Memoir: Mrs. Macrae (3)

I think of you as more than just a teacher. You were my beginning at Gateway. My beginning in Canada. I think of you as the gatekeeper to my life in Canada and an ambassador of this nation to innumerable immigrant children.

I recall meeting you with my father at "meet the teacher night." I felt at ease in your presence. You explained my various achievements and shortfalls as a student. At the end of the meeting, I remember my father saying, "She's a very nice teacher." You were. And I imagine, still are.

Teachers teach math, reading, writing, and science. You did all this and on top of that you did this too: You taught me to sing in a choir; to begin to read music; hold a recorder; clean the mouth piece in a solution that tasted like bubble gum; attend choral festivals and introduced me to Ontario Place. You also introduced me to two abiding interests which are a part of my life even today: A love for the outdoors and that quintessentially Canadian of all pass times - ice skating.

As a class, we often went on trips to a place called Forest Valley. An outdoor centre with a building for lunch times, a building for nature education, a river with a bridge over it and, best of all, a trampoline on site. At Forest Valley I learned, among other things, how to identify trees and leaves and how to use a map and compass. I have branched out since then to a love of canoeing in Algonquin Park, the ability to navigate in many a strange city with a map and, yes, a nostalgic love for trampolines.

Don't Look Now, But...

Across my driveway and in my neighbours front yard are a bunch of bees building a hive/nest. I suppose this is my year to do battle with tiny critters. Obviously having access to the "interweb" (thanks Corner Gas) I have researched the problem. You can link to this bee help site by clicking on the title of this blog.

Anyways, my neighbour doesn't want to kill the bees because he hates to kill any living thing. I would gas them in a heartbeat, except, I'm a runner not a fighter. Just thinking about bees gives me a rash. Nevertheless, I plan on treking to the nearest -- yup, HomeDepot -- and finding a safe (for me anyways) way to deal with the bees.

By the way, the website recommends calling a bee keeper...a nutty sub-caste of the human race if ever there was one.

Stay tuned!

Hug Him (he'll be happier, you'll be happier)

'It's gotten to a point where he's asking everyone for hugs...and it's problematic.'

-- Day program manager describing a participant's "behaviour."

Memoir: Mrs. Macrae (2)

I have never forgotten you since that first day. You were gentle, welcoming, beautiful and understanding. You took the time to teach me by your desk. It was not so much the material as the system and culture within the classroom that you coached me on. A lot remained to be discovered but in a matter of days, I had found my home within Gateway Public School. In your classroom. Because of you.
Now, at the age of 40, I still look back on those days with nostalgia and fondness. Now, being married to a teacher, I hear many stories from her classroom. I always recall to my wife, herself a graduate of Gateway Public School, that the smallest kindness can have a deep and lasting effect. A word, a look, or a gesture: The kind of thing you imparted to your students...to me...daily.

Memoir: Mrs. Macrae (1)

In October of 1974 I sat down for exactly one day in a grade 5 class at Gateway Public School in Toronto. I had arrived the
previous month, September 14th to be exact, from my birthplace - Tanzania.
I was stunned and confused. I sat in a class with no friends, a teacher who was too busy to be the welcoming presence I needed and the dreaded acronym BODMAS on the chalkboard. That night I returned home and explained to my father that I had no idea what was being taught in that class. And although that was half the problem, the other half was the result of a class full of students that left little time for individual attention.
The next day my father and I went to the main office. I stood around and then sat by my dad quietly while he explained the situation to the administrative staff. That same day - I wish I could recall the date - I landed, gently, in your classroom.

Suicide Bombing

"A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it."

-- OSCAR WILDE

A Prime Example

Imagine that you were a intellectually delayed (yes, mentally retarded) young man or woman. Your parents have taken care of you all their lives. Your elderly parents have, in fact, kept you at home for too long. Kept the burden of caring for you for themselves for so long that when help does arrive it leads to the city putting a health order on your home due to the unsanitary conditions. The poor sanitary conditions in the home are due to your way-past-retirement-parent's ill health and your handicap.

The "system" having found you call, oh, I don't know -- a crisis centre. The crisis centre gives you temporary housing (2-3 months at the most) and finds you a sheltered vocational day program. You receive assistance of a monetary nature from the government to the tune of $950.00 or so per month.

Having lived out your 3 months at your temporary home you are faced with the decision: Where to live? Mind you, as a result of your handicap, you are not capable of grasping the full consequences of the question. You are not able to find an apartment on your own. You are not able to cook in any significant way for yourself. You are unable to move about the city on the public transit system without risk to yourself. You are not able to maintain a decent level of personal hygiene or administer your own medications at the right time, in the right dose, by the right method, etc. You are, to be frank, not capable of projecting far into the future; otherwise you would be curled up in the fetal position with worry.

Your choices are -- would be: Live in a boarding home without much assistance; live in the hostel/shelter system where you would be perpetually victimized. The system will soon demand that you leave your "safe-bed" placement to permanent housing. Now, you must, with the help of your case manager (who is currently befuddled and at wits end) find a place to live. Live with your disability. Live on 900-some-odd-dollars a month. Live out your life without the crutch of mom and dad (who have been moved to a seniors home). Live out your life on your own because the system is built to help you (even in crisis) for only so long. In other words, you are welcome to help, as long as you don't need too much of it.

Sibbald Point Provincial Park

Spent a glorious day with Tracey, Seth and Mickey John at the beach on Saturday.


Mickey John -- Trying to stop his teeth from chattering after a respectable time in the lake.


Seth -- Warming up after a short dip in the lake.



Fossil hunters!