaze is averted to the sapphire blue veins, pulsating up her arm. They remind me of roots pumping life into a very old tree.

She looks up at me with her playful brown eyes. This is the one feature that hasn’t changed or become weakened by age. The cuff tightens and I tell her to hold still. I catch myself by the sound of my own voice, addressing her like a child. Her eyes close in a peaceful state. I steal a glance at the grandfather clock beyond her. Shit, it’s 8:24am.  

I stare at the blood pressure machine. The numbers change before me at a rapid rate, 147, 93, 72, 64 and so on. The anticipation is building as I hear the clock chime, announcing with glee that it is now 8:30am.  I should be sitting in class by now.

“A watched pot never boils,” she says through a smile. I mirror her image with a smile of my own but inside I want to scream. Finally the machine lets out a long sigh and the reading is good. I turn to head downstairs and get ready. Suddenly a voice asks, “Lee, aren’t you going to finish your tea?” I look back at her, sitting there with such wistful longing. A sudden wave of sadness washes over me as I realize how much she wants me to stay.

“Sure Nanny, I don’t have to leave for at least another hour.”      

My Japanese Tooth Fairy

“This is just like you Leanne,” my mother huffs as we pulled out of the dentist parking lot. I was two days away from flying to Japan and now she was blaming me, for needing to have my wisdom teeth pulled.  “You leave everything to the last minute!” she said. “Ahhh that’s right mom,” I thought to myself. “I must have a real ‘in’ with the head tooth fairy to have pulled this shit off.”  I stretched my feet in an attempt to relax my body. The last thing I wanted was for this conversation to lead to a fight where we wouldn’t speak for weeks. I didn’t have weeks.  Anyways, I knew my mom wasn’t really angry at me; she was simply terrified that her headstrong first born, was moving half way around the world... in less than 48 hours.

My dentist had strongly recommended that I postpone my trip or wait to have the teeth removed in Japan. “No freaking way” – was my immediate response to both scenarios. Like most tough decisions in my life, the librarian in my brain clocked in to catalogue my problem under the “forget me files.” As a result, I felt calm and at peace again in the car. This drives my mother crazy.

Fast forward one month... to my apartment in Japan.

“Claire, I swear I am dying, my mouth hurts soooo much!” I place my palm firmly on my bottom left cheek and push inward. The flesh squishes against my inflamed gums and itches away at the pain. My roommate Claire looks at me from across the room. “Lee, you’re not going to die, you’re just going to have to get them taken out here. I mean it can’t be that bad – we’re practically in the technology capital of the world.”

Faith somewhat restored, I begrudgingly phone my boss – Mr. Adachi (A-datch-ee) and try to explain my predicament. We navigate awkwardly through the conversation, as if I’m singing country while he belts out classical opera. Needless to say it doesn’t blend well.  I have been able to decipher one key piece of information though; he is on his way, now.

We pull up to the dentist office and I gaze up at the building before me. So far, so good – nothing appears odd or out of the ordinary.  My apprehension about the dentist typically falls within the red zone on a good day, so being in a foreign country - one which I couldn’t even locate on a map the year before, was quite daunting to say the least.

I pull on the steel door handle and feel light headed with anxiety. My feet stumble over an assortment of shoes upon entering. Not wanting to appear like a “foreigner,” I walk up to the counter trying to act like I’ve been here 1000 times before. My body weight leans on the stark white counter for support. Its smooth surface is cool and refreshing against my skin. The receptionist looks up at me. I am unable see her mouth because it’s covered with a white surgical mask but her eyes are smiling.
“Namae?” she says to me while simultaneously pulling the mask under her chin. I look her in the eyes, trying desperately to understand what she is asking.  She repeats the question, which I have only deciphered is a question from her rising intonation. My cheeks are burning and I know my body has betrayed me. I am flustered and at the same time embarrassed because she knows this. “Ahhh my name? It’s Lee, Leanne Hines,” I manage to stumble out.  She frowns and motions for me to take a seat.

I stare at the circus she has presented to me. The waiting room.  My eyes scan the compacted area for a free seat next to a friendly face. I squeeze into a chair and its cushion seems to sigh under my weight. This shouldn’t embarrass me but it does. My spine tenses.  The silence in the white room is deafening, interrupted only by magazine pages flipping and the light hum of a fan. A new patient has come in and the sound of the receptionist speaking feels like paper cuts on my ear drum. I stare at the floor in disbelief of this situation I have found myself in. That is when I notice that everyone has on purple slippers. My brand new sneakers, at the point of purchase an accessory of pride, now stick out like an obese woman on the fashion runway. Without thinking I react, pulling my sneakers off one by one, followed by my socks. This is when I realize that I don’t know where to find these plum slippers. Nor do I really want to put my foot into something that other hobbit's feet have occupied.

 “WEEEEE ANNE HINEZZZ.” I jump startled and proceed to follow my Japanese tooth fairy behind the curtain. I am terrified and yet trusting with every barefoot step I take into the unknown.   

Uses for Rocks

When I was seven I was possessed by the devil. It’s the only explanation I can come up with, to explain the events which follow. August 25, 1993. “No Rain” by Blind Melon plays from the paint stained radio my dad was listening to while he barbequed. Inhale. The smell of sizzling pink hotdogs roasting, their long bodies impaled on my father’s fork which presses them against the charcoal blackened rod.

Seas of conversations wrestle through the blur of barbeque smoke to reach my ears. The black smoulder is heavy with the smell of chicken fat that has just kissed the grill in sacrifice.  I look up at my father. “Leanne, go in the house and get me some more barbeque sauce.” As I mentioned to you before, I am seven, so I listened. I reach up and open the patio door just as my cousin and brother come flying out. My brother Billy slams into my hip. “Get out of the way pig!” He laughs in unison with my cousin, Elliott. Today is Elliott’s birthday. His parents were getting a divorcing that same year and he took it pretty hard. At seven, all I knew about “divorce,” was that it was the evil demon that made Elliott poop in our pool that day. Yuck!

I came back out with the barbeque sauce. The gooey residue from its last pour job stuck to the skin between my fingers.  This sucks. As the eldest granddaughter I was the favourite amongst the adults and the most hated amongst the children. My grandfather (Pa) was my saviour at this age. A severe diabetic, he seemed to have an endless supply of candy in his pocket, which he fed to me like happy pills.

My father grabs the bottle out of my hand and brings me back to reality. I lick the sauce from between my fingers.  Pa pats me gently on the head and asks, “Would you like to go to town with your dad to pick up the cake, Lee-Lee?”  I look up at my dad, one hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, “when are you going Dad?” “I’m leaving in 2 seconds - so if you’re coming go get your sandals on now!”

I race inside and glide my toes around the blue rubber grips. The door bangs against the house as I swing it open. My mother hollers from inside – probably warning me to, “Stop slamming that GD door!” Slowly, I jog my pear shaped body out to my grandmothers white mustang. It’s parked on the road, perfectly aligned with all the neighbour’s cars. The sun gleams. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. Coloured balloons hang like wilted flower petals from the poplar tree at the end of the driveway.

My attention is averted back to my nanny’s white mustang. I walk to the left side and lean against the window to look in. Ouch, it’s hot! I back off and notice that it is locked. “Ughhh.” I look back towards the house but am too lazy to run and ask dad for the keys. I’ll wait. I kick at the gravel along the side of the road. My gaze is drawn to a big rock. I walk toward it and pick it up. A car is coming. I hear its engine exhale heavily as the driver accelerates, preparing to approach the hill. I am standing on the edge of the road. The heavy mud stained rock is now weighted between my two small hands. The car races closer. It passes.

I bend my knees and huff, springing up like a frog as I throw that big rock high, high, high up into the clear blue sky. It shatters the entire back window of the mustang. Glass clinks everywhere. My father’s voice booms from behind me. And that is the day I swear to you, I was possessed by the devil.

Tree Beard

When I was a child I had a secret place. It was literally only a ten minute walk from my house but as I ventured there, I felt important. Like a voyager heading into an exciting and undiscovered new world. Of course, voyages can be dangerous so I never went there without my best friend, Christina.

Although you could get there by road, the best way was to walk through the blueberry patch and over the hill. At seven years old, my knees were barely high enough to trample over the bristly bushes. They pulled and attached themselves to my thin pants just like a young toddler would cling to its mother in a crowd.  Insensitive to the efforts of Mother Nature, I flattened the bushes with my pink rubber boots. This was also insensitive to my own mother, who travelled there once a day in the dead heat of summer to pluck the ripened fruit.

Blueberries squished and spilt at their sides, spewing delicate brown seeds and green goo. However, their brutal death felt like a small sacrifice in order for me to reach my scared spot. Over the hill I would run.  A light breeze would push back the blond wisps of hair that had broken free from my ponytail. The pulsation of the sun’s heat felt like my mother’s hand pressing firmly on my head. She did that a lot when trying to keep me close by while talking to neighbors on the street. 

The sweat beads collected on my face and magnified the freckles I had hated so much as a child. At the top of the hill I would wait for Christina. Once reunited, we would take a running leap and hope to be the one that jumped the farthest over the chocolate river (also referred to as a dirt road by my parents). The putrid smell of the pig farm bullied its way into my nostrils and made me squeal in repugnance.  A screech pierced my ears once again but this time it came from Christina’s delight. We had finally reached our oasis.

The tree lot was glorious. The scent of sticky pine tickled as I inhaled and enticed me to enter . Greens of every hue cascaded as if Monet himself had painted this perfect mosaic landscape. My eyes scanned the sanctuary, my pink boots teetering over the tree line like I was on a tight rope. Before I knew it my boots were off, pulling me into the swell of trees. They stood silently and as unique as people, composed of all different shapes and sizes. I would imagine that the small spruces were children of the taller, bushy pines. A game of hide and seek would ensue and I would hide under the tallest tree as if it were my father, protecting me from the danger of being found. 

Christina and I would play for hours at this tree lot. Then dusk would come to pick us up and take us home. After all, even the best of voyages must come to an end at some point.

Life Lesson #1: Don't Take Yourself Too Seriously

Today my professor posed a question to our class that I have never stopped to ponder before, "Who am I?" Funny, that after a few minutes of contemplation all I could visualize was the chubby green caterpillar from Alice and Wonderland,  puffing away on his hookah and exhaling purple smoke all around me asking, "Whooooo arrrre you?"

Alice in Wonderland

So please bear with me as I try to see through the purple smoke of my life and share with you, who I really am. The conditioned response would be to tell you that I am 26, female, fourth year PR student, born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada. However, in an attempt to avoid sounding like a personal ad, I will pull from a life experience which should also provide some explanation about the title of my blog...­ Genki.

After I graduated from Mount Allison University, I decided to take a one year hiatus from the student world.  So I packed my life into two suitcases and moved to Hekinan, Japan to teach English. My preconceptions of Japan were immediately squashed when I landed in Hekinan. I pictured large city living, instead the town was small. I thought my apartment would be too tiny to even "throw elbows" but instead it was surprisingly spacious.  I pictured fast paced living yet I found myself (again) in a quiet, unassumingly small town.



Hekinan, Japan

There is one time of the year (as I found out in the summer of 2007) when Hekinan sheds this sleepy hollow image. It occurs during a festival called Genki-suu. The Japanese word, Genki written like so - 元気, means good health, good spirits and enthusiasm.

One definitely requires all 3 of the above to participate in Genki-suu. This festival is a dance EVENT like no other. See, every year the same annoyingly catchy tune booms throughout the town while teams of all ages, dress in all sorts of wild costumes and just dance... for 10 straight hours.

So in 2007 (after only being in Japan for 3 weeks), I headed downtown with my roommate to see what this racket was all about. I was instantly overwhelmed with the enthusiasm and energy radiating in the streets of this typically quiet town. Grandmothers in their 90's were fist pumping the air, business men danced in drag and the music drummed in my ears as I tried to push my way through the crowd and catch a glimpse. I felt drunk with excitement. As I made my way to the front, I watched everyone dancing with envy. I wanted to participate but I felt too shy to even venture onto the streets and have my picture taken.  At this point I feel that I should share with you that dancing was as foreign to me as eating with chopsticks.



Summer of 2007



Summer 2007 - More than 10,000 people flooded the streets for Genki-suu

The festival came and went and by the next morning the town was restored to its original sleepy state. The year that followed taught me more about myself than any class I have ever taken. I learned how to ride a bike all over again, speak another language, eat with chopsticks and even navigate a map. I fell in love and made friends with people from all over the world. Most importantly I learned how to be on my own. I didn't truly learn how much I had changed until the Genki-suu festival came around the following year, in August of 2008.

A friend had asked me to participate with a group of high school teachers and I accepted without hesitation. I had achieved something greater than I had ever intended - I was finally comfortable and confident in my own skin.  I'm sure that many of you reading are familiar with the quote, "live like there's no tomorrow, love like you've never been hurt, and dance like no one is watching." Well I did just that.  Just as the town had originally surprised me in August 2007, I had surprised myself. I danced as if nobody was watching and even took home a medal.

Life Lesson #1: Don't take yourself too seriously.



Summer of 2008 - preparing for a day of dancing!

  For those of you intested check out this YouTube clip I found of the festival:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNtVnJCxYik