Jun 6

Jun 6 Gym Class 101: Life Lessons I Learned in the Gym

am a squat goddess. I dedicate myself to putting heavy ass weights on my back, squatting down, and standing back up. I’m also committed to picking heavy ass weights up off the floor, pushing heavy ass weights above my head, lunging across the gym with heavy ass weights, and so on and so forth. The heavier the weight, the better I feel about it. Ultimately, I’m devoted to, not only my health, but my strength, both mental and physical, and to the maintenance of a body that looks good and works well. Since I started training in August, I’ve noticed a lot of significant changes in my life. My body changed, but there’s a lot more to it than just bigger thighs and a rounder ass. I’ve changed as a person. For me, the gym is more than just a place to lift weights. The gym is a classroom, and I’ve learned a lot of valuable lessons that apply long after I’ve put the weights down and changed out of my sweats. Here’s what the iron has taught me.

May 14

May 14 No Man is an Island: Why You Should Be Neither Selfish nor Unkind

SweetTee

Life Notes

If you fell sick on the street today, what are the chances that someone would help you? From some of the things I’ve witnessed in recent months, I’m not too confident that I wouldn’t be left lying on cold Toronto pavement as people stepped over me. The days of Good Samaritans seems to be drawing to a disheartening end. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that this society’s new favourite words are “me,” “my,” “mine” and “I”. Many of us think of ourselves as individuals capable of being perfectly independent of everyone else. What a grand delusion.

Last week I was sitting on a full bus. A man in a wheelchair – not the motorized kind, but the ones you have to propel by hand – was getting off at a major intersection. As the driver lowered the ramp and the man rolled off, the light turned red. Not proud to say it, but I groaned, as I was in a hurry. From my seat in the back of the bus, I watched the man, slouching down in the chair, wearing a dirty motor jacket, open to show his large doughy belly, and a dingy baseball cap pulled down over his greasy long hair, back his wheelchair toward the turning lane. In disbelief, I watched helplessly as the man slowly rolled the chair off the curb, and toppled out on to the pavement.

May 8

May 8 When a Bajan Child Goes Home

SweetTee

Life Notes

I spent the first ten years of my life on Bajan soil. I chased chickens and was chased by cows. I wore neatly pressed blue overalls and crisp white shirts to school every day. My black school shoes were always polished to a high shine and the sea breeze would ruffle the blue ribbons in my hair. I ate fried fish for breakfast and coucou for dinner. I watched Sesame Street at 4 o’ clock every evening and Days of Our Lives at 6 o’ clock because we only had one channel. My granny jumped rope with me and took me to the beach to sit in shallow sea water and collect shells. I’ve had Joseph’s Coat stain my clothes and ate my fill of Shirley Biscuits, mangos and sugar cane. I am a Bajan child.

I moved to Florida when I was ten and to Canada a year later. I dropped my accent because the kids teased me. I didn’t really listen to calypso or soca music, and I learned to love lasagna way more than I ever liked coucou and flying fish. I suppose you can say I became Americanized, a “photocopy Bajan” as my boyfriend so lovingly calls me. But still, I clung to my status as a Bajan. I was as proud of the blue and yellow flag with the broken trident as anyone born on the island. Ask me if we’re better than Jamaicans and you might have a real argument on your hands. I am a Bajan child.