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.