"Half"

Earlier today the family and I paid a visit to Reiko's grandmother, who currently lives in a retirement home. Her mental state has deteriorated as a result of Alzheimer's over the last decade, and it was decided a few years ago that she should be in a place with round-the-clock medical support. Most of the time she believes it's some time around 1930 or 1940. She's forgotten that her father passed away some fifty years ago. And she can no longer recall the names or faces of her children. Her grandchildren are another story. This post isn't really about her, though. Instead it's about a word that I often hear associated with my kid that I have grown to detest: "half".

In Japan, and perhaps other countries where a population is mostly homogenous, children who have one foreign parent are called ハーフ (ha-fu), meaning "half Japanese". Growing up in Canada, people were also classified as "half", such as half-latino or half-black. This wasn't seen as a derogatory term as far as I know, but something about hearing people say this about my kid grates on my nerves. I want to say "He isn't half anything. He's 100% just like you." ... but maybe this is an over-reaction.

Despite being an immigrant, I'm fortunate enough to rarely face a situation where I do not feel welcome as a result of my genetic background. I don't want my kid to ever feel he's unwelcome because he's "half". Growing up is hard enough. He shouldn't have to deal with prejudice (or preference) as a result of his whiter-than-normal skin or lighter-than-normal hair.

Perhaps I'm just over-sensitive ....

Different

A number of people have told me that I'll get to relive my youth through my son, seeing the world from his perspective and empathizing with his perspectives. This may happen with some "timeless items" such as learning to ride a bike1, playing catch2, or rushing to the emergency ward of a hospital3, but the world has changed quite a bit in the 40-odd years since I was his age. That said, one old memory that came back to me with incredible clarity this past weekend was evoked when the boy went down for a nap while we visited his grandparents in Gifu.

This is likely a common memory for most people. My parents would visit family, and I'd have to take a nap or otherwise go to sleep in an unfamiliar place surrounded by unfamiliar smells and hearing unfamiliar voices. Even for places I'd been to dozens or hundreds of times, the place would feel "weird" to sleep at. Most of the time I'd have to make due with a sofa in an unused room. Occasionally I'd be asked to sleep in someone else's bed, which I never did because it felt very wrong. Even now I would choose to sleep on a hardwood floor rather than rest in a bed that belongs to someone else. In the distance I'd hear my parents loudly talking and laughing, all the while insisting everyone under the age of 10 "go to sleep".

The boy is still too young to make strong memories4, but I do wonder if he felt it odd to sleep in a different room surrounded by different smells and different voices.


  1. which I recall learning alone on a gravel driveway in the rain
  2. the strongest memory of which involves my father and I walking over to the elementary school near our apartment, where we'd throw the ball for what seemed like hours on end
  3. Hope this doesn't happen ...
  4. I think ...

Fifteen Years

Back on August 1, 2002 I made the 4,880km trek from Hamilton, Ontario to the west coast city of Richmond, British Columbia, just a stone's throw from Vancouver. The move came at a time when I was under an extreme amount of stress in both my personal life and professional. The move from one side of Canada to the other was my way to run from all the problems, lay low for a while, and make a new me. A lot of mistakes were made, many of which resulted in regrets that persist to this day. But a lot of good came from the move as well. I learned who I was and, more importantly, who I wasn't.

The first few weeks were rough. Very rough. I thought I might end up homeless due to my arrogance and over-confidence.

You see, I decided to move across the country on Friday July 26th. On Saturday, I went to work, did what I needed to do, and then drove off to see my step-father and let him know of my plans. He didn't completely approve, but he understood and wished me luck. That night I began clearing out my apartment by tossing things from the fire-escape into the dumpster below. Sunday I bought a plane ticket for an August 1 flight, and afterwards continued clearing out the apartment with the help of some friends. Anything they didn't want, we tossed. One difficult item to lose was my computer at the time. I had invested over $8,000 into it at that point, and it was simply too large and fragile for me to carry it across the country. As I didn't have an address in Richmond, yet, there was nowhere to send it to. I had to let it go. Monday through Wednesday went by in a blur. I went to work, did what needed to be done, but kept my departure secret as the boss had one heck of a temper. I couldn't tell him becuase I was a coward.

The whole move was cowardly, really.

During the evenings I would go online and look for work in the Vancouver area. There was a lot of opportunity from the looks of the help wanted ads, and I got in touch with a company that was in the same line of work I was doing in Ontario; appliance repair. The role they needed to fill required a person with several years of experience who could tell the difference between a Maytag, Whirlpool, Frigidaire, and Bosch component at a glance. I could do that. We had a telephone interview and asked if I could start on August 1st. My response? "I'd love to, but I'm flying to Vancouver that day. Could I start on the 2nd?"

They were surprised that I was moving across the country and applying for a job that paid $10 an hour. I don't blame them. In retrospect, I'd be surprised, too. They asked me to call them when I landed and I hung up the phone confident I had gainful employment lined up. Finding an apartment was more complicated, as I didn't know the area, but I knew I needed to be in Richmond. Every place I called wanted me to come in beforehand, so I decided to wait until I was in the province to look for a place to stay, confident there would be a home waiting for me.

Wednesday night I went to visit my step-father one last time to thank him for everything he'd done, give him the keys to the office1, and chatted about what the future might have in store. The next morning a friend of mine came to pick me up in the early hours of the morning and we drove up to Toronto where I'd catch my flight. My heart was beating hard the whole time as visions of consequences played out again and again.

The move had to go on, though. I could not turn back.

After checking in and confirming everything was good, my friend and I shook hands. I walked towards the security gates, and he went back to his car. Though we'd see each other again, our relationship would not be the same. My relationship with everyone in Ontario would never again be the same. I was leaving everyone and everything, both the good and the bad, to forge ahead on a fool's errand.

Welcome to Vancouver

The flight across the country was rather uneventful. No turbulence. No weather to avoid. The passengers — to the best of my recollection — were all well-mannered individuals. After landing, everyone clapped and we eventually got to leave and collect our bags. One of the first things I did after picking up the two pieces of luggage that contained the last of my belongings was buy a newspaper. While I was confident I had work, I needed to find a place to sleep. I had enough money on me to stay a week at a motel if needs be, but cash was not something I had a great deal of nor access to.

The first few places I called all had the same story. A tenant was found a day or two before, and I'd have to look elsewhere. Eventually I did find a place that was renting a room for $400 a month, and that seemed decent. While shared accommodation is not always ideal, it is relatively cheap. The woman who answered the phone invited me to see the small apartment and gave me the address. Soon after, I was on my way to catch a taxi.

Interestingly enough, when I gave the taxi driver the address I wanted to go to, he started asking me detailed questions. "Where is that? Over by number three? Number four?" I had no idea what he was talking about and said as much, which is not what he wanted to hear. In a huff he grabbed his mapbook and looked it up. "Four and Francis" he scowled, and I repeated it to myself a dozen times so that I'd not make the same mistake again.

After a short 10-minute ride, we arrived at the house and I knocked on the door. A short woman came out and started apologizing profusely in a language I didn't understand. Her son soon followed her out and said that the room had been taken the day before. However, if I didn't mind staying in their part of the house, they'd rent me a room they weren't using anymore for $425 a month, a little more than the room offered in the paper. Not wanting to start the house search over again, I accepted the offer and moved in. The son and I quickly became good friends.

Later that afternoon I called the appliance repair shop I'd spoken to earlier that week to let them know I was in the province, had found a place, and was ready for an interview or to start work as soon as the next day. Unfortunately, they hired someone in the few days since my call. I was now back to square one on employment.

For the next seven weeks I looked for work as though my life depended on it ... because it did. I stopped spending money. I walked everywhere to keep the $2 fare for food. I grabbed old newspapers out of the garbage to look at the Help Wanted section. My prepaid phone was fast running out of minutes, but I needed to make calls. In desperation, I called my step-father and asked for some money. He came through the very next day and I was able to eat for the first time in 3 days. As the job search went on, I started eating once every four days. Then five ...

I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. The body does some strange things when you go from 232 pounds down to 173 in the space of five weeks. Strange ... awful things.

My clothes were all a hundred sizes too big for me. My belt needed new holes to keep my huge pants up. I didn't want to call Ontario for help again. My ego wouldn't allow it. I knew my bank had given me a $1000 buffer with ATM deposits, and I was seriously considering depositing a napkin with an IOU and risking the wrath of the bank for a few measley dollars ... but decided against it. That wasn't who I wanted to be.

On a sunny day in mid-September I received a phone call. A printing company in town needed warehouse staff for their busy season, and they were paying $8.75 to start. I jumped at the opportunity, had an interview I found confusing and repetitive, and was awarded a 4-month contract. My shift would be 6am to 2pm Monday to Friday, with occasional weekends if I agreed. I was so incredibly happy ...

The work was not easy. I'd lost a lot of weight. Working in the warehouse meant moving pallets of paper that could weigh anywhere between 300 and 4,500 kilograms. I wasn't certified to use the forklift, so that meant using a pallet jack and physical labour. When a person eats every day, this isn't too hard to accomplish. When a person eats the equivalent of a peanut butter sandwich every 5 days, and walks the 4 kilometers to work then again back home every day ... even a medium-sized load is a bit too much to bare.

But I persevered. One week later on a Friday, I was called over to recieve my first paycheque only to discover that there was a mix-up. It hadn't been printed. "If you could wait until Monday ..." the manager started, but I'd gone too long without food at that point. I didn't want to go three more days. Rather than ask me to wait, we went to the office and had someone write a cheque. $173.74 it came out to, and to this day it's the biggest paycheque I've ever received. Not in terms of dollars and cents, but value. I valued every last penny. I bought some food. I bought $10 in phone minutes to call my family. I bought a pair of pants that fit.

Over time, that temporary job would become permanent as I started writing software to help me do my job better. That caught people's attention and, eventually, I was put in charge of the warehouse and a small team. A year later I was moved to logistics, and six months later to IT. My entire five year stay on the west coast of Canada was paid for by working at that company, and I'm still thankful for every opportunity they offered ... and the ones they forgave me for manufacturing.

Fifteen years ago I left Ontario a scared, scarred boy who didn't know anything about the world or himself. The five years in British Columbia, while not always easy, prepared me for what came next ....


  1. we worked at the same place, and I had a set of keys.

Letter to Santa

041 - Letter to Santa

Original

I'm still debating whether to lie to my kid about Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, leprechauns, and the edibility of certain foods ...

No Sugar

039 - No Sugar

Original

Why Have Starships At All?

040 - Why Starships

Original

While the most recent rebooted Trek was a much better story than the first two, I'm still not enamoured with how the transporter is being used in this alternate reality. Alas ...

Optimism

038 - Alex Jones

Original: KPLX — Awei Jahre

1987 Was Nice ...

037 - Double Double Cheese Burger

Sources: KPLX — Entspannung and a McDonald's TV commercial from 30 years ago

Sometimes I think I should put all of these online just because they make me smile every time I see them ...

Every Newspaper Is a Tabloid Now

Perhaps the state of news has been this way for years and I've never noticed it, but I've come to the conclusion that all of the websites I used to read to stay up to date and informed on world events have devolved into tabloids, covering the same stories over and over with the same characters and with the same tone of abject incredulity. This is true not only of "left-leaning" sites like The Guardian, but those on the right as well. Fingers are being pointed. Wars of words are being waged. Real news is being buried before it even has a chance to surface for air.

British Papers

Every so often, I've felt an incredible desire to pare down where I get my news from. This often happens when the information I'm receiving no longer plays a direct role in any part of my life, as it was for sites like Engadget and The Verge many years ago, or when the quality of writing has noticeably declined to the point where a blog written by a teenager lacking life experience offers a better read, as is seen with the tripe found on the Financial Times' half-written website. Occasionally, the urge to reduce the number of news sources is so strong that I opt to just leave them all behind for a week or two or five, choosing to instead put my time into watching paint dry. Going back to the news after abstaining for a month often shows that very little changes from day to day. The same characters are in the news vying for attention with "more outrageous stuff we wouldn't believe". The same countries are being destroyed by internal or external enemies. The same companies are chipping away at what little pseudo-liberties the common person has.

And what value do I get from reading this stuff? I've given up reading anything involving the US Government and the members of the new administration to save my vision from all the eye rolling. I've stopped reading anything about the Canadian government as well, since every journalist with semi-permanent employment seems to have an axe to grind with a politician because of what they're not doing. Sites dedicated to technology fare a little better, but seem to be bought and paid for with all the sponsored content masquerading as objective think pieces. It's true that news sites need to do what's necessary to keep the lights on, but when several $60 a year subscriptions to various sites does not offer any sort of value in return, I have to wonder if I'm the target audience anymore.

But I'm probably not.

I don't click links to lists, or "amazing things I wouldn't believe", or anything else that sounds like a sugar cereal commercial intro. I don't watch minute-long videos for 10 seconds of content and 30 seconds of ads. I don't "like" on Facebook or "tweet" things to people on Twitter1. A large portion of what is found on the front pages of news sites around the world, in English and in Japanese, are little more than tabloid material with "a premium brand name" attached.

So where does this leave me to stay informed and otherwise try to understand the context behind world events? I wish I knew. Evening news can fill some of the void, but there's very little depth in most TV reporting, it seems. Physical newspapers contain stories that come across as outdated before they even reach the printing press, and are often poor copy/paste jobs from the website right down to the underlined text signifying an unclickable link2. Radio or podcasts for news? No. Non-starters. All of them. Which leads me to wonder if perhaps I'm just no longer interested in what news organizations — that I know of — have to offer.

Like a customer who has grown tired of the menu at an oft-frequented restaurant, I want something different. Since I won't get this from the usual places, maybe it's time to simply leave it all behind until someone introduces me to something more interesting. If nothing else, this should free up a little bit more time and maybe even help drop the blood pressure a few points.

Am I just overthinking this? Am I seeing a problem in the news that doesn't exist?


  1. I do share links and specific excerpts on 10C Social, of course, but not nearly as often as I used to
  2. why is this still a problem for newspapers in 2017?

What Is "Normal"?

030 - Crazy

— Remixed from KPLX

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