A problem child with painful past

In today's Toronto Star there is article by Peter Small with title "A problem child with painful past". I read it with great deal of interest. For two reasons: reason number one, I could not stop thinking, that although David Bragshaw is convicted murderer, his whole medical and life history is made public, and reason number two is that I could not stop thinking if his life could have been different if he was given accommodations for his special needs. Here is the link to the article:

http://www.thestar.com/article/702418

Here is what I said in my letter to the editor:

A problem child with painful past
Toronto Star, September 29, 2009

Article by Peter Small gave us a glimpse into life of David Bagshaw. It makes me wonder if we will learn the lesson from this story. And the lesson to be learnt is that children at risk require early intervention, intensive support and empathy in dealing with their special needs. The system clearly failed David Bragshaw, and I say this not to find excuse for what he did. I say this because if the system worked, David Bragshaw could possibly have a chance not to become a murderer.

What happened to Mariam Makhniashvili?

It has been exactly two weeks today since Mariam Makhniashvili disappeared in thin air on her way to school. Last person to see her was younger brother George. No one else saw two of them walking to school. She did not make any friends in school in the first week of new school year. She was new to Toronto. She moved from Republic of Georgia in June. She is 17 years old. All what I know about Mariam is what I heard in media: she loves school, books and nature. I learned about her disappearance on September 17th, four days after the fact, although I live only steps away from Forest Hill Collegiate, the school that she attended together with her 16 years old brother George, apparently the last person to see her on that day. What happened to Mariam? Police is tight lipped, family avoids media, and the public, including the neighborhood of Bathurst and Eglinton, is speculating. Was she kidnapped for political reasons? Did she leave on her own accord? Was she abducted by sexual predator? Was she happy or unhappy? Did she make any secret friends online, or maybe during one of her frequent visits to the library? All of the theories are out there, and everyone can argue pro and con each and every one, since there is no evidence to support any of them. She simply disappeared without the trace.



Map of the neighborhood

Before you judge me, try hard to love me

"Before you judge me, try hard to love me," Michael sings in the video Have you seen my childhood? He sits on the grassy knoll, arms wrapped around his knees. His hair short and curly, like Peter Pan's. His face is rapt and full of wonder as he watches children - multiracial boys and girls - float through starry sky in little boats. If you want to know about my life, look at this video, he has said. What does he see? What do we? A man who wants to androgynous and beyond race? An artist of genius who has given us acute excitement and pleasure? A willful celebrity who wants everything his way, yet insists that everyone love him unconditionally? A man driven to shed his identity, while denying what pains him? Our man in the mirror? Or a creature we no longer wish to acknowledge? Michael Jackson speaks to and for the monstrous child in us all.

From the book:
On Michael Jackson, Margo Jefferson

What does this mean? Does the author condemn or accept Michael Jackson? Is it alright to be child-like when you are an adult? Is it alright to be able to go to the level of children, and understand them, not the way an adult understands a child, but to undestand them as if you were still a child? Is it possible? Is it healthy, or is it sick? I am just wondering. What does it mean to love children, to love playing with children, to enjoy children's company more than company of adults? Is the desire to be surrounded by children a sign on hidden peadofilia? I am just wondering. But, the author in the cited paraghraph also says something like: What does he see? Yep, what does he see? Can a person who never had a childhood be trapped in perpetual child? What was it like to be Michael Jackson when he was 5 years, 9 years, 12 years old? Do we know? Who knows? Everyone's experience is unique, but we know that Michael Jackson was denied to be a child. He said that he cried when he saw children just playing in the playground while he had to get ready to go on a tour. More than that, he was physically abused and verbally humiliated by his father for being himself, for looking the way he looked. There must be some agreement out there, that it was a horrible experience: not feeling loved, not feeling accepted, not feeling free. I am just wondering. The reason for that is the huge impact that Michael Jackson had on me and my life since he died. As if his energy just spread as a Big Bang all over the world, unifying those who knew him and those who did not so much, those who were die hard fans and those like me, who were just bystanders, unifying all of us and reminding us: Talk to the man in the mirror, do not be afraid to be a child again, and dance, dance, dance. Dance to the music that will lift your spirits up and make you the better person for the better world.

Selimov svet

Nedavno sam imala priliku, zahvaljujuci mojoj prijateljici Neveni, da pogledam kratke dokumentarne filmove koje je sezdesetih snimio njen otac, reziser Zarko Pesic. Na zalost, autor ovih umetnickih ostvarenja je poginuo u saobracajnoj nesreci 1968. godine. Uprkos tome, njegova izuzetna sposobnost da zabelezi trenutak, da ga osmisli i oboji toplinom ljudskog kazivanja je uspela da prevazidje prostorne i vremenske prepreke. Cetrdeset godina posle, i hiljade kilometara daleko, sedim u svojoj sobi i, bez da trepnem, ulazim u magicni svet, koji je postojao ili jos uvek postoji, negde daleko, sakriven od pogleda onih koji prolaze pored njega nezainteresovano. Selimov svet, i svet Pirotskog cilima. Skladno i sinhronizovano teku reci, muzika i slika. Zaboravljam na tugu za davno proslim vremenom, skolskim programom u kojem su obicno prikazivani ovakvi filmovi, tugu za nama koji vise ne postojimo tamo, a nasa deca stvaraju svoje uspomene na sasvim drugim koordinatama. Te misli dolaze tek posle, kao talas. Dok gledam film, sa nevericom pratim naraciju i pokusavam da nadjem neku gresku u ritmu, u sadrzaju, ali sve tece savrseno, prijemcivo i prirodno. Pravi umetnik, a opet praktican, sto je pokazao u svom filmu Prvenac gde prikazuje kako se prokopava jedan od tunela u Bosni, Zarko Pesic je svojim filmovima sacuvao jedno vreme i prostor od zaborava. Iako nase tuge zive zajedno sa njegovim filmovima, mi ih zaboravljamo bar dok gledamo. Kao dobra knjiga, kao lepa slika, kao muzika koja pleni, ovi dragulji kratkog dokumentarnog filma zasluzuju da zauvek budu sacuvani za one koji su zaintersovani da saznaju sta se krije u najdubljim slojevima ljudske duse, da saznaju tajnu.

Hronologija:

IMS Zezelj (1969), Prvenac (1968), Zavetovani (1966), Selimov svet (1965), Pirotski cilimi (1964) and Poslednji grncari (1962)

Forest Hill

(please click on the picture to see the text)







"Forest Hill is an affluent neighbourhood in central Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Along with Hoggs Hollow, Rosedale, The Bridle Path, and Lawrence Park, it is considered to be one of Toronto’s wealthiest neighbourhoods."

From Wikipedia


Today the love of my life (TLOML) and I went for our usual 7 km walk through Cedarvale ravine, under Bathurst bridge, up the hill through Forest Hill village, back to Eglinton. Everything was alright, until we, while walking up the hill on Spadina Road did not hear the alarm went off loudly. I said it was the house alarm. TLOML said it was the car alarm. Does not really matter, it was loud and did not stop for all the time we were walking up hill, five, six minutes, until we walked so far away that we could not hear it anymore. Then I started my rant. First of all why do these people need such big, huge, enormous million dollar houses, some of them surrounded with tall fences, hiding from the rest of the world, as if the rest of the world is not worthy them. I continued ranting, while TLOML was showing me the swimming pool and commented how nice, good looking swimming pool that was. I said I did not care ( and I said something even worse but I will not share it with you, but what I said prompted TLOML to say it reminded him of the movie Fight Club ), and that I was going to print the pamphlet in 500 copies and deliver it like a flyer to those houses. I want them to know that they are rich because some other people are poor. I want them to know that they are no better than any homeless person on the streets of Toronto, they are just shrewder. I want to tell them in my pamphlet that they live in those big houses because their great grand fathers were using cheap labor to make huge profits. I want them to know that according to me they should be ashamed they live in those big houses while there is so much poverty in this city. Well, TLOML was laughing at me, really. He asked me very practical question: where will you print 500 copies of your pamphlet. I will go to Kinko. One day I will do it, I swear to God.

Mom, why God chose me to have autism?

Because my son, if there is God (I personally tend to be more scientifically oriented), so if there is God, from what I learned in my life so far, we are created the way we are so that we and other people can learn from each other. Therefore, my dear son, if God exists, and God chose you to have autism, it is because you have the strength to teach those ignorant around you how to treat with respect people they perceive different from them.



But mom, why me, I do not want to have autism.

I know, I know Aleks, you want to be just the same as everyone else, and it is so much easier ( I guess? ), but the plan for you is not that you will figure things out easily. I mean social things: when to say something, when not to say ( we all struggle with that but we, who are neurotypical (NT) we know for which clues to look to figure that one out), when to laugh, when a person is sarcastic, what the person you are talking to has on his or her mind, and so on. There will be a lots of trial and error for you. There will be people along way that you will meet and they will be those nice people who have empathy and who will be able to see a nice person in you. I am sure there will be some not so nice people that will tease you or even worse to try to torment you and abuse you. Sometimes these mean people will be disguised as nice people. Sometimes even some adults whom you trust so much will be those mean people who look like and behave like nice people. They will tell you that you cannot do things, they will separate and segregate you under excuse that it is for your own benefit, they will pretend that they care. The good news is that sooner or later their real agenda will become obvious and then I will do everything I can to stop them. I know it may not be enough, and surely is not enough, but you have me. I love you very very much, and I believe that love is the strongest medicine, the strongest force in this world. As long as I walk on this planet you will have me as your protector. After that, I am sure that you will be able to take care of yourself, and even when I am not around anymore my love will stay with you. Do not worry my dear son, someone who is such a beautiful person, as you are, will always find love in this world. Just hang in there. Ok Aleks?

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.