Coming Home

“Where are you from?”

“Where’s home?”
I never had a quick and simple answer. My West-African parents settled in Alberta by the time I was born, therefore I am a dual citizen of both countries. To top it all off I lived in the Middle East for 10 years before leaving for university.

There I was, a Canadian-born West African raised in the Middle East - talk about an identity crisis. I had always felt more Canadian than anything else. My earliest whimsical childhood memories had all taken place in Canada and those experiences were my most basic points of reference. Despite living nearly half of my life in the Middle East, its conservative nature was a frequent contradiction to some of my Canadian ideals. The blatant differences made me distance myself from the idea of ever really calling it home.

Our family had always been nomads of sorts. My entire life, my parents had never lived in Ghana. They had literally lived all over the world. I was unaware of the extent towards which this mobile lifestyle had affected me. Although I had travel and movement in my bones, my gypsy tendencies slowed and I began to feel tightening pull back towards a comforting familiarity.

In May 2006 I graduated from high school in Kuwait I was ready to “broaden my horizons” and move on to university. From day one, when the topic of university came up I had lined up Canada as my location of choice because simply put, it was home.  I would go back to this magical place where the air was clearer, the seasons completely altered the landscape and where you could always count on the best maple syrup.  Oh Canada! How I had missed you!

I faced my first roadblock on the journey during the university application process. I technically couldn't apply as a Canadian because I didn't have credit for the typical provincial grades. Because I attended a school in a foreign country and based on a foreign curriculum I had to send in grades as an international student. This inconvenience, however slight, should have been early evidence that I was not returning the same way I had left.

Eventually, I got accepted at a Canadian University, but that turned out to be the easy part. It only made sense that there would be a fair share of hiccups and challenges in making a physical and mental transition back to Canada.  But a short summer later I was slapped with a bitter reality during my first semester at university. Classes had started, my family had left, and the smallest storm cloud of uneasiness began to form above me.

Moving any distance from family can be a difficult adjustment for most people, myself included. This was compounded by the fact that my brother was studying on the other side of the country in Alberta and my parents were still living in the Middle East. The deep loneliness, frustration and apathy I was suddenly feeling were intensified by classmates’ complaints of having to drive an hour to see their family when I literally went years between visits. There was no one to bring soup when I was sick, no one to make sure I got to class on time, and no one to brighten a bad day with a good joke.

So much for coming home. Ironically I had returned to a host of strangers and a new social order where I was the architect; responsible for the construction, design, stability and endurance of a new life. For the last decade I had lived in the same house, gone to the same school and had the same circle of friends.

I had been a chameleon for so long; constantly adopting customs and traditions that weren’t mine. All of my cues taken from my parents and now that I had to rely on my own instincts I wasn’t sure which way was up.

I had to press the restart button and balance newfound responsibility with an innate childlike approach. From creating a new network of friends who eventually turned into family to reclaiming a curiosity for the unknown, I am slowly learning how to bridge.

 Although it was never obvious at the time, I can now reflect and understand the subtle ways my parents tried to help me prepare for a life of independence.

“What would you do if I wasn’t here?”

This was mom’s classic response anytime I asked a question that I was too lazy or apprehensive to figure out by myself. I always rolled my eyes in response but now I frequently find myself grinning in memory.

I’m still becoming more comfortable with a new idea of home. ‘Home’ to me is a place, concept and a feeling. Just like you and I, ‘home’ changes; it doesn’t always stay the same. Home to me is more than the place I had first memories. It is a collection of pivotal moments, triumph and loss alike, shared in a safe place.

“Where are you from?”

“Where’s home?”

I’ll never have a quick and simple answer as I continue to live, work and travel all around the world - but that’s okay. Even now, on the heels of graduation, I’m itching to move somewhere new. I’m planning on taking a year off to discover beauty and wonder of South America, but also to explore my roots in Ghana. For now I’ll say that “Home is where you lay your head” – at least until I come up with a better answer.

WMF: Weapons of Mass Fear

Holidays are time off and normally time off is a good thing; an opportunity to relax, catch up on that book you've been meaning to read, or pack up for a four-star family vacation somewhere warm. As a young teenager this should have meant restful nocturnal days, hibernating in my room and nights spent anywhere but home.

This wasn't quite as relaxing as it should have been. It was mid March 2003 and I hadn't walked past the poorly painted, rusted school gates in three weeks. Things began to change slowly. It had started with subtle alterations to class schedules as teachers abruptly abandoned terms and contracts. Events escalated quickly to the point that the government machine had virtually ground to a halt and we were all advised to stay together - at home. Private school didn't trump national security, and so, here I was.

The first time I heard the siren was on a Thursday afternoon; the beginning of the weekend. I remember sitting at our mahogany dining table, trying to amply distract myself. My brother was seated opposite, gorging on what could be still be debated as Kentucky Fried “Chicken." My attention was focused past him, and on the television screen that my dad was gazing at intently; signature cup of coffee steaming at his side. I didn't understand all of the CNN political jargon or journalists’ questions, but I could tell that something big was about to happen.

I was unconsciously bouncing my feet under the table when a loud whine pierced the air. Initially I thought it that the police were after someone, but five seconds later, when the sound had not ceased, I knew it was warning we had expected but dreaded all the same; the presence of Iraqi scud missiles in Kuwaiti territory. I looked back and forth between my dad and brother, searching for any directional queues.

I lost control of my breathing and watched as time slowly stretched itself and my peripheral vision blurred. The siren faded into the background like a tired drone in a foreign language. I was shaken from my daze when hot water – hot enough to burn - splashed onto my foot. Mom was running with mopping buckets filled to the brim.

I scrambled for the brochure that had been slid under our door last week and quickly flipped to the side printed in English. It had directions on how to protect yourself in case biological or chemical “weapons” were released in the atmosphere. Dad had already tapped up all the windows in our apartment to prevent any leakages. The key was to inhale the vapour from a mixture of hot water and chemicals. The illustration showed a man leaning over the bucket with a towel over his head. It reminded me of when mom would make me do the same with Vicks "VapoRub" whenever I was sick. Although she was never as harried as she was now and I didn't feel any more confident that I my situation would be better in the morning.

I fumbled up from my seat to help. Help do what exactly, I did not know. I followed mom’s lead and just needed to feel active and retain some semblance of control.

Our front door burst open and I was sure that criminals or "insurgents", as the news kept calling them, had already started to descend upon us. "C'mon, we're going down to the basement!" yelled our Persian neighbours from across the hall. Mom and I looked at each other, dropped the buckets and readied a makeshift emergency supply.

All this time my brother had barely flinched and was still casually feasting away while dad had his ear glued to the phone as he paced the polished tile floors. "How can you eat at a time like this?" I screamed when he made no effort to move from the seat he was rooted to. He just shrugged and told me there was nothing he or anyone else could do to change the fact that America was invading Iraq and that he'd wait for dad to get off the phone and meet us downstairs.

We raced down the three flights of stairs to the basement; after all, everyone knew you were never supposed to use the elevator in situations like this. We huddled silently inside of the recently vacated basement suite; fear and adrenaline were hard to separate at this point.

Someone pulled out an old wind-up radio, and slowly cranked it. Each gear clicked against its counterpart to generate a fast whirr; a quieter version of the siren and a symbol of the collective breath we all wanted to release. It was tuned to an Arabic language radio station. I couldn't understand a word. All I could make out was the word "Kuwait".

I leaned over and grabbed Masheed, my neighbour's, hand. "What are they saying?" I asked, pleading for any encouraging news.  She hung her head to avoid my gaze and whispered, "God, Help Kuwait".

Barefoot

I feel the heat practically evaporate from my heel to toes as I secretly peel my purple, thermal socks from the surface of my feet.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I remind myself, as I plant my bare feet on the varnished wooden slats of the back porch. I feel my stance adjust, my weight redistribute and the pressure points change along the longest running feet muscles. Starting out, I take slow, deliberate steps, allowing each foot to roll; hell through to arch and toes. Every time my foot loses contact with the slats I feel a stick sensation of glue, trying to root me to the spot.

This should be a practice encoded in my DNA. My parents grew up running barefoot across dusty West African fields of their youth. A recent foot injury had made barefoot walking something I never did anymore. Here and now, I would go on a short discovery, to retest my limits.

I begin the steps of my rebirth by moving through the crisp cold and absorbing the moisture and tepid warmth from each surface I encounter. My unassuming, size 10 feet tread along the mini-cobblestone patch of the walkway.

Searching for softer ground, I leap onto the slowly revitalizing front lawn grass. My toes stretch wide and comb away the split ends to the point that each baby toe begins to curl due to lack of flexibility. The turf is still too damp from excessive amounts of melted snow that day and had combined into the texture of a wet sponge. My heels squelch into the mud. The earth is a brownie, where the sensation of sinking and feeling the fullness of its density lingers. I brush away remaining specks of dirt away like a child who’s just been called inside from the sandbox.  I grab my figurative shovel and pail to collect secret treasure.

Walking barefoot, I take strategic steps to avoid any sharp, hazardous objects. The story of the prince and the pauper immediately comes to mind. I remember how the prince ends up with his delicate feet bleeding after being pierced by small rocks. I know that I’m more akin to the pauper as I cross over to the strip of grass separating the driveway. There are bent, metal bottle caps and blocks of wood scattered around.

My feet have always been the appendage of choice to pick pencils, clothes and marbles off the bedroom floor. I avidly practiced this skill as a child. I moved toward the rusted caps and commission my three middle toes to scrape it up. Knee bent and balancing carefully in a yoga-esque pose, I lean forward and connected my foot to hand, in an act so effortless it must be muscle memory.

I re-abandon the worthless cap onto the road. I step out to meet it; curious with what I might discover on this path. I’m greeted by an acute grittiness which gives way to numbness that slows me down with each step. Pressure points reconfigure to the outer side of my feet while the tender curves of my arches are pounded by an onslaught of pinprick tiny rocks.

Down the corner, there is a small glacier, speckled with particles of trapped earth. It’s shiny and wet as the hint of spring warmth lazily morphs it from a powdery molehill to a slick sheet. I know there is a good chance that I could slip awkwardly and embarrassingly upon this concrete danger, but I still dare to. With each step, the ice breaks like a thin wafer; each bite creating a thin crack in the remaining cookie. The ice fizzles and shatters, before finally erupting with a sigh of relieved tension.  

As I reacquainted myself with the familiar, yet painfully uneven tarmac, the road soaks up the dampness of the ice, leaving no trace of the previous encounter. Treading towards home, I spot a makeshift rail made of a solid metal pipe and supported by two short planks of wood at either end. It’s a balance beam. My inner seven year old lifts a leg high into the air, toes en pointe. Still unable to achieve perfect symmetry, my toes curl to grip the pole with the familiarity of hands clinging to bike handlebars.

By this point it’s painful. The muscles in my feet burn like corroding holes boring deeper into a shooting pain. Like a piece of paper set on fire in the centre and disintegrating from the inside out.

Pink Capes & Public Relations: A Day in the Life

It started out as a little work on the side; something to steer my “relevant” work experience in a new and exciting direction. Non-profit special event planning may sound like a routine gig, as far as public relations work placements go.  But, I soon realized the QE II Foundation and Bust a Move (BaM) were not doing routine business; they were working together on a mission of epic proportions.

The future of breast health is at stake and the QE II and BaM are on a crusade to proactively change the world’s attitude towards related diseases. The organization’s annual fundraising initiative is a fitness extravaganza uniting survivors and supporters to celebrate life and champion the cause.  And through the covert guise of formatting spreadsheets and answering endless streams of calls, I was being groomed to become part of their movement to rid the world of evil villains like breast cancer.  It was then that I stepped forward to embrace my destiny as an Assistant Superhero Recruiter.

As a kid, I vividly remember tying a knot under my neck with a coarse terry-cloth towel as I bounded down my parents’ long rickety staircase. I was practically bursting to tear mom away from whatever household task she was doing to tell her what I’d only just discovered. “I’m physic, I’m physic!” I yelled, as she nodded her head in fairytale belief.  Now, I’m putting those powers to the test, for real. 

In the office I helped out with general event planning for the staff and public campaign launches. I got to use my creative superpowers to develop posters and signage to promote the events. On the day of, I preserved the memory of celebration after learning my way around the in-house photography equipment.

I had the amazing opportunity to individually manage intricate details for the participant rally, which took place before the main event. Preparation included widespread communication to all registrants, securing and organizing venue logistics and arranging and confirming all event activities.

My day-to-day activities did not seem extraordinary to most people.  I drafted press releases and monitored media coverage.  I never thought to ask the bigger question; “Who would blow the horn to rally Nova Scotia into action to support the development of their breast health care resources?” It was then, within the confines of my high cubicle walls that I whirled at lightning speed and metamorphosed into my superhero costume to begin my secret operation.

I could hear my five year old self enthusiastically shouting “I’m physic, I’m physic!” Indeed I was! I would defy the laws of science; the restraints of the routine and conventional thinking, to embody the unexpected and inspirational awesomeness of a real superhero!

Undercover - in spandex tights - I work hard to assemble teams of superstars- in-training. My ‘BaM!’ signal doesn’t shine through the night sky but via word of mouth, social media and past participants. You might see me and my crew of volunteer superhero sidekicks at malls and ferry terminals, where we use our superhuman poses, charm and knowledge to generate public buzz around our cause and main event.

My limited edition Chrysler Lebaron is the not-so secret mobile centre of operations, as it’s plastered with BaM stickers and posters. It houses various superhero supplies like pink, cotton candy coloured capes, plastic gem-encrusted masks, speaker boxes, trademark BaM KAPOW signs and banners.

Despite any learning curve in mastering my powers, I discovered my superhero trademark, the one particular area where my natural abilities go unmatched by all others; cupcake making – booby cupcakes, to be exact. During the external launch I volunteered my services to make over 100 booby-themed cupcakes for the event. I used booby-toned frosting and chocolate chips on some and made brazier replicas on others with frosting covered mints wedged into the cupcake itself. Innocent civilians were powerless to their crippling decadence.

Once, the superhero mission with BaM was over, I returned to my normal life as a PR student. The cape was long put away, but the rewards of the experience stayed with me. One day, in class, my university professor was attempting to explain the importance of communication key messages and pulled up an example from Bust a Move. I silently smiled to myself as I recognized the messages as ones that I had developed. I felt proud of my contribution to the organization and of the simple recognition it received from other professionals. 

Wherever life, family or career may lead, I’ll never lose the deep values of championship and mutual understanding with others that I gained while helping BaM and the QE II fulfill their mission. I know I want to whole-heartedly support and believe in whichever organization or cause I devote myself to next. My future is wide open and that’s how I like it.

Amusing Anecdotes: Fathers & Daughters

The pots and pans had been put away and the kitchen was clean. I breathed a sigh of relief as I settled into bed.

At that moment I silently gave my mom props for the endless dinner parties she had graciously hosted throughout my childhood for every conceivable event. I hadn’t planned on flying half-way around the world to make Christmas dinner for just dad and I but that’s what it had come to this year.

As per my usual nightly ritual I reached for the nearest book to help lull me off to sleep. I could already feel the weight of my eyelids as I slid under the covers. The bedside lamp flickered to life. The mood was almost perfect, except it was too bright. I grabbed a piece of cloth and threw it over the lamp, just to dim the room enough to ease me into a blissful dream.

As I slowly turned page after page, my muscles began to relax completely and my head lolled as my mind floated beyond the day’s fatigue.

***

I rolled over in mid-sleep to find ominous rings of grey smoke curling by my bay window. The neighbours must have burned something. I gently un-tucked the covers from under my chin as I realized my clothes were doing too good a job of keeping me warm and were sticking. I caught my breath and coughed as I realized the smoke was in the room and not outside.

”But my windows aren’t open” I thought. My deluded sense of logic reasoned that there must have been a crack between the wall and window that was letting in smoke. I stumbled up from the bed and slowly made my way to the living room, in a dreamlike haze.

"Dad, there's something in my room," I yawned, rubbing my eyes.

No movement. Dad shrugged me off with a confused, "Huh?"

"My room, you have to come..." I mumbled, still half asleep.

I watched him slowly rise and stride past me in exaggerated slow motion movements. I heard his yowl and felt panic course through my veins and shock me back to life before I even noticed the hungry flames impatiently licking the corner wall of my bedroom. The corner where my wooden bed frame, nightstand and 100 per cent cotton curtains all merged.

The smoke flooded into the hallway and as my eyes opened wide with disbelief dad pushed past me and bolted into the kitchen. I was right behind him as my flight or flight response kicked in. I darted past the kitchen to the front door. As dad was filling one of those clean pots with water panic flung me towards the front door. I managed to unlock it and bolt for cover before I realized what I was doing/catching myself mid-run.

My senses finally caught up with the adrenaline pounding through my heart. I began to feel my breathing slow and my muscles unclench as I ventured back into the house to find him surveying the destruction. The entire wall was scarred black. As I humbly assessed the damage for myself, he shook his head in disbelief, gave a relieved sigh and hugged me as he guided me out of the room.

Upon my return friends asked, "What did you get for Christmas?"

"My life; no big deal."

A Random Act of Kindness: The Caritas Day that Almost Wasn’t

This year I had a goal, a mission if you will. “Perform an act of random kindness in the spirit of Caritas Day”. 

I had heard the university was organizing volunteers to help our “Sisters of Charity” run a soup kitchen. I figured that would be a decent way to "give back" to the community and expand my social circle. I e-mailed in my "request" to volunteer and was informed that I would be put on a waiting list. 

A waiting list? Really? These must have been some popular nuns.

I waited out the rest of the week for any confirmation, eager that my “waitlisted” status would be bumped up to "legit volunteer". In one last effort I emailed the organizers the night before leaving my contact information in case they needed anyone last minute.

Alas, I awoke on Caritas Day hopeful and ready to help those in need.  I would spend two solid hours connecting with different people while growing an appreciation for the things in my life and becoming one with the Mount Community. I'd be singing “Kumbaya” in a drum circle and weaving flowers through my hair by the end of the day!

But I waited and waited for a call that never came. With nothing left to do I decided to head to the gym and work it out. I would release my frustration and come up with a new game plan.

En route, I began thinking of creative ways I could help others and be of some assistance. The gym I frequent is inside of a large grocery store which is always decorated with seasonal displays and eye catching feature items. Normally these items are stacked to create all sorts of 3D shapes like cubes and pyramids. What if I "accidentally" knocked one down and then helped put the entire thing back together?! Simple, devious, it had potential … but only if I didn't get caught.

Lost in the rhythm of the tunes swimming through my head and the consistent pace of the treadmill, I started thinking of old adages, things my mom used to say when I was a child. "Charity begins at home", she'd warn me. This was code for, “You had better help your brother with those dishes.” Over the years I had come to understand that this meant you should take care of those closest to you before attempting to save the rest of the world. Who could I help in my nearby surroundings?

Neighbours! Since moving in last August I honestly don't think I'd said more than two words to mine. I would do something nice for them. Maybe even buy ... something that wasn't awkward?

As I gathered my things to leave, I began to become more and more disillusioned with the thought. I didn't like the idea of such a premeditated gesture. It didn't seem genuine and I'd rather my neighbours not think I was bribing them with a kit kat bar (which is about all I could afford at the time) to shovel my walkway.

“This is what it’s come to …” I thought, as I tried to push past harried shoppers. I was going to have to pull a random act of kindness out of thin air and I couldn't even think of one with all of the noise going on around me. A little girl in a violet, button-up coat was screaming at the top of her lungs while her grandmother was moving ahead slowly whilst trying to comfort her. It felt like she couldn’t be moving any slower as I trailed her impatiently. The doors were less than two metres away. Maybe I could sneak around them and dash for freedom on the outside.

Before I could put my plan into action the sliding doors separated as a gust of wind welcomed itself inside and tore the scroll-like receipt from the old lady’s nimble fingers. Instinctively, I traced its path and darted in its direction. With its length and curls, it resembled a sly, slithering, snake whose movements I couldn't anticipate. Just one step - one more until I'd have it in my grasp.

In the instant I clutched it from the brink of becoming trash, I could already see that it had suffered minor tear and was not intact. As I carefully handed it back, she looked at me over her glasses, sandwiched her small, withered hands around mine and curled her lips into a smile as she barely whispered, "Thank you ".

I gave myself a fist pump, as is customary in these situations. Finally! Random act of kindness completed! It was amazing that something so simple could make me feel this great and renew a sense of hope in myself and in others.

So what if it hadn’t been a grand sweeping gesture? The more I thought about it, I began to realize that we often trivialize simple kindness like opening doors or saying thank you until we take them for granted. Meanwhile we wait for lofty, fleeting acts to prove that others really care.

The Marvelous Misadventures of ...

I took a deep breath as I searched my surroundings for even the smallest sense potential comfort to get through the next eight hours. From the blue, chequered carpet material covering floor to ceiling, I could tell that every luxury had been spared. Just the simple basics - it was a Greyhound bus after all.

I was seated towards the back. Not the very back, but middle-ish back. This way there was enough room to take in everyone and everything. I was travelling with my folks from Charleston, South Carolina up to Richmond, Virginia in style. 

Mom fidgeted beside me, oblivious as always. "Hawaaa, I don't have a headphone jack!"
"Yes, you do, mom," I sighed, as I demonstratively pulled away her coat, purse, snack bag and miscellaneous items to reveal the jack on her side of our shared armrest. She settled in to watch the choice B-movie on the small, rounded screens above us. Dad was across the aisle, pointing out “fun facts” about the landscape we were rolling through.

I spent the next few hours listening to the sweet sounds of my iPod when we came to an unexpected stop outside of an old wooden gas station that had been white-washed at least 20 years ago. As the bus painfully crawled to a halt mom jumped at the chance to use the bathroom and dad took the opportunity to stretch his legs outside. Being accustomed to laziness and immobility on trans-continental flights, I remained seated.

There seemed to be a lot of commotion around the side of the bus. I quickly pressed my face up against the hand-print-stained window and saw a line-up of men and women dressed in white t-shirts and faded green khakis with too many pockets. They were laughing and smiling with bright eyes as they shoved bags underneath the bus. As far as I was concerned more people equaled a lack of fresh air and the potential for some interesting and unpleasant smells. 

I stared intently as they boarded. Where would they sit? Would they disperse in small clusters or take over an entire section? They inched closer and closer in unison, like a worm that’s legs must follow its head. They edged past and situated themselves in the remaining rows behind me.

The sound of the congested bus engine starting up caused everyone to scramble back into their seats.
"Where did all these people come from?" mom gestured. Dad, our go-to-guy, had gotten the scoop from his fellow leg-stretchers. The addition to our troop was a gang of "miscreants on their way home,” he casually explained.

For those of you who aren't neuroscientists, like dad, I will give you the thesaurus.com definition of miscreant: Delinquent, evildoer, con, fugitive ... criminal.

Ummm what? Sitting right behind me?

I imagined each of them hiding the shackles around their feet with those faded green khakis they had probably stolen from the Gap. And now they were using loud banter to hide the clanging of the rusty metal.

You have to understand - this was Greyhound, pre-beheadings. There weren’t any safety protocols in place that I knew of. Hundreds of questions kept running through my mind:
Who were these criminals?
Where had they come from?
What were they capable of?
Have they been rehabilitated?

As a kid, I had always thought my dad was the strongest person in the world and would always protect me from robbers and strange noises. Unfortunately, the biological phenomenon of puberty, particularly height, managed to erase those illusions some years ago. He may have been "faster than a speeding bullet”, but it just wasn't the same when you were a head taller than Superman.

I kept trying to devise superhero ways that I would protect myself in the likely event that irrational and uncontrollable rage should happen to overcome them. I would punch out the window and attack them with the pointiest shard of glass. Yeah, that would work.

I imagined them working on a 60s chain gang with axes and miners' picks. You could develop serious arm strength doing that every day for five to 10 years! God knows how long they had been preparing for this very day - to regain their freedom and resume their reign of axe-picking terror.

I was jerked back from my day-mare by mom’s startled exclamation. She had carefully gotten a stain on her favourite shirt and was searching frantically for a napkin. Unfortunately for her, dad and I weren’t carrying any. Just when I started thinking that mom’s irritation would be enough to completely ruin the drive I heard a low, “Excuse me,” from behind.

I gently turned around to face a member of the chain gang. He began to rise and I could feel his shadow cover more of my face, the taller he stood. He was reaching for something that was out of my plain of vision.

This was it. And there were so many things I would never get to do. Goodbye cruel world.

As his lips slowly parted, I anxiously awaited the searing venom of the last words I would ever hear.
“Napkin, mam?” he offered
“Why, thank you” she replied.

"C is for cookie ... that's good enough for me!"

Yes, it's true. These things do exist. You can even call 1-800-HEY-UGLY for more information – it says so on the back of the tag. I checked.

My older brother scanned my expressionless face for a glimpse of excitement or even reassurance, as he thrust a stuffed creature of some sort into my hands.

"It's an Ugly Doll!" he exclaimed.

At this point I was pretty sure we couldn’t be related because I'm not one to cuddle with or pimp out my bedroom in the theme of stuffed animals, let alone ugly ones.

My brother went on to explain that my particular monster, Wage, was “the loveable one, obsessed with food; namely cookies.”

When the question of ‘why’ inevitably came up, he said that Wage was unique, funny-looking and reminded him of our funny childhood memories.

Was an Ugly Doll some sort of reflection on me? I guess I could live with that, bar the “funny-looking” side note.

My brother's connection here comes from the very minor detail that I had a slight obsession with sugar as a child. So minor in fact, that I was nicknamed 'Cookie Monster'. So what if I had a healthy appetite for the sweet and decadent? Besides not having blue fur or googly eyes, it was a pretty accurate description.

I was not made this way. I am a product of the system. An experiment gone horribly wrong. As an infant my mom tried to "raise me right" and refrained from putting any sugar in my food - rookie mistake! When pre-school rolled around, her plan completely backfired. Preschool was great! There was always a hearty abundance of the sweet stuff, whether it was your birthday, a holiday or you just learned to count to 10!

Life wasn’t always rainbows and butterflies though. I had to learn some hard lessons thanks to my appreciation for the finer things. When I was four, I face-planted into my birthday cake. The one I was supposed to share with the other kids. This taught me that greed can quickly and literally land you in messy situations and that sharing is usually a better option.

The Christmas I was five, we were making homemade cookies (of course) and I distinctly remember my mom telling me to, “Go ahead!” and have that big piece of cookie dough. For an hour I had the worst stomach ache of life, but I'll never forget how important it is to take the time to listen carefully to others.

I know that if I can achieve anything if I work hard and put all of my energy towards a goal. Similar to the night that mom vetoed my explicit wishes to have cake for dessert. I presented a solid case with tears, whining and more tears until my parents surrendered for no other reason simply than to shut me up. Mission accomplished, threat neutralized, win-win situation.

To this day I still have Wage. He's my only ‘stuffed animal’ and I don't cuddle or fall asleep with him at my side. Yet he’s transitioned with me from the teenage years to some version of independent adulthood. So why do I still have him? Because despite everything, that Ugly Doll is a true symbol of memories and good times with my family. He manages to pull together a collection of silly childhood adventures, lessons, inside jokes and reminders of the last time we were all together and the next phone call.