Remembering The Old 97

No matter what relationship you have with your parents and siblings, these relatives are really the few that can genuinely understand what you are – or will be – going through. A strong nuclear family is of the outmost importance. Outsiders label the expat experience as a sabbatical where you will be rocking out under the hot sun on a sandy beach wearing a funny hat. They don’t usually associate this displacement with becoming a target for terrorists – as was the case in the aftermath of the Japanese residence – or random attacks – when Mario Lambert and I left an amusement park in Peru shortly after a group blew up it up – and having to go on with a regular life. Your parents and siblings know these stories are not exaggerations or some desperate cry for attention. They soldiered on through the same struggles that you had. It is not that the rest of your family or friends do not care to understand, but your mind, identity and even culture has been morphed into something quite different from that of your fellow compatriots in a positive way as you have sacrificed stability and a sense of daily continuity.

Roosevelt Softball Team:
bet you can't spot the heavy metal horns!

In 1997, my nuclear family was rocked by even more than gun blasts and body bags marking the end of a siege. My older brother, Brian, was now headed off to university to pursue higher education in Medicine, bringing an abrupt end to our comfortable routine and camaraderie. He was excited to leave the roost and overjoyed with his upcoming emancipation. I was delighted and celebrated this new step alongside him yet realized it was going to be difficult to live in the same house after his departure. No more Sepultura banging through the massive home-made speakers he built with his friend Paul. The Cowboys From Hell were packing their suitcases to the head bangers ball in London, Ontario. Our lazy day basketball “21”s were to be substituted for a solo shoot around the driveway. The pitching staff in our school’s ball club was going to struggle to replace him and his lefty swing attempting to beat the green monster on right field. Family trips were now going to be booked for 3. Little did I know the days of living under the same roof had come to an end. There was no tomorrow.

To make matters even worse, as a 10 year anniversary present for my mother kicking cancer out of our house, she was once more diagnosed with the same type of cancer shortly before Brian would leave home base. Dad and Maman called us into their room one evening to have a serious chat and my father used that infamous cliché phrase: “It is nothing serious.” In every past instance when I heard that sentence mentioned, it was always a big deal. Mom told me several years later, she had decided to spend quality time with her mother that summer as she thought it could be her last chance. Mom was admitted on August 15^th, 1997 to the Clinica Montesur in Monterrico, Lima for surgery and she was to remain there for a good 5 days or so until she would be discharged. Brian stayed a few nights at her bedside during her stay and my requests to stand guard had been denied due to my school obligations. Everyone suggested – in my best interest of course - that it was best for me to continue my usual routine. I wasn’t a fan of people deciding for me. All I had on my mind was whether or not I was going to have a mother tomorrow or lose her to this cancer that did not want to leave our family alone. She was the glue that kept us all together.

School provided no distraction from the situation whatsoever. My mother had taken on the role of the school’s French teacher many moons ago and now… she was absent. This was highly uncharacteristic of her career in Roosevelt. Of course the staff knew why, but students began to ask questions and, as most kids and teens manage to, they got answers. Soon, my peers and others came up to express their sympathy, support and hoped things would get better soon. I preferred at the time that people pretended everything was normal. All is well. The icing on the cake was someone who came up to me and said: “My brother died of cancer so if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.” Gulp! Not a very smooth reassuring comment but I understood that the intentions were most noble. I felt as if I was treading like the Titanic in the academic seas as I prepared for the most important years of high school - the ones that universities really look at. However, I fought for my place, my grades and my permanence in the International Baccalaureate programme and tried to focus on what I could influence. I had to make it. Come September, Brian was gone. It was not a way of escaping his duties, on the contrary. It must have been difficult for him to leave knowing our mother had to undergo multiple sessions of radiotherapy. They had always been very close.

Maman (in red) and the FDR High School staff

We all have challenges to overcome and we often fail to consider how privileged we are in contrast to others. Many of us tend to dwell on the fact we were dealt the wrong card from the deck of life and resent God, life and others in a better situation than ourselves. I was somewhat guilty in the beginning of this crisis, feeling I did not have the proper support. An outsider could coldly say to you in a similar setting, “Toughen up” or “That’s life” – usually the last thing we want to hear – although this may be the best prescription. Everyone has their own coping mechanisms. Even in this darkest hour when faced with what looked like the end of my world as I knew it, I realized that you – the universal you - can always count on the kindness of others. Strangers can become friends, friends can become brothers and you may find redemption in a friendship you considered lost. It is up to you to deal with this pain and you owe it to yourself to carry on. Tomorrow, people you love may or may not be there, but the show must go on – of course while keeping those who are gone forever in your heat and thoughts. My mother fought and survived cancer once again and I never forget the support from strangers, friends and family that went out to the four of us. All of you are never forgotten in our household for your unconditional gesture of friendship in a time of need. I have always said, you always find out who your friends really are in times of hardship.

From Russia With Love

As I mentioned near the conclusion of my previous blog entry, the world has its own way of making things work out, returning a sense of balance. The same energies would come into my life during the next few months of being a High School freshman. I was feeling further alienated seeing my bridges burned after attempting to join the Peruvian population. It was no longer an option for me to continue to that end and I was not willing to take any more chances. If my environment would be subject to further bombardment, I would not make it through the posting. Two years could turn into an eternity when being on the wrong end of a conflict. I was now moving away from “adaptation” to more of a “coping” mode in regards to my situation. At this point I was able to find several similarities between my life and prison movies. If I was going to survive high school, I needed a plan: someone to watch my back. My brother had kindly volunteered to be my backup – perhaps noticing things were off to shaky start, to say the least, but I could not have my brother fight my battles. I needed my own posse.

Ivan Drago during a press conference

I figured the smaller groups of students were more closely knit, therefore harder to break into. Other groups were made up of Americans and other English-speaking kids and more quiet and distanced groups such as the Japanese and Koreans. I felt a sense of equal opportunity in evaluating my chances for proper integration as I shared the same ingredient with all of these other kids: a bunch of nothing. We were foreigners but, in my mind, this was not enough to click together. For a while, I navigated alone through the world of Roosevelt observing my peers during my classes and lunchtime. I saw from a distance how they interacted and I did not feel outgoing enough as I gauged my appetite for risk. I did not have any particular preferences, although I began to form a bond with Mario Lambert, a French-Canadian the son of the RCMP attaché in the Embassy and David Williford, whom I believe was the son of an American missionary or something of that nature. They were both in my Spanish and Debate classes and had a great sense of humour. Our Spanish teacher was a former Miss Peru – must have been a very long time ago – named Ms. Saco who had difficulty commanding respect and controlling her classroom. If you have ever seen an episode of Oz, well this was somewhat similar during the riot scenes. The only difference is that class would eventually come to an end while in Oz everyone’s sentences were different. The environment was so relaxed there, I was able to chat up a storm with both of them and build a closer connection.

During the course where I was regularly used for target practice (Physical Education) I began to befriend a Slavic-looking kid. He looked to me as a shorter and chubbier version of Ivan Drago, the Russian Red Army boxer who took on Rocky in one of Stallone’s movies. No one seemed to include him in their team when organized sports would take place. I did not want to pick a side, as I knew I would be picked on regardless of my decision. Students also seemed to periodically insult him using all sorts of words that I had never heard of before or care to repeat. It was evident to me he was another outsider. We seemed like a perfect match. If I was not liked, and I was an “alright” kind of kid, he must have been better at that time in my own mind than the average student. The first time I approached him, I attempted to communicate in English with him, as my Russian was nonexistent. I hoped this would be a common language. We were supposed to play volleyball and I did not have a partner and he did not appear to have one either. He responded verbally to my initial contact yet, although his lips were moving and his speech level struggled against the incessant sound of bouncing balls on the hardwood gym floor, I had no idea what he responded. We somehow managed to understand each other communicating through various gestures and facial expressions, such as waving towards each other so one would get closer and the almost universal thumbs up. We continued for a long time exchanging further gestures and actually laughing as we kept each other company during our sentence in the gym. It was funny but we seemed to find a connection without having to speak.

I later realized this Soviet buddy of mine was also in my World History class. Kevin “El Chivo” Jameson, who I swear to this date, was a clone of Woody Harrelson, taught this course. He was a young American, perhaps teaching high school kids for the first time in his career. He was a shy individual as well, something that was not a key to succeeding as a teacher there. The reason he was nicknamed el chivo (the goat) is because on several occasions, while he lectured on the topic of the day, a random person in the classroom would belt out “Kevin chivo” at the top of their lungs, and the rest of the class followed in unison with an “ey yeay yeay yeay”. Every yeays would get louder and given the day and circumstances, there could be several of them added on. He never seemed to have an answer to this behaviour and although I found this hilarious, I was also astonished at how little control teachers in this school had over their students and the overall lack of discipline. I had never seen this kind of behaviour in my life and in my other schools, there would be no place for this nonsense. This did not impede my newfound Eastern European buddy and my contributions to the chorus. We may have on occasion belted out our own chivos, creating the tsunami of ey yeay yeays. As a matter of fact, this was a very good stress relief technique. I remember leaving Mr. Jameson’s class usually feeling quite refreshed and ready to tackle the rest of my hostile surroundings. Kevin was a nice guy and did not exhibit any resentment or hostility from uproarism in his classroom. Perhaps he was just happy that the class would eventually come to an end. I often had chats with him about basketball as supposedly, he had played for Duke in the NCAA. I was young but that did not mean I was gullible. He did not seem to have the makings of a Varsity athlete.

Alejandro, Kensuke and I

The Russian and I finally began to speak once I realized his name was Alejandro. I now managed to discern the language as he tried to converse with me through a thick accent known internationally as Andaluz. It is close to Castilian (Spanish), but many letters are not pronounced, and the pace is somewhat quicker. It did not help that it was the first time I heard this regional accent. He did not have much English in his repertoire as this too was his first ever experience studying in the language. I possessed the advantage of having a prior oral record. Thanks to this new connection, I was reunited with my passion for basketball, playing at lunchtime with him and his Korean and Japanese ESL buddies. This was also where he introduced me to Kensuke Kobayashi, a good Japanese friend who became our gateway into a whole new language and culture. Kensuke taught me something I will never forget: Onara no nioigasuru (it smells like fart). This tied in to that lingering guano smell in the city air. He was a very nice kid and with a great sense of humour. Both of them also allowed me to learn a lot from cultures I had never been exposed to in the past, and share some knowledge of my own home. I had become a much prouder Canadian in response to the feeling of rejection that I felt originating from my hosts. It was now looking as I had finally found my place in the school where I could be at peace and let the good times roll. We were all kids in no man’s land.