Day <--> Night by Daphne Guiness
Friday, November 13, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
About a week ago I received a bill from my family doctor's clinic of all the services that I had used last year and I was assured that they were covered under OHIP.
"Dear Ms. MacKrekar" the letter read, "Please be informed that these services are covered under -"
Hang on just one bloody minute, I thought. I backed up, my eyes hardly believing that what I had just read could be true. Everyone always wishes for this when then get their credit card bills - hoping that all their extravagant purchases are sent to someone else while a batty old woman's can of tuna is the only thing listed on their own credit card bill - obviously the result of a bad mail switch.
For one wild second, this was me: it has finally happened, I thought. Canada Post finally messed up and sent me some old Scottish hag's bill. But upon closer inspection and second glance, I soon came to realize - this wasn't someone else's bill. This was MY bill. MY bill addressed to ME, Sarah Merekar. Or, MacKrekar, according to this doctor's office.
The lack of caring notwithstanding, I blinked and wondered at the level of incompetency and stupidity that must be rife in our society for someone to be able to mispell or enter incorrectly, someone's last name over and over and over again, especially if the creation of the bill was probably just a form to be filled in. All they had to do was enter the right bloody name. So shocked was I that I ran to fetch my health card and, of course, my health card informed me that my last name was firmly Indian, not some strange Scottish variant.
How hard, I wondered, how hard is it to spell a bloody name that isn't more than 10 letters long. It's 7 measly letters! Has anyone ever tried spelling OTHER brown names? They go on forever! Or let's take Russian or Polish names - those are just a long list of unfortunate consonants all rammed together, any sadist's dream. Or how many times can you say "polous" in one greek last name? My last name is not the hardest gawdamn last name in the world. In fact, all circumstances given, it is actually quite simple: two e's, two r's, a K, an A, and an M. And not in that order. It's so simple.
But no. No, they must mispell it. It's not such a big deal, really, people mess up names and last names all the time. Which is why Satish and Rajiv and Chandrashekar have to change their "ethnic" names to Saul and Ray and Charlie. And it was this, this very notion that annoyed the hell out of me. Once upon a time, I was indignant, yes, that anyone with an eastern name had to change it to something seen to be more "easier", more "integrateable" into Western culture. But now it struck me that besides all the tools of hegemony naming and renaming really introduce and apply, it was like a whole new identity. And here was a whole new identity being offered to me. A new form of imperialism? Maybe I'm too quick to judge, too quick to fly off the handle, to spout a theory. But I was affronted - affronted that they couldn't take the time to bother to check the spelling of my name when I, the ethnic "other" the eastern counterpart of Edward Said-like descriptions, would have to do so. And inexplicably puzzled that they had chosen, instead to give me a NEW name. For this is not a mere case of typos or letters being put in the wrong place.
Once - no, many times over - in grade school, I had a friend named Nadejda. The supply teachers would always pronounce it Nad-JYE-da. One day I got so annoyed at this blatant lack of care obvious idiocy that I blurted out loudly, "The E comes before the J!" I got detention for speaking outloud but I never forgot this moment. Thankfully, there are not many ways you can fuck up Sarah but a few had a hearty go at my last name - I got Marker, Meerkat, America, Mareep the Sheep (when Pokemon came out. dear god.).
But here is a psudeo-scot name being offered to me. Being fashioned and given, a new form of evangelical, Christian missionary. Here, it is not the Bible that is the Sign taken for Wonders. It is this identity, this new name, that, when donned, integrates me into the culture but also allows me to stand up, now in the skin of my conqueror and look back at him.
Madness, you may think. Post-colonial theory in a simple health letter? But intended or not, dormant or not, latent or clear, they are there. It is there. It is inherent. And whether the intention is there or not, whether the awareness is there or not, I am very aware. Very aware that it is NOT spelt MacKrekar or McKrakken or any of that. It's Merekar, thank you very much and I think I'll stick to that for now. Unless Gerard Butler seduces me and I succumb, of course.
"Dear Ms. MacKrekar" the letter read, "Please be informed that these services are covered under -"
Hang on just one bloody minute, I thought. I backed up, my eyes hardly believing that what I had just read could be true. Everyone always wishes for this when then get their credit card bills - hoping that all their extravagant purchases are sent to someone else while a batty old woman's can of tuna is the only thing listed on their own credit card bill - obviously the result of a bad mail switch.
For one wild second, this was me: it has finally happened, I thought. Canada Post finally messed up and sent me some old Scottish hag's bill. But upon closer inspection and second glance, I soon came to realize - this wasn't someone else's bill. This was MY bill. MY bill addressed to ME, Sarah Merekar. Or, MacKrekar, according to this doctor's office.
The lack of caring notwithstanding, I blinked and wondered at the level of incompetency and stupidity that must be rife in our society for someone to be able to mispell or enter incorrectly, someone's last name over and over and over again, especially if the creation of the bill was probably just a form to be filled in. All they had to do was enter the right bloody name. So shocked was I that I ran to fetch my health card and, of course, my health card informed me that my last name was firmly Indian, not some strange Scottish variant.
How hard, I wondered, how hard is it to spell a bloody name that isn't more than 10 letters long. It's 7 measly letters! Has anyone ever tried spelling OTHER brown names? They go on forever! Or let's take Russian or Polish names - those are just a long list of unfortunate consonants all rammed together, any sadist's dream. Or how many times can you say "polous" in one greek last name? My last name is not the hardest gawdamn last name in the world. In fact, all circumstances given, it is actually quite simple: two e's, two r's, a K, an A, and an M. And not in that order. It's so simple.
But no. No, they must mispell it. It's not such a big deal, really, people mess up names and last names all the time. Which is why Satish and Rajiv and Chandrashekar have to change their "ethnic" names to Saul and Ray and Charlie. And it was this, this very notion that annoyed the hell out of me. Once upon a time, I was indignant, yes, that anyone with an eastern name had to change it to something seen to be more "easier", more "integrateable" into Western culture. But now it struck me that besides all the tools of hegemony naming and renaming really introduce and apply, it was like a whole new identity. And here was a whole new identity being offered to me. A new form of imperialism? Maybe I'm too quick to judge, too quick to fly off the handle, to spout a theory. But I was affronted - affronted that they couldn't take the time to bother to check the spelling of my name when I, the ethnic "other" the eastern counterpart of Edward Said-like descriptions, would have to do so. And inexplicably puzzled that they had chosen, instead to give me a NEW name. For this is not a mere case of typos or letters being put in the wrong place.
Once - no, many times over - in grade school, I had a friend named Nadejda. The supply teachers would always pronounce it Nad-JYE-da. One day I got so annoyed at this blatant lack of care obvious idiocy that I blurted out loudly, "The E comes before the J!" I got detention for speaking outloud but I never forgot this moment. Thankfully, there are not many ways you can fuck up Sarah but a few had a hearty go at my last name - I got Marker, Meerkat, America, Mareep the Sheep (when Pokemon came out. dear god.).
But here is a psudeo-scot name being offered to me. Being fashioned and given, a new form of evangelical, Christian missionary. Here, it is not the Bible that is the Sign taken for Wonders. It is this identity, this new name, that, when donned, integrates me into the culture but also allows me to stand up, now in the skin of my conqueror and look back at him.
Madness, you may think. Post-colonial theory in a simple health letter? But intended or not, dormant or not, latent or clear, they are there. It is there. It is inherent. And whether the intention is there or not, whether the awareness is there or not, I am very aware. Very aware that it is NOT spelt MacKrekar or McKrakken or any of that. It's Merekar, thank you very much and I think I'll stick to that for now. Unless Gerard Butler seduces me and I succumb, of course.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
I think this is so kickass:
UTH OYE
Design, check. Heart and soul, check. People ready, check. Sustainable development, check. It's simple, its clear, its sexy and its 100% wearable, non-shrinkable t-shirt love. So order away - I'm getting two. Handscreened pouch?? yes please. And its a great initiative....we should think of starting something simple like this here.
Plus the website is pure design, CSS style sheets and flash LOVE. So get off your lazy ass and contribute (in a microcosmic way) - UTH OYE!
UTH OYE
Design, check. Heart and soul, check. People ready, check. Sustainable development, check. It's simple, its clear, its sexy and its 100% wearable, non-shrinkable t-shirt love. So order away - I'm getting two. Handscreened pouch?? yes please. And its a great initiative....we should think of starting something simple like this here.
Plus the website is pure design, CSS style sheets and flash LOVE. So get off your lazy ass and contribute (in a microcosmic way) - UTH OYE!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Somewhere between reading the critiques of Adorno and the changing landscape of Coconino County with How I Met Your Mother running faithfully in the background, it hit me. It was amusing, yes...but these jokes on Canada...actually sort of bothered me. It's not the first time I'm hearing them, of course. And, okay, so the 80s lasted a little while longer here (judging by when I first arrived here...can anyone say pouffy hair?) but that quip about marriages not being really recognized as such? That was kind of sucky. Like how are money really isn't money.
Which is funny, of course, because Canada and the U.S. are on par. So what's there to get worked up about, they're only jokes. Yes. Yes, they're only jokes and they shouldn't matter and usually I snicker alongside with them. Like an outsider - in a very knowing, superior way. I guess the issue here is not so much the joke but the fact that I was bothered by it - which would, of course, signify some sort of identification.
And then it struck me...I am no more the outsider. Of course, I will never wholly say I am Canadian in the way my little brother will be able to - he was born here, and I was not. I've moved around everywhere and he has not. But after experiencing a smorgasboard of cultures, your mind always drifts back to where your roots are. And true as this might be...I think I have finally been in this place long enough to feel...annoyance when someone cracks a joke at our country. Canada, being that country. Mind you, when I think of Canada, I think of Toronto - and Toronto is pretty effing great. But this whole country is completely unexplored by me. And yes, those history lessons were a PAIN: a few provinces and 3 measly territories, no great history, no great global participation, pacifist, American-kissasses, always harping on the great glory of one thing or another (the russian hockey game or the suez canal crisis or that damned battle on vimy ride - my ears BLED).
But then I really thought about it - no bloodshed on our hands. No cultural hegemony. No massacres. No apathetic uninvolvement until we got hit cuz then it was our problem. No masquerading as the supporter in a war and then trying to take over when the war was won. No furthering of global expansion goals on the account of developing nations. No exploitation of resources when countries are at their most vulnerable. No masking all this under the Puritanical, pre-destined, biblical crap. No spouting of separation between state and religion, democracy and secularism when really it's there. No fallacy and failings of an American Dream.
So okay. We might not have had major cultural movements. Our authors may be a snore because all they want to talk about sometimes are the Maritimes. Okay, so we only have one major national highway. But in a rare act of patriotism for a Western country (which is as close to patriotism for a western country I'll ever feel - besides New York, because that is not patriotism, that is love) I'll ever experience, I just want to say:
Our money is awesome and colourful. Our national anthem is great and not steeped in history. We glorify things that happened ages ago to nurse our wounded pride and keep the spirit alive. We don't get that involved and we like to think of ourselves as peacekeepers - heck, some of us even are. We don't have creative movie studios (we really don't have that many Jews...). And marriages here DO count. Love here IS real. Fall and Winter are separate seasons and we're a chartered plane ride away from the Aurora Borealis and land where the sun never sets.
And we DO NOT pronounce it "ABOOT".
Which is funny, of course, because Canada and the U.S. are on par. So what's there to get worked up about, they're only jokes. Yes. Yes, they're only jokes and they shouldn't matter and usually I snicker alongside with them. Like an outsider - in a very knowing, superior way. I guess the issue here is not so much the joke but the fact that I was bothered by it - which would, of course, signify some sort of identification.
And then it struck me...I am no more the outsider. Of course, I will never wholly say I am Canadian in the way my little brother will be able to - he was born here, and I was not. I've moved around everywhere and he has not. But after experiencing a smorgasboard of cultures, your mind always drifts back to where your roots are. And true as this might be...I think I have finally been in this place long enough to feel...annoyance when someone cracks a joke at our country. Canada, being that country. Mind you, when I think of Canada, I think of Toronto - and Toronto is pretty effing great. But this whole country is completely unexplored by me. And yes, those history lessons were a PAIN: a few provinces and 3 measly territories, no great history, no great global participation, pacifist, American-kissasses, always harping on the great glory of one thing or another (the russian hockey game or the suez canal crisis or that damned battle on vimy ride - my ears BLED).
But then I really thought about it - no bloodshed on our hands. No cultural hegemony. No massacres. No apathetic uninvolvement until we got hit cuz then it was our problem. No masquerading as the supporter in a war and then trying to take over when the war was won. No furthering of global expansion goals on the account of developing nations. No exploitation of resources when countries are at their most vulnerable. No masking all this under the Puritanical, pre-destined, biblical crap. No spouting of separation between state and religion, democracy and secularism when really it's there. No fallacy and failings of an American Dream.
So okay. We might not have had major cultural movements. Our authors may be a snore because all they want to talk about sometimes are the Maritimes. Okay, so we only have one major national highway. But in a rare act of patriotism for a Western country (which is as close to patriotism for a western country I'll ever feel - besides New York, because that is not patriotism, that is love) I'll ever experience, I just want to say:
Our money is awesome and colourful. Our national anthem is great and not steeped in history. We glorify things that happened ages ago to nurse our wounded pride and keep the spirit alive. We don't get that involved and we like to think of ourselves as peacekeepers - heck, some of us even are. We don't have creative movie studios (we really don't have that many Jews...). And marriages here DO count. Love here IS real. Fall and Winter are separate seasons and we're a chartered plane ride away from the Aurora Borealis and land where the sun never sets.
And we DO NOT pronounce it "ABOOT".
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
You know what? I think it is distinctly unfair that Miranda, Samantha, and even Charlotte, have to bare their boobs but SJP never has to. I mean, seriously, why the discrimination?! Wtf is up with that? What could possibly be the rationale behind SJP never having to give us some of the ladies?
Not that I have a real hankering to see her ladies. But I just think...it's so discriminatory. In a sense. Because it's as if they're saying, look, she's the main character. Just to hit it home, just in case the fact that Carrie is narrating is not enough, we have to let you know that she's the main character and, as such, she's hella important. And she's just the right blend of neurotic, cynical, hopeful, witty like a man but fucks like a woman. She is the perfect blend of all equal parts of her girlfriends. She tempers everything.
And gawd, that is ANNOYING. Yes, you love Carrie the most because she is the most least craziest. She touches all departments. She obsesses, then she lets go. She's so...so...gah, she's so proverbial. So just in case all the blatant favoritism wasn't enough, we're not going to have her bare her drawers 'cuz no tasteful main character does that. Because, even though everything is in her point of view, she is still enigmatic and charming; she's crazy enough to have a one night stand but not so crazy that she'll show it like a two dollar whore. She's raunchy and proper.
Or is it because SJP is a producer? Or was it executive producer? Is it because she has a financial stake in it that she can't? You never hear her (Carrie) having an orgasm...the most she'll do is mourn. The closest we got to her having sex was Jack Berger and even then she had a bra on! And yet Miranda is yelling and screaming, Samantha is suitably outrageous and Charlotte is slow and sensual.
No, it makes no sense to me and I can't pinpoint the reason. I started to wonder if maybe it was because, eventually, as the show picked up, they realized that Carrie, with her love for Manolos, should be the bastion of fashion. That theory was quickly knocked down when I considered Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. Look at Samantha! She's a bastion of fashion too! All of them are, in their own neat typecasts. The only one who breaks the mould is Carrie, and we're just supposed to agree with that; that's the reason, apparently, she gets laid so much. It's because she's "different". "Special". And not like, 'stop eating the paste' special, either. By the way, some of her outfits (most, really...50%) are just...stupid. They're not vintage, or cute, or M.O.D. or squarishly hip nor nostalgic enough about the 80s (or at least the screaming horror overpowers the nostalgia).
What I do love about Carrie, are her legs. Good thing they aren't covering those up. But really, it's made me wonder. Why no pecs Parker?
Not that I have a real hankering to see her ladies. But I just think...it's so discriminatory. In a sense. Because it's as if they're saying, look, she's the main character. Just to hit it home, just in case the fact that Carrie is narrating is not enough, we have to let you know that she's the main character and, as such, she's hella important. And she's just the right blend of neurotic, cynical, hopeful, witty like a man but fucks like a woman. She is the perfect blend of all equal parts of her girlfriends. She tempers everything.
And gawd, that is ANNOYING. Yes, you love Carrie the most because she is the most least craziest. She touches all departments. She obsesses, then she lets go. She's so...so...gah, she's so proverbial. So just in case all the blatant favoritism wasn't enough, we're not going to have her bare her drawers 'cuz no tasteful main character does that. Because, even though everything is in her point of view, she is still enigmatic and charming; she's crazy enough to have a one night stand but not so crazy that she'll show it like a two dollar whore. She's raunchy and proper.
Or is it because SJP is a producer? Or was it executive producer? Is it because she has a financial stake in it that she can't? You never hear her (Carrie) having an orgasm...the most she'll do is mourn. The closest we got to her having sex was Jack Berger and even then she had a bra on! And yet Miranda is yelling and screaming, Samantha is suitably outrageous and Charlotte is slow and sensual.
No, it makes no sense to me and I can't pinpoint the reason. I started to wonder if maybe it was because, eventually, as the show picked up, they realized that Carrie, with her love for Manolos, should be the bastion of fashion. That theory was quickly knocked down when I considered Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. Look at Samantha! She's a bastion of fashion too! All of them are, in their own neat typecasts. The only one who breaks the mould is Carrie, and we're just supposed to agree with that; that's the reason, apparently, she gets laid so much. It's because she's "different". "Special". And not like, 'stop eating the paste' special, either. By the way, some of her outfits (most, really...50%) are just...stupid. They're not vintage, or cute, or M.O.D. or squarishly hip nor nostalgic enough about the 80s (or at least the screaming horror overpowers the nostalgia).
What I do love about Carrie, are her legs. Good thing they aren't covering those up. But really, it's made me wonder. Why no pecs Parker?
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Goodnews: Interview rocked. I gots the job. It's a lateral move pay wise but more to do with setting the stage for future ambitions than any real money grab.
Badnews: EFFING WALLET GOT STOLEN ON THE EFFING VIVA. who the fuck steals wallets from people who are OBVIOUSLY students, wearing worn out coats from three years ago, so haggard looking from the work of a fake reading week that they are easily mistakeable for a bag lady on the GTA's most privileged bus system?! WHO DOES THAT?! and why the fuck do i have to file a police report! I refuse to say 'fml' though...that's just bad karma.
Goodnews: All 6 seasons of SatC in 5 days.
Badnews: the above might explain why i'm so behind on my readings. Through reading week. two responses, one essay, one midterm, shitloads of articles.
Weirdnews: While heading to york on the almost ghost-town bus, the bus driver had her DOG on the TTC. it was the ugliest most pathetic looking googly-eyed, mid-sized pooch ever. I wanted to throw up and cry at the same time because it was wearing a pink Zellers hoodie from the girls 2x section and a DIAPER. Well first, I just wanted to hurl. Then it started to whine. The shrillest whine in the world. My heart shattered but I think if my ears were made of glass, they would shatter too. I think it had the runs or something...dear god, it was just the most pathetic forlorn sick dog I have ever seen. gagagag.
Goodnews: I stole the last cookie from my little brother. Ahh, the life of the mundane.
Badnews: I'm psyching myself out for the first essay of the term. Im so scared it'll be a repeat of last year's first essay. I keep saying, SNAP OUT OF IT, you know this stuff! But the pressure is mounting. I know what to say but I don't know when to stop. Hopefully though, the right combination of that will make it like last year's shakespeare essay: stellar
News: Missed TEDxGTA. Missed A.D. Sad as hell. Mad as hell. And also: The UN teams up with the Interpol to form a Global police peacekeeping force. Ahh arbitrary, standardized rules, just what everyone loves.
Badnews: EFFING WALLET GOT STOLEN ON THE EFFING VIVA. who the fuck steals wallets from people who are OBVIOUSLY students, wearing worn out coats from three years ago, so haggard looking from the work of a fake reading week that they are easily mistakeable for a bag lady on the GTA's most privileged bus system?! WHO DOES THAT?! and why the fuck do i have to file a police report! I refuse to say 'fml' though...that's just bad karma.
Goodnews: All 6 seasons of SatC in 5 days.
Badnews: the above might explain why i'm so behind on my readings. Through reading week. two responses, one essay, one midterm, shitloads of articles.
Weirdnews: While heading to york on the almost ghost-town bus, the bus driver had her DOG on the TTC. it was the ugliest most pathetic looking googly-eyed, mid-sized pooch ever. I wanted to throw up and cry at the same time because it was wearing a pink Zellers hoodie from the girls 2x section and a DIAPER. Well first, I just wanted to hurl. Then it started to whine. The shrillest whine in the world. My heart shattered but I think if my ears were made of glass, they would shatter too. I think it had the runs or something...dear god, it was just the most pathetic forlorn sick dog I have ever seen. gagagag.
Goodnews: I stole the last cookie from my little brother. Ahh, the life of the mundane.
Badnews: I'm psyching myself out for the first essay of the term. Im so scared it'll be a repeat of last year's first essay. I keep saying, SNAP OUT OF IT, you know this stuff! But the pressure is mounting. I know what to say but I don't know when to stop. Hopefully though, the right combination of that will make it like last year's shakespeare essay: stellar
News: Missed TEDxGTA. Missed A.D. Sad as hell. Mad as hell. And also: The UN teams up with the Interpol to form a Global police peacekeeping force. Ahh arbitrary, standardized rules, just what everyone loves.
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