Writing is my artistic expression. My keyboard is my brush. Words are my medium. My blog is my canvas. And committing to writing daily makes me feel like an artist.
I remember being a young kid when a door-to-door salesman came to our house and sold my dad a Junior Encyclopedia set. I was amazed at all the information in there. I could just think of any topic and it seemed that there was an entry for it.
In Grade 10 or 11 I took a programming course in high school. I don’t remember much other than having to punch little dots out of cards and handing them in. My teacher would bring them back to us the next class with a printout of the instructions we created with these punch cards.
At the time, I owned a Commodore Vic 20 which had 20k of memory. I remember buying the 16k adapter cartridge so that I could have 36k of memory, but I can’t remember why I wanted the extra data. I think I was writing a book on bass fishing with my buddy on the Commodore and we were using up too much space.
Now our fridges can do more than my Vic 20, and our phones give us access to quite literally any information we desire. Computers have wafer thin chips in them, the size of my finger nail, that can store entire libraries of information. We have no shortage of information or storage… as long as we aren’t trying to store 20,000 photos on our phones.
Information used to be power. Now it seems that information is free. Well, almost free, because we actually pay for information with our attention. The website is free but you’ve got to see the advertising. The podcast is free but you have to listen to commercials. Social media content is free but influencers push products your way, and sell you programs. And you end up not scrolling past an ad because it is designed like the content you normally consume.
We don’t have to buy encyclopedias anymore, information is almost free… The price we pay is our attention.
I’m missing Halloween at school this year. I’ll be out of town for a meeting and so it will be the first Halloween in years that I won’t be dressing up. It’s funny, I feel both disappointed and relieved about this.
Disappointed more for the opportunity to see my students letting loose with their imaginative costumes. Relieved because while I take the time to really dress up, I’m not a huge fan of it. In fact, I’m going to a fancy birthday party this weekend and I don’t even like dressing up for that.
To me, dressing up is a major effort, and when I’m not wearing clothes for comfort, when I’m putting on a costume of any kind, be it Halloween, formal wear, or even a tie, I feel like I’m putting on a persona that doesn’t belong to me.
I know some people love it. I know people seek out opportunities to ‘put on’ another outfit and it excites them. Not me. I feel fake. I’ve never enjoyed using clothing to somehow change how I’m presenting myself.
I recently found an old photo of me at my uncle and aunts wedding. I was probably 4 or 5 years old, and the moment I saw the photo I remembered hating my outfit. In the photo I look miserable, and you can’t see my bow tie because I’m pulling on it when the photo was taken. I don’t remember anything about the wedding itself other than it was in Trinidad and I had never seen large hills (growing up in Barbados) and so I was amazed by the ‘mountains’. Besides mountains, the only other childhood memory from that trip is hating to be dressed up. So even in some of my youngest memories, dressing up wasn’t something I enjoyed.
No Halloween dress up for me this year. I’m sorry I won’t be there for the kids, but a little part of me is celebrating that I don’t have to dress up.
November 12th 1985 was a cold, overcast day in Toronto. I was taking the bus home from school during my Grade 13 year. For those who do not know, Ontario had a Grade 13 for anyone planning to go on to university.
I had to take two busses home and my transfer happened a half block away from North York General Hospital. My grandfather was at that hospital after a minor heart attack and I thought maybe I’d go see him before going home. Then I got to the corner and decided that I’d just go home, I had just visited a couple days before.
I went to the bus stop and waited about 8-10 minutes for the bus before seeing it approach the traffic lights behind me. I remember at that very moment changing my mind, thinking ‘I’m right here, I should visit him’. So I walked back to the street corner as the bus approached and passed, and I made the turn to go visit Papa T.
When I got to his hospital room I could hear him having an argument with my Granny about some minor thing. He was shaving, sitting upright in his bed with an electric razor, my granny holding a small mirror for him. We had a nice visit and I felt great walking back to the bus stop afterwards.
The next morning I was at the school for a 7am swim practice and about half way through I felt awful. I couldn’t describe the feeling then but dread would be the term I’d use looking back now. I actually stopped my set and got out of the pool. What made me feel worse was that a couple other kids stopped and joined me on the bench. I was team captain and this was a bad example I was setting, but I just couldn’t get myself back into the pool.
For first class I had a spare block and so did my friend Kassim, who had a car. I had never done anything like this before but I looked at my buddy and said, “Kassim, I feel awful, can you drive me home?”
He didn’t. He convinced me to stay. It was Grad Photo Day and we both had appointments for our photos before lunch. “Stay until lunch”, he said, “Get your grad photo and if you still feel like this at lunch I’ll take you home.”
He convinced me to stay, despite how awful I felt. I couldn’t understand the feeling I was experiencing because I didn’t feel sick, and so missing photos didn’t make sense.
I made it to lunch and went to the cafeteria. I remember pulling my lunch out of the brown paper bag it was in as I sat down. I was saying to Kassim and a couple other friends we sat with, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just feel like shit.”
Then I sat down, looked up and locked eyes with my sister peering across the cafeteria. This was unusual to say the least because she went to a different high school. We locked eyes, then with no explanation I simply said, “It’s my grandfather.” Then packed my lunch back into the bag, got up and walked out with my sister.
This made no sense to my friends, but they had met my sister so knew I was going home. I don’t remember my sister saying anything to me. I don’t think I signed out. We got into my uncle’s car and drove straight to the hospital.
I wish I didn’t go. I wish my last memory of Papa T was of him shaving and talking about what he was going to do after getting out of the hospital, not him on life support with his eyes taped shut because he was leaving them open, unblinking. But I got to say good bye to his body after he was already gone.
I went home and wrote this poem. I haven’t seen it in over 25 years, but my sister is helping my mom declutter before moving, she found it, and sent me a picture of it.
When I was a kid, I used to collect the caps that you fired in a cap gun. They came in a disk with 8 shots each. When we went to the store, I’d ask for another pack of them, and they were cheap so my mom often bought them for me. The thing is, I never shot them. I was saving them just for the right time.
My grandparents lived across the street from us and I kept the caps and my cap gun at their house. They had a room with an ensuite bathroom that belonged to my great grandfather, and after he passed away, I was the only person who went into those rooms. I kept the caps and gun under the ensuite bathroom sink.
The day before we moved from Barbados to Canada I suddenly remembered that the caps were there and I gathered up my gun and my packets and packets of caps. I took them to my dad and asked him to pack them. “David, we shipped our boxes already, and we can’t take all of those on the plane,” my dad told me. So there I was, with hundreds of caps and a couple hour window to use them.
I shot every one of them off. Eight quick shots in succession, reload, repeat. I can still remember the smell of the fired caps as I recall this years later. I also remember being a bit sad that I had not spread out the use of the caps, that I lost out on many enjoyable opportunities because I was saving them up for the ‘right’ occasion. There was always going to be a better time to use them, until there was almost no time at all.
How often do we do something similar? We are waiting for the right moment. We are metaphorically hoarding an idea, or waiting to find out more before we act, or wanting the conditions to be perfect before we move forward?
James Clear said, “Use the best idea you have right now. Claiming you need to ‘learn more’ or ‘get your ducks in a row’ is just a crutch that prevents you from starting. Education is a lifelong pursuit. You will always need to learn more. It’s not a reason to wait.”
Our students decided on ‘Old School Internet’ as the theme for this year’s school yearbook. But of course at a maximum age of 18, none of our students actually knew what it was like. So, for my principal’s message, I tried to give them a little taste of what they missed.
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It’s fun for students today to have something like ‘Old School Internet’ as a Yearbook theme, but as someone who ‘lived’ it, let me tell you that you don’t know the pain it caused. Here’s an example: A little-known fact about me is that I designed and patented a bicycle lock. To do this, I had to do a lot of research because a patent can not infringe on other previous patent designs. So back in the old internet days I would have to log onto the internet using my phone (cue the retro sound for this that brings back instant but not gratifying nostalgia)… then I’d go to the slow and clunky US Government Patent Office website and every search would take 15-30 seconds to load. Then I’d see a patent I’d be interested in and that would take 15-plus seconds to load. I’d read about a patent that seemed interesting to look at and I’d try to load the first image to see what it looks like… If I was lucky, it would load in 45 seconds and often it took over a minute. Sometimes the image wouldn’t give me enough information and so I’d have to check the next image… cue the elevator music going through my brain as I impatiently wait and wait and wait for the next image to load… Then I’d realize that I wasn’t interested in that patent and would need to start all over again… And then my wife would need the phone and I’d have to disconnect from the internet so that she could make a call.
So enjoy the nostalgic ‘Old School Internet’ pages in this yearbook, but make no mistake, you are extremely lucky that you don’t have to live in this retro era of internet access… Where you were tethered to a very, very slow phone wire, and every click tested your patience.
When we look back at things in our past, we really don’t see things 20/20. There is no perfect memory, no perfect reflection on things long past. We don’t have 20/20 hindsight vision, it’s more like 10/20.
You remember that amazing moment that you cherish? …You probably don’t remember the struggle to get you there.
You remember that infuriating exchange with someone? …You probably don’t remember the insight you gained, or how you changed your behavior for the better afterwards.
We recall special memories, (hopefully far more good ones than bad ones)… the stories we tell and retell with nostalgia, held up as if they are 100% true. Perfect reflections of what actually happened. But each of these memories are tempered with emotions that require our memories to fit the story we want to tell.
Our we making them up? Yes and no. No we aren’t fabricating them with an intent to misconstrue what actually happened. But yes, we are making them up because we are only choosing to tell the part of the story that fits the narrative.
Hindsight is far from perfect. It’s just us highlighting the parts of our lives that give us meaning and purpose. If it was 20/20 we wouldn’t hold on to the memories the way we do. We need to cloud our vision of past events to make them worth keeping.
This time of year can feel like a grind. So much to do, so little time. So when we get a little reminder of why we do what we do, it’s special, and uplifting. Tonight is our senior spring formal and the evening will be one of those reminders. Seeing our now grown up students all dressed up, and remembering their younger selves when they first arrived at the school, will be a reminder of the growth and development we’ve supported in these young adults.
Yesterday we had another little reminder. A card and gifts for the staff from the parents of a grade 12 student. What makes this card extra special is that it comes from a prof in teacher education. Here is the letter, a wonderful battery charge as we head into the final few weeks of school.
Dear IHub Faculty and Staff,
Thank you for an amazing four years! We could not have asked for a better or more supportive learning environment for [student name]. We are so grateful for all you do to provide engaging apportunities for students that connects them with their passions and gifts.
Thank you for supporting [student name] unconditionally and for all your patience and flexibility. You are the gold standard of what education should be. We raise a glass to you all and honour all of your contributions to the lives of the students in the graduating class of 2025!
When you call a sibling, text a friend, video chat with a kid or a parent…
When you go to a birthday, an anniversary, a reunion…
Will a memory from today come up in conversation?
What separates today from the many days before, now long forgotten?
Of course if every day were truly memorable, it would be unlikely that we could recall them all, and peak experiences do not feel like they are special if they occur every day… but the question still holds, “Will you remember this day?”
If not, what can you do to make it more than just another forgotten day?
Dean Shareski asked this question on LinkedIn: “What’s your favourite story or experience with exceptional customer service?”
I shared:
Mine was in the Bahamas. I asked a waiter for pickled conch at dinner and he went into a bit of a dramatic show about how I didn’t know conch until I tasted it fresh. He asked me what I was doing the next morning and said to meet him in the lobby at 7am. So me and my sister’s boyfriend met him. He took us to a small convenience store and bought two Tupperware containers. Then we drove across the toll bridge and wound around under it to a kind of open sea market. He bought lemons and tomatoes from one vendor, peppers from another, and took them to a conch vendor who broke open conch shells in front of us and made conch salad for us, while telling stories about conch diving while high. The waiter then took us back to the hotel, two full Tupperware containers of fresh conch salad in hand, and refused to take any money from us. “Absolutely not, you haven’t had conch until you’ve had it fresh, this was my pleasure!” It was indeed delicious, but the experience was even better.
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I wish I remembered his name, it’s on the back of a photo I took with him on our last day, him holding the huge bottle of rum we bought him… But this was over 30 years ago, and the photo is buried in a box in my garage. All these years later, I still remember his kindness and hospitality. What a wonderful memory he created for us!
When was the last time you heard a dial tone? When was the last time you used a rotary phone? Or a pay phone?
I tend to use Siri a lot. I don’t go to my phone app, I just ask Siri to call the number for me. And I call people a lot less than I text them.
We’ve come a long way from a family phone being connected to our wall, with a long cord attached to the handset. We’ve moved the phone from a side character to the protagonist. From an item to occasionally connect to one person to a tool of constant contact to the world.
Along the way, the idea of the dial tone disappeared. What else has disappeared?
