Toddlers & Tiaras & Patriarchy

The issues with Toddlers & Tiaras are very well-documented. I had only ever seen clips of the show until this weekend when, after discovering my TV picks up a lot of extra channels, I was sucked in to an episode. I use that phrase because I was increasingly upset the more I watched, yet I did not turn it off. Is this what what watchers of Jersey Shore, Hoarders, Real Housewives, etc. experience?

In my lifetime, I will probably never wear the amount of makeup or hairspray these girls do by the time they are four years old. My mind was blown by the implications of teaching girls from infancy to value appearance,materialism, winning, and a very limited definition of "beauty." The rules of pageants are so specific. Hair is big, skin is tanned, faces are painted, nails are manicured, and outfits are covered in frills and sparkles. Girls are told repeatedly that winning is the most important thing. Mothers are open about the thousands of dollars spent on preparing girls for pageants and the coercion it takes to get their daughters to practice routines. Girls often win prizes, but responses from caregivers convey disappointment in anything but the highest crown and frustration at the time and money spent to "lose." Girls do not appear to be validated for their efforts nor praised for any accomplishments.

Girls are coached in their walks, dances, smiles, and mannerisms. There is often an element of sexuality in their presentations. Ultimately when girls grow up, they will have to unlearn the belief that their appearance is the most valuable thing about them. When I see young girls wearing very little clothing and dancing suggestively in pageants, I wonder how that will affect them when they mature into young women. I could see this having long-term implications on self-esteem, relationships, and consent for girls.

Pageants are not a part of my culture. I cannot process their role in any culture; however, I recognize their prevalence in some areas. I question whether these areas have the resources or these mothers the value systems to allow pageant girls to become empowered women. I can't even enjoy this show as escapism. I wonder whether the pressure and sexualization placed on these children does not allow them the room to be children and pursue other hobbies and talents that may contribute to a healthy future. I wish there be some "15 years later..." followups to console me.

Good luck, girls.

Supercrawl.

In Hamilton there is a monthly event called the Art Crawl, in which a renewed neighbourhood filled with artistry and local talent opens its galleries' doors for free to the public. There are over 10 galleries for viewing, many shops, cafes, and bars, and often live entertainment. It is a celebration of the amazing treasures to be found in our own community, in a place that had fallen from grace over the past decades, given new life by a young generation who loves this city and wants it to flourish. Once a year, there is a Supercrawl that amps everything up. This year boasted bigger and better offerings, including 3 stages with headliner Broken Social Scene and many more vendors among the standard art installations.

I chose this event as my birthday celebration so that people wouldn't have to spend money and could feel free to branch off or come and go as they wished. I had a group of friends come in from Toronto just for this event - not a common traffic flow for events - it's usually me heading out there! Everyone gathered at my apartment first, filling it fuller than it's ever been. Friends I haven't seen in a while were able to make it. I opened some presents, all lovely, and brought to me from Toronto, Victoria, and Paris. Then we walked down to James North and immediately encountered the congested streets, coloured purple from the concert stage lights and tangled in pot smoke.

We walked the strip, ducking into storefronts with antiques, live jazz, art supplies, and of course, galleries lined floor to ceiling with canvases detailing everything from floral still life paintings to comic-style graphic art. Vendors included our city's increasingly popular food trucks, cupcakes and grilled cheese flying out of their windows. Buskers sang and strummed for change. A small stage hosted swordfighting. A building at a major intersection was topped with gigantic inflatable human figures, lounging over the eaves. In the street, there were several art installations that the public could interact with. Brightly hued abstract structures, incredibly detailed chalk art of classic paintings, and my favourite, this bear:

During the Art Crawl, there is always a section called the Makers' Market, in which local artisans sell their goods. It's one of my favourite things to attend, especially because it is set up in the yard of a truly awesome cathedral. When I turned and looked behind me for stragglers, I glimpsed a huge glow above the church and could not process that it was the moon until I moved back far enough to see the full moon and its surrounding aura.

James North has been an early adopter of yarnbombing, though much of the knit graffiti has been removed. A bar, The Brain, remains cloaked in yarn, complete with knit flowerboxes.

Late in evening, my Toronto friends departed and I bumped into a group of people I went to high school with. I was surprised that there was not only recognition, but hugs all around. My first ever boyfriend was there and asked, "So, what have you been up to in the last twelve years...?" I bumbled through sufficient interactions with them and began picking my way through the dense crowd to rejoin another group of friends who described their location as "on a hill." Somehow I found them and indeed there was a hill - most convenient for improving our view of the main stage, just in time for Broken Social Scene. The band sounded great and thrilled the crowd with lots of older hits. The person I had been unable to find all night ended up sitting down on some rocks just across from our hill for a smoke and we finally connected. Magic. I walked home soon after, the night air cool but pleasant. I slept deeply, exhausted from a night full of engaging arts with the people I love most.

18/09/11 - Update: Some great photos from Supercrawl are on Flickr.

Cottage.

Yesterday, we drove north to Sauble Beach to stay at my parents' cottage for the night. The drive takes about three hours, and is peppered with funny, cute signs and landmarks (Moccasins! Giant Muskoka chair! The Sweet Potato chip wagon!) as you make your way through acres of farmland and towns that grow smaller as you go. When you pass the last Tim Hortons in Hepworth, you know you are nearly there.

We settled in and did some shopping. The renters before us hadn't left a single stitch, as they often do. Not even ice cream or popsicles, purchased but unable to survive the drive home. Downtown, we ordered Pizza Delight (an East Coast chain that is hard to find in Southern Ontario) and bought a few other things to last us one day, but didn't wander. It's like any beach. Stores change, but it's always the same.

Back at the cottage we stuffed ourselves into our swimsuits - mine new, and oh so cute - and began our basking. The sun was hot and, between the cottage and copse of trees, we were protected from the wind coming off the water. We snoozed, we admired the beauty around us, we sweated. I finally had put it off long enough and I was going swimming, dammit, I just couldn't wait anymore.

My method for the always chilly Lake Huron swimming is to walk in purposefully, not necessarily rushing, but always moving forward. Otherwise the cold will get ya. In my strategy, the waves will lap higher than you intend and before you know it, you are submerged. Once you're in, it's glorious. We swam for about two hours. We launched ourselves into huge waves. We stood at the sandbar and tried to withstand them pummelling us. We swam so deep we couldn't touch our toes, then the undertow freaked us out so we came in. We watched a guy surf with a parachute. We swam and swam and swam.

To warm up, we started gathering materials for a fire. It doubled as our kitchen for dinner. We threw some potatoes in the embers and rigged up some skewers to lay kebabs over. Our first try was a bit burny, but we got it on the second go.

After dinner, we threw some mystical powder on the fire to make it turn purple and blue and green. A bunny joined us for a while but it was so dark and she was so good at camouflaging that I couldn't capture a picture of her. You'll just have to trust me.

We watched the sun go down on our bench on the beach.

We drank. A lot.

At one point, I tilted my head back to rest it against my chair and gasped. I had forgotten about stars. There we so many stars. Beautiful, twinkling stars.

At another point, I somehow slipped into talking about work and was turned to slowly and asked, "But isn't the sound of the waves just the best?" And it's true, it was. Work has no place at the cottage.

It got cool overnight, so we slept soundly, swaddled in comforters and soothed by the lake sending its hushes through the windows.

Sunday was a lazy day, as it should be. Coffee was topped with Bailey's, enjoyed with bacon and hashbrowns, crispy both. We snuggled into some hoodies to adventure down the very windy beach, walking all the way to a point in south Sauble where the beach turns to rocks. It was lovely.

We finished our day at the cottage and began our drive home, stopping first for some amazing ice cream cones. We made the scooper's day by taking our selections so seriously and then asking for interesting modifications and combinations.

On the road, through town after town, we were scoping out antique shops. They were all either closed for the day or, in the cases of ones we knew about, closed permanently. We made it home in good time, but what felt like too soon.

This time at the cottage, though short, was the perfect salve to my soul.

The ankle story: Part 2

[part one]

I settled onto the couch for the long-haul. My mom brought me a stack of pillows to elevate my leg and covered the surface of my coffee table in necessities like bottled water, Tylenol 3s, granola bars, kleenex, and books. A similar pillow configuration was built in my bed for when I would relocate to sleep.

Sunday passed uneventfully, with me learning how to shuffle myself around the apartment between fits of restless sleep. I talked to my supervisor on the phone, crying while she told me not to worry, to rest, to take care of myself. They were exactly the kinds of things you would say, but the comfort for me was immeasurable. At this point in time, my contract at work was less than a week expired and no new arrangements had been made. I could have been let go and I wouldn't have been surprised. I probably should not have been thinking this way, but being on a contract feels unstable enough, so I was fearing the worst. Finding out I was safe meant I could move on to worrying about the more pressing issues.

Tylenol 3s are helpful but they never addressed the pain I was feeling rippling out from my ankle, the tendons that had been damaged with my break. My pain was dull but it was deep. I slept. Barely. I was upset, zoned out.

Monday came and I began a long day of fasting, which made me feel worse and worse with every passing hour, my stomach tight not only because of the hunger, but also with anxiety about the possible surgery. My supervisor came to visit after work, bringing me a stack of dvds, magazines, a card from my coworkers, and a bowl of blueberry crisp still warm from the oven. When I made it past 8pm with no word about surgery, I ate the crisp first, before my dinner.

Then it was Tuesday, January 18th and my phone rang shortly before 8am with a call from the hospital asking me to come in for surgery. My parents came to pick me up and take me to Admitting. I was wheeled to a shared room in the day surgery ward and answered a long questionnaire about my medical history and circumstances over the past 24 hours. I put on a gown and they bagged my clothes and took them away. My parents left to go back to work. The man in the room with me had a portable TV or something on which Regis and Kelly was watched; I didn't sleep.

I was taken to Pre-Op around 11am and wheeled into a dock alongside about 12 other patients, most with a guest beside their beds. I was alone and very aware of there being no privacy curtains in this room. I stared at the ceiling and let my tears leak down the sides of my face into my ears. A nurse visited to start an IV. She complained I had "dainty veins" and had to send a specialist to hook me up. I was given a plastic bonnet to put on. The specialist came to poke me some more and finally got me started.

I was visited by a male (I later learned he was a resident) who asked me what was being operated on. When I indicated my left ankle, he flipped back my bedsheet, pushed up my gown, and drew on my thigh with a permanent marker. He walked away. My heart was racing and I had to convince myself to keep breathing otherwise I might have screamed. I replaced my sheet, but left my cast out in case that wasn't making it obvious enough about why I was there. My anesthesiologist visited to confirm my height, weight, medications, and lack of food/drink intake. My surgeon came next, to ask me the same questions I had already answered and to tell me about the surgery. Again, I don't remember this. I wouldn't look at him and I couldn't stop crying.

A while later, I got taken into the operating room. Either it was freezing or I was having an even harder time coping. I was able to shift myself from my stretcher onto the table and laid down. There were about seven people in the room. One peeled my gown down my front and began attaching sensors to my chest. The anesthesiologist got to work quickly, thank goodness, otherwise I was going to lose my mind. He put a mask on me, but not before someone else began strapping my arms down. I was still crying when I was knocked out. This may sound silly to you, but as a sexual assault survivor, this was traumatic. As a sexual assault survivor where restraints were used, this was especially traumatic. In the hospital, your body is not yours.

I woke up in the Recovery Room with my throat on fire and my stomach threatening to jump up, out of my mouth. Noises that began as low moans turned more frantic and whining as I began to realize the pain in my ankle. A nurse approached me and told me to relax. I couldn't keep my eyes open and I couldn't speak. I wasn't able to relax no matter how hard I tried to focus on breathing. The nurse returned and seemed to huff as she shot something into my IV - morphine, I found out after. This worked, though it made me feel like someone had steamrolled me onto the bed. They brought a huge machine to my bedside to take x-rays. I couldn't move so they had to position me accordingly and the pain screamed inside me again. After that I got permanently hooked up to a blood pressure cuff that filled consistently, what I guess would be every 5 minutes. Eventually someone came over and told me I was fine to go back to the day surgery ward but there was no bed for me. This is when I became aware of the Recovery Room having about 20 other bays, all filled, all curtainless. It could be my imagination, but I feel like everyone was doing much better at recovering from their own surgeries. I felt ill all over again knowing everyone could see the fit I had.

At about 1:30pm, they gave up on getting me a bed in the ward and wheeled me into a dim corridor so someone else could use my bay in the Recovery Room. It was quieter. I was alone. I also felt forgotten. Time did not exist in this place. All I knew was that I needed to pee so badly and there was no one to tell. Finally someone came to fetch me and take me upstairs. I learned it was around 3pm. My mom came to see me as a nurse hooked up an antibiotic drip, saying I needed it before I left. My dad came in and told me to get better because I was worrying my mom too much. I felt sick.

They brought me my clothes back and let me dress myself so I could go home. I wouldn't let my mom help me because I have a tattoo she doesn't know about. Childish, I know. My surgeon sent up a prescription for Percocet and I got wheeled out to the car. We made it back to the apartment and I was able to get myself into bed somehow. I was incredibly weak. I slept.

Second cast - my least favourite.

Sunday.

Since they moved the location of what I think is our city's biggest annual festival, I wasn't planning to attend. There were shuttle buses, but compared to it being in my brother's backyard, it didn't feel very convenient. When J called me today and asked if I wanted to go, my opportunity presented itself.

I'll be honest, the biggest reason I wanted to go is because Gorilla Cheese has been planted there all weekend. I've been dying for a grilled cheese from this truck and have missed my last three chances. I'll get to this in a minute though.

The first thing that happened when we entered the grounds: someone handed us plastic Dr Pepper cups and filled them to the brim. If you know me, you'll have some insight into how giddy this made me. This sugar rush propelled us through checking out all of the vendors (purchasing only strawberry daiquiri lollipops) and having a little dance to one of the performers (who did both Queen and Kesha covers). The sun was remarkably hot as we were verging on 4 pm. This prompted J to perform an ad hoc fashion show in various cheap hats sold along the way, with hilarious and sometimes surprising results.

We strolled through the midway, betting on whether certain kids would puke. One close call came when a boy I'll just describe as "introverted" tumbled out of a ride's cage and crumpled onto the ground. I think he saved himself from tossing his cotton candy only because his brother really wanted to see him get sick.

After at least the third pass in front of the Gorilla Cheese truck, my patience had trickled empty and I needed a sandwich. We ordered two Hammers - ham, granny smith apple, maple syrup and cheddar cheese. If it sounds delicious to you, you wouldn't have been disappointed. It was perfectly crisp, ham and apple thinly sliced, high-quality cheese, and that bit of sweetness to round it out. I so enjoyed my sammie, that could've been the end of my day.

But we stuck around a while longer. Giggled at the small stage band doing some nervous crowd banter, bumped into a friend of mine and her partner, comparison shopped for soft-serve ice cream, and took a long time deciding what we wanted from the cupcake truck. On the way out, we stopped by for another cup of Dr Pepper and were lucky get some from the last bottle as they packed up for the day. J asked whether they had any cups left and we were given a whole sleeve of cute cups with Pepper logos! I haven't decided whether these are going to be special occasion cups or if I can fashion them into some adorable display item.

We had to rest our heads in the car before taking off, our tummies filled with treats and our skin coloured with sun.

The ankle story: Part 1

I am planning to share the story of breaking my ankle here. It is like therapy for me to write the details. Despite being months and months removed from this, I was still incredibly emotional as I typed this out. This is the first part of my experience.

On January 15, 2011, I was out celebrating a friend's birthday. I enjoyed some fizzy wine, did a shot with the crew, and danced dorkily. I left around midnight, picking my way through a foot of snow into a cab that took me home. Upon entrance to my apartment building, my boot skidded in a puddle of water and I rolled over on my ankle, landing in the melted snow tracked in by other residents. There was about two feet of unprotected tile before the mats were placed down, and that first step is the one that upended me and my next few months.

On the floor of the vestibule, I couldn't quite process what had just happened other than my gut knew to stay on the floor. When I lifted my leg, my foot dangled. So I put it back down. I sat there trying to breathe and figure out what to do and that's when the pain started to leak into my brain. I probably shouldn't have, but I unzipped my boot and took it off to see what was going on. My ankle had ballooned already and was hot to the touch. For some reason this was less scary than calling an ambulance, but I started to cry, realizing I was in shit either way.

The 9-11 operator was kind and patient with me as I tried to talk through my tears. Looking back, I'm pretty proud of the composure I hung onto, especially considering what was to come later. The EMTs arrived very quickly, two women and one very young male who was in training. They strapped my leg into a giant splint and cheerleaded me into pushing myself up to get on the stretcher. Being tied to a stretcher is pretty upsetting. I forgot how to breathe. They tucked ice packs around my ankle and spoke warmly to me on the way to the hospital. No sirens, lots of rumbling. They gave me oxygen but my eyes wouldn't dry. I was scared. This was the first time I'd ever been in an ambulance and only the third time I'd be going to emerg in my life. I did not yet know that the EMTs would be the nicest people I would meet on this journey.

At the hospital, the EMTs left me in the care of a nurse who asked me a ton of questions that I would soon learn to repeat every time I interacted with a new medical person. She scolded me for drinking (valid) and wearing inappropriate footwear (boots?) and suspiciously, judgmentally asked me why I was crying so much. Then another nurse came to cut my jeans off of me, which is one of the most traumatizing things I've experienced.

About an hour later, I was wheeled to get x-rays. The ideal positions for ankle x-rays were excruciating. I became nauseous and began shaking. I was piled with blankets but wouldn't stop shivering until I was home the next day. A doctor came next to tell me the x-rays showed both bones were broken. He explained that they were going to knock me out and set and cast the ankle. I was moved to another room in which there were 5 people who would be present for this process. It was not explained to me who they were. A woman who I assume was a nurse grumped about the last nurse not getting me into a gown. They let me undress myself thankfully but it probably took me 15 minutes. It is bizarre to lay naked while someone bags your possessions. I fully expected to never see them again. I wouldn't let them take my glasses out of my hand. Once appropriately unattired, they started an IV and I was out. When I woke up, there was my clunky cast, up to my knee. I was x-rayed again then they took me back to the main emergency room and finally allowed me painkillers.

The doctor came back to tell me my ankle was in the correct position to heal well, but he was recommending surgery to have reinforcements inserted to strengthen my ankle and prevent problems in the future. He was passing me off to the orthopedic surgeon. It was around 4 am at this point and I was expected to rest until the surgeon could see me. I did not rest; I cried, I wiped my eyes on the bedsheets. No one checked on me and I did not have a call button. The painkillers helped initially; however, I experienced extreme discomfort this entire time, never getting relief from the throbbing pain, just from the stabbing pain.

I waited until 7 am to call my mom, doing my best not to terrify her. She did way better with this than I gave her credit for. She was upset but kept reminding me that it was an accident, and it happens, and it could have been worse. Shortly after, the surgeon arrived to tell me about the procedure. I don't remember much of this. It's possible he explained the incisions and what would be put inside of me, but all of that came as a surprise to me later. Whatever his explanation was, I signed the paperwork. The next piece of news was that they were booked with more urgent surgery for the day so they were sending me home to be on call for an opening. They could call at any time, up until 8 pm. This meant I could not eat or drink until I had heard whether it was going to be a surgery day or not. Between 8 and midnight, I could eat and drink, then it would be back to fasting and waiting. The surgeon prescribed Tylenol 3 for me and said he would summon the physiotherapist for me.

Now that I was to be discharged, things moved quickly. I realized I hadn't thought to ask my mom to bring me pants, so off she went to fetch bottoms for me to wear home. The physiotherapist came with a shiny set of crutches for me. I could barely sit up, so I had no clue how I would manage to hoist myself around. She did not understand this and sighed at me, frustrated that crutches were going to be an effort for me. I started to notice the pain coming back in waves that debilitated me any time I moved. Somehow I got myself up onto my good foot, wedged the crutches under my arms, and learned the motions to start getting around. I moved about 6 feet across the floor and back, making the smallest gestures possible. I am uncoordinated on the best of days. My left leg stuck straight out below me, heavy and awkward as I tried to manoeuvre. I signed a bill for the crutches – they would not be covered.

I finally got to sit in a wheelchair and be taken out to the car. I cried some more at the seemingly insurmountable task of getting up from the chair and into the front seat. During the ride, I tried to lift my heel from the floor of the car so it wouldn't absorb every nudge and bump. I kept crying. At least I was going home. But I had to get to my apartment first. The curb: my biggest obstacle. Keep in mind the ground was covered in snow. I stood on my three legs in front of that curb, chin on my chest, absolutely defeated. I was scared to misjudge the height and knock myself off balance. I was scared to land my foot on the sidewalk unsteadily. I was scared my crutches would slip out from under me. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I was in an amount of pain I had never felt. I started sobbing, “I can't.” Get up the curb, get around on crutches, go through surgery, carry on. I just can't. My parents linked arms with me, reassured me that I wouldn't fall again, and we worked together to lift me that small distance up onto the sidewalk.

When I got into my apartment, I have never been so thankful to sit down. I parked myself on the couch and did not move until my prescription was brought to me and I could get enough relief to reposition myself into the closest thing to comfort and try to sleep.

I did not know what would come next. I couldn't picture how I was supposed to live on crutches. I dreaded being called in for surgery. I was unsure how to tell my supervisor that I wouldn't make it to work the next day. I had lots of tears left for all of the uncertainties.

My first of three casts.

My health in 2011: By the numbers

2 broken bones
1 surgery
2 pins
1 plate
25 staples
5 hospital visits
3 casts
14 x-rays
4 different painkillers
3 family doctor appointments
3 courses of antibiotics
15 physio sessions
5 physiotherapists
13 weeks on crutches
over $1100 later...