An Evening with Jean

Jean R. is my neighbour. She was born on November 30th, and I will not tell you the year, because Jean would not want you to know that she started her tenth decade of life. She is an extraordinary lady. And when I say lady, I mean lady in the real sense of that word. She is always impeccably dressed, she is always polite and she has perfect manners. She is up to date and uses laptop to send e mails, you believe it or not. So I was not surprised when she invited us for afternoon cocktails, she said: "Come over for cocktails tomorrow, whenever you normally have cocktails, it's alright.", she said gingerly. Well, I had to ask when, because we normally do not have cocktails.


Next day, before we went there, I made sure that I was dressed lady like. I even put my black beads necklace that I rarely wear because I think it looks too formal. I made sure that we both look like people who will have cocktails with Jean R. Since I always bring her some food, whenever I bake something nice, or last time when we went strawberry picking, I gave her some nice fresh strawberries, I decided this time to give her a book. I picked "Bridges of Madison County" thinking that kind of book will bring her spirits up. As if she needs that. If you will ever meet Jean, the first thing that you will notice that her spirits are always high. Even when she comes back from the nursing home where her husband lives now. She calls him "roaring lion" because he hates that he is there, but she cannot take care of him. Sadly he has Alzheimer's and needs around the clock care. Jean will tell you that Doug is British Army Major. She was so sweet one time when she visited with us and I shared my son's story about Canadian soldier he wrote as his Remembrance Day project. She told to my son that she was proud of him for what he had written and added that her praise had more value because she was the wife of British Army Major.

That afternoon we had a usual cup of stories with Jean: about her daughter, grandson, and of course "roaring lion". She was dressed in pale green pant suit with darker green beads necklace. She always wears one of those little angel pins. We sat with her for more than three hours.

She offered very nicely arranged platter of shrimp, little sandwiches decorated with her own herbs that she grows on her balcony, veggies and dip, three different kind of cheese and crackers.










We were sipping Scotch, hers with little bit of water and ours on ice. It was a lovely evening. We talked about Prince Edward Island, about how her ancestors were among "fathers of confederation" in that famous conference that was a birthplace of Canada. Her eyes lit up when she was talking about her father, who was very respected Judge in New Brunswick. She told us how shocked she was when she went to renew her passport and she was told that she needed "an interview". She could not believe that the "fourth generation" Canadian needs to prove that they are citizens! Well, bureaucracy is ignorant anywhere in the world, but when the ignorance meets such a lady, it makes you wonder what that person behind Service Canada counter was thinking.

Jean calls me "her friend". Although she could be my grandmother, when I talk to her I feel that there is no age barrier, no cultural barrier, no language barrier. So I concluded that spirited people are just the same everywhere. I want to believe that Jean and I are two of them.

Misunderstood, eccentric, or something else...

I personally know someone who, most of the time, feels like an outsider. He is my son and my desire to untangle everyday communication for him, and help him to "get it", is bigger than anything you can imagine. However, even if you have me on one side, who knows quite a bit about the human communication, and my son, who is willing to learn, the task is almost impossible to accomplish. Why is it so? Why is he misunderstood? In my efforts to solve this mystery, I decided to interview my son and ask him some questions about how he feels when there is a breakdown in the communication. Well, it is not surprising that he feels ANGRY. The feeling of anger for him also means that he feels depressed ( read this as hopeless that things will ever change or improve), but he also feels hatred and some disturbing thoughts are coming to his mind. This is how he feels when he cannot express himself in appropriate and socially acceptable way. Why is it so? He says he knows that at times he talks a lot ( but don't we all sometimes do that?), speaks loudly ( again, don't we all sometimes raise our voices?) and his reactions are strong.

But this does not explain why and how he appears to other people as "different". Is it something in the way he says words? Is it something in his body language? What kind of detectors the neurotypical population has so that they can conclude in a matter of seconds that a person is DIFFERENT? And start treating that person differently, and distance oneself from that person immediately, and team up against that person in matter of minutes from the start of the conversation. My son's appearance in any group of people will ensure that in no time they will team up against him, and he will be either ridiculed or teased or just simply ignored (with rolling eyes). Sometimes those who are little bit more polite will just try to avoid that situation all together and find an excuse why they cannot come to his birthday party ( such as, they already have something planned, although they knew about the party well in advance, or they would suddenly fall sick or something else...). Now, it makes me wonder how come 99 percent of people cannot see the beautiful person that he is? How come our brains are not equipped to see the person behind that first appearance that is so damaging to my son. How come people are so judgmental about person's abilities and potential from just looking at the person for 2 seconds and talking to the person for 3 seconds?

In the light of may daily endeavors to help my son communicate better, I developed a keen eye for other people that may suffer from similar communication difficulty as him. Recently I noticed something in Michael Jackson's behaviour that to me was so familiar: some kind of naivety, at times very literal response to complex issues, inability to react in real time to verbal challenges, obsession with specific topics and feeling comfortable when the conversation is concentrated around that topic, and so on. Some will call it "tragedy of genius". Maybe that is what it is. Some people with communication disorders, such as autism and Asperger's are genius and being that can also be their demise. They cannot really take care of themselves, and they are surrounded with "friends". As long as there is money, there will be "friends". Not true friends, who will not feed on that person's money, fame or anything else they find interesting in the person. True friends will accept the person for who the person is, and break heartbreaking circle of loneliness and isolation. Just like my son, I feel that MJ, and many others who are different than neurotypical average Joe, are suffering immensely, not because they feel they are different, but because they are treated differently. And yes, of course, taken advantage of. We need to put stop to this.

And before I help my son learn how to communicate so that he will not tick off neurotypical people with his oddities, before that, I believe that this world will have to recognize those leeches who feed themselves with thinking that they are better than someone who is DIFFERENT. I, personally, chose the life of isolation and loneliness, just to be on the side of those who are so much better than us, but those who we decided are weird, odd, eccentric, or just simply slow and stupid.

Sunset Chaser

I decided today to call myself a "Sunset Chaser". Why? Because I find sunsets to be mysterious and promising. The end is the new beginning. I find sunsets to be soothing and tranquil. Unlike me. I am not tranquil at all. I have storms within. I have big waves. I have thoughts heavy like mountains. Sunsets are light like a feather. Sun disappears on the horizon. Find a clear view of the sunset and put your finger on it. Draw a circle. Get the power. Find a moment of peace, quiet place to catch the moment. It is already gone, and thinking that you catch it will soon be an illusion. Sunset chaser will continue until the last sunset imprints its colors in his soul. Share a moment with the nature. Watch the sunset, alone, or in a crowd, alone, or with someone who loves you. Give them sunset as a present. It is never too late to chase the dream.

Summer

I plan to spend this summer in Toronto. It will be the first summer after many years that we have no plans to travel. I am actually looking forward to day trips to Awenda Provincial Park















I hope that we will have a chance to visit Sandbanks Provincial Park
















I may decide to be a tourist in Toronto and take a stroll downtown, just like any other tourist. There is so much to see and learn about this city. However, I will avoid the "tourist traps", such as CN Tower, Casa Loma, overpriced downtown restaurants, Niagara Falls (except maybe for Serbian picnic, but still not sure if I want to eat way to salty chevapchichi in July humid heat:), etc. Instead: Distillery District, museums, stroll by the lake, maybe visit Panorama on Bay and Bloor. Or just sit on my balcony sipping wine and munching on some good food.

Actually, honestly, I am looking forward to the lazy summer days on my balcony. Come and join me!

What if nobody is reading this blog?

What is the purpose of writing the blog if no one is reading it? It is true that I did not "advertise" my blog anywhere, and that not too many of my friends even know about it. I simply does not want to be in everyone's face: telling to people "read my blog" is not my style. But it tells me a lot about myself. Why am I so humble, so low profile, so passive when it comes to displaying my qualities? The other day someone asked me: Do you still write the blog? And I, instead of saying: "Yes, why don't you check it out?", I said: "Yes, but I am not updating it regularly." So much for my ability to advertise. I know some other people who have blogs and they have their audience. I am still waiting to be discovered. Like a new continent. At the same time, I know that it does not work that way. I understand that blogging means constant updates and finding your audience who can count on you. I understand that blogging is not just writing what is on your mind, but writing about something that is relevant to your audience. I tried several topics here: some are about my son ( parenting of a child with special needs), some are about my sister ( not only about her violent death, but also about her work), some topics are just random, about things that happened to me or others. None of these stories attracted much attention, except one. That one is the topic about exodus of Serbs from Krajina in 1995. I said there that I despise Belgrade and its politics for the way how they treated those refugees. I understand that it is hard for my readers to follow because I write sometimes in Serbian, sometimes in English, the practice that I will be changing. So, my dear readers, you tell me what you like to read here. I am at your service.

Dada and Arkan

She was furious that he used her image in his propaganda film during Serbian elections at the end of 1993. It was only few months before her death. I never saw that advertisement. However, few days ago, purely by accident, I came across the clip on youtube in which I saw Dada with Arkan. She was there, doing her job, being a journalist, going to the source. He was the source then in 1991. Somewhere in Slavonija. They are both dead now. Ironically buried just feet away at Novo Groblje in Beograd. Two opposite ends of the tragedy: she, who believed in humanity, and he who believed in doing a dirty job for Serbian government. The fact that he his still a hero, and her death is still a taboo, tells the story of Serbia today. I, personally, think that the virus of hatred that she mentioned in her letters to me is incurable disease. I wish I will be proven wrong. How the things stand now: slim chance.

About Dada

You will never meet her. Because she is dead. But if you had a chance to meet her, to know her, you would never forget her smile, her ability to listen, and her concern about everything called human. She was different than majority and she was left to die alone, in the night, with the bleeding hearth. You, who never met Dada, do not know and understand the depth of her humanity. She did not want to believe that there is an excuse for human becoming an animal ( I ask for forgiveness from animals to call some humans animals, but in the absence of the better word...). She saw it first hand. She was there: Croatia, Bosnia. War, smell of blood, smell of burnt house, smell of death. She was there. And she could not find an excuse for this under the sun. And she objected the idea of the "uebermensch" ( ask Dobrica Cosica what I mean here ). I will continue writing about Dada, because she is always with me: even after 15 years, I still vividly remember her, every time I read her articles, her letters, I feel her presence and how smart she was, and how talented she was, and my thoughts end in the horror of the night between April 7 and April 8, 1994. Just a month before my son was born. I see her in him, in me, in my parents, I can see her because it is not possible that someone so extraordinary like her just disappears. She is still with us, and as long as I live, I will remind you of her. Because you do not know her, you were not lucky to know her. Dada is alive!